Douglas, Nelson - Cat with an Emerald Eye

"What do you think?" Max asked with an oblivious pertinence most unlike Max.

"How--? I mean, that's one of the guys I identified." Before she could say more, Max tapped a few more buttons.

The vision of a demon vanished, to be replaced with another dossier, and another slowly assembling photograph.

Temple averted her face. A least she wouldn't have to worry about getting scratched.

"Temple? You're not ... crying?"

"I just--"

His arm was around her shoulder as if to hold her together. "I should have realized it would be a shock. I'm sorry ... I guess that's why all the Dummy books are here." It was easier to let him think the mug shots had upset her. "I'm fine, just had a ragged day among the seers. One of them did my tea leaves and saw danger." His hand tightened on her shoulder, shook her slightly. "You don't believe that mumbo-jumbo, do you?"

"No, but they seem to believe it so much, it wears you down to resist sometimes."

"That's how they get clients," Max said grimly. "That's why Gandolph dedicated his retirement to ferreting out them and all of their works."

"But Max--" She was ready to turn back to the screen, to him, to the inescapable light the screen reflected on her face. "Where did you get this? It can't be on the Internet, although there's probably some sort of police network--"

He was silent, suspiciously silent.

She was afraid she knew why. "This is the police network."

"Don't sound so worried." He braced her shoulder again. Apparently the posture was semi permanent. "It's not the police network."

"What is it, then?"

"I downloaded it, so it's ... ours."

"Where did you download it from?"

Now he had to pause. "The police computer."

"Which police computer?"

"Ours."

"Here? In Las Vegas? You can't! They have security systems ... firewalls, they're called.

They'll be out here with the SWAT team any minute."

"No they won't. I got the stuff this morning."

"How? You're not a hacker. Sure, you used to noodle a little on my computers after I showed you how to get in and out, but this--! Picking up secured information like it was a toy in one of those arcade game machines ..."

"Hey, even that's not so simple, or those machines wouldn't be so profitable. But this--"

Max gestured at the second ugly mug now dominating the screen. "This is small stuff. Hardly top secret. It's meant to be circulated, in a sense."

Temple had been looking around the altered room with new eyes. This time she spotted a new hardback book on a dim corner of the desk. " Take Down? That's the book about how they found that guy who crashed the international computer-security expert's files."

"You can learn more from bad magicians than good ones."

"This isn't magic, Max! This is ... computer crime."

He gestured to the screen. "The crime is that these guys can do what they did to you, and still be out there. Don't you see? If I have information about them, they don't control us; we control them."

She stared at him dumbfounded. She had never seen Max like this. Now that she looked, really looked, she could see that he not only hadn't shaved, he hadn't slept in at least twenty-four hours, hadn't eaten probably. His newfound enthusiasm for the high of computer hacking seemed genuine enough, but she wondered if he hadn't already been far more proficient than he let on when they lived together. Max needed to keep secrets about himself the way some other people bled personal data like information-age hemophiliacs. Still, even if Max had acquired his computer magic by a bargain with the devil, it was too tempting to scorn. Temple thoughtfully tapped a front tooth.

"Can you get in again, to something else?"

"Can a second-story man climb? What do you want?"

"Motor-vehicle registration."

"Easy as cruise control. What do you want to look up, license number, model and make of car, year?"

"I'm foggy on year and never got the license number."

"This could be a very long list. How many weeks you got?"

"Maybe not such a lengthy listing. I'm looking for a Viper."

"Most women settle for a man."

She made a face. "Don't be an asp."

"Who do you know who owns a Viper?"

"So far, only the Fontana Brothers."

"All of them?"

"I think so. And it's black, like the one I'm looking for. Could they even afford nine Vipers a-vrooming?"

"Can't say. Okay, here are your local black Vipers all in a row."

"Ooooh." Temple squinted at the thick-as'thieves letters as Max scrolled slowly down the screen. "I had no idea there were so many of these budget-busters locally."

"This is Las Vegas, Temple. Lots of big money and even bigger ways of showing it."

"Aha! A Fontana in the flock. Who's that car registered to?"

"Macho Mario Fontana. The uncle from Hell you don't want to mess with."

"Interesting. Any other names we recognize?"

"Wayne Newton?"

Temple shook her head. "It wouldn't be him ... at least I hope it wouldn't be him."

"What does this Viper mean to you?"

"I'm hoping that it was out of place and trying not to be seen... wait! Was that last name-- ?

Go back six lines or so."

"Hmm." Temple stared at the static screen once Max had stopped scrolling. "Oscar Grant. Of course! He lives in Vegas."

"That phony from Dead Zones ." Max snorted. "Figures."

"Let he who is without expensive, excessively fast status wheels cast the first gravel."

"I gave mine up," he said as Temple jotted down the pertinent entry's information. "Did I do good? Save a life? Win a perky smile?"

"Okay. At least that settles whose car was lurking discreetly be-hind Mynah Sigmund's place."

"And?"

"Oscar Grant."

"That prime-time snake-oil salesman! I'm not surprised."

"That he might drive a Viper?"

"That he might consort with the White Widow. What do you suppose she drives. A Whale?"

"Then you're not a particular fan?"

"You should see Gary's file on her." Max had bowed out of the fancy-car file and was clicking his way far afield. "This machine isn't just good for tracking down lurking Vipers. Look." His face was lit by the screen again and he had the farsighted look of someone cruising cyberspace. "This is not only useful; it can be fun."

He glanced at her. "I hope this won't upset you, but I was able to engineer a wee cosmetic change. Want to see?"

Of course she was intrigued. What else had Max mastered while she had been gone for a day? He hit keys, the board chattered, the screen changed, all too fast for her to follow the entire sequence.

Another dossier. Another list of attributes and offenses with another rectangle of felon filling in pixel by pixel. She watched the face and shoulders assemble, knowing them both, at least in retrospect. Molina hadn't let her glance linger on this card when she'd confronted Temple with it. So Temple was steeled now; she knew what to expect. She didn't bat an eyelash as Young Max came into view.

When he was all filled in, she protested. "So you got into Interpol. Who do they send out to get on-line intruders? The French Foreign Legion? And what good does it do you? They've still got the file on you in the main computer."

"Yeah." Max smiled tenderly at his record. "But I made a little change. Not in the photo. The statistics."

Temple looked closely. Max Kinsella, seventeen, U.S. citizenship. Six feet two, eyes of blue.

No, not anymore ... eyes of green.

Green. Like Midnight Louie's. Like the green eyes smiling into hers right now by the light of the cathode ray tube. When Irish eyes are smilin', sure, 'tis like a morn in spring . . . you can't hide lying eyes . . . But Max Kinsella could.

She almost lost it right then; she almost cried her a Caspian Sea. Except that the silly, optimistic, devious audacity of it made her laugh instead of cry. In the lilt of Irish laughter, you can hear the angels sing. .. And you can see the Devil polish his monocle on a bit of brimstone....