The Hacker and the Ants (19 page)

While I was reading, the food and beer had come, and I'd been consuming them. Now I was done eating, and I'd paid the waitress off. I wasn't sure what to do next.

“Jerzy!”

I looked up. It was Gretchen Bell, standing over me and smiling. She was wearing a short pleated plaid skirt with a pale yellow sweater. She looked languidly lively. “I was just talking about you! Everyone in my office has been asking me what you're like!”

Tommy the bartender heard Gretchen saying my name, and now he hailed me, too. “Jerzy Rugby! The man who killed television!” A hubbub of voices ensued.

“Can I come over to your house, Gretchen?” I asked quickly.

“My apartment? I thought you said you were going to take me to the Mark Hopkins in San Francisco.” She laughed softly, keeping me hanging. “Well, let's see. I have to go to Safeway, and I have to pick up some dry-cleaning. But after that, okay.” She gave me a good smile. She had the hots for me as much as I did for her.
And now I was famous. “Do you know where I live?”

Someone tapped my shoulder, the same man who'd said I should be castrated. I kept my back to him and leaned toward Gretchen.

“I'm going to need a ride out of here. Like right now?”

“All right.”

“Are you some kind of goddamn terrorist?” demanded the castration advocate.

“I'm a software engineer,” I said as I turned. “What happened was an industrial accident.” I stepped around him and called a good-bye to the bartender. “Gotta go, Tommy! Sorry I can't discuss the case!” There were plenty of other people who wanted to talk to me, but a minute later we were driving off in Gretchen's car, a sputtering ten-year-old yellow Porsche.

“I bought this from an old boyfriend for two thousand dollars,” Gretchen told me. “Not bad, hey?”

“You must have a lot of boyfriends,” I essayed. I still knew almost nothing about Gretchen. “What kind of office do you work in?”

“Didn't I tell you? I'm a mortgage insurance broker and I work part-time at Welsh & Tayke. With Susan Poker?”

“Susan Poker! She's my worst enemy! She's the one who turned me in! Did you talk to her about me?”

“Sure, Jerzy. I tell all my friends the exact intimate sensual details about every relationship I ever have.” Gretchen tossed her bell of long straight hair and glanced over to smile at me. “
Not
. Well, okay, yesterday I may have told Susan that you and I were intimate. She was
fascinated.
I think she has a thing for you.”

“Did you tell her about the ants in my computer?”

“What is this, a quiz show?” Gretchen swung into the Safeway parking lot. “Do you have any money yet?”

“Here.” I handed her a twenty. “I'll wait in the car.”

“Do you like anything special for breakfast?” The assumption behind the question made my heart beat faster.

“Low-fat milk. English muffins. Maybe get some wine or beer for tonight.”

“Can I have two more twenties?” Her blue eyes gazed at me calmly.

“Jesus, Gretchen.” I handed her the bills.

She started across the lot, tall and willowy, with her skirt swaying beautifully, and then she turned and walked partway back to me. “What about condoms?” she called.

The boldness of the question made my throat contract with lust, and my voice came out thin and reedy. “I don't have any with me.”

“Well you better get some at the Walgreen's over there.”

“Yes.” It was hard to imagine that this was the same Safeway parking lot where I had so often shopped with Carol. Walking across the lot, I half-expected Carol to pop up and ask me what I was doing.

As soon as Gretchen and I were done with our shopping, we went to her apartment and fucked. It was just as good as it had been on Monday; it was so good it made me change the way I think.

During my twenty-three years with Carol, I'd always thought—in some deep, unreasoning way—that there was something unique about Carol herself that made sex possible. I'd always acted on the assumption that Carol was the one physiologically compatible organism with whom the being Jerzy Rugby could successfully mate.

Yet now, with Gretchen, I realized—way down in my soul—that it was indeed possible to have sex with people besides Carol. Monday I'd been too surprised for it to
sink in. But, yes, sex with Gretchen was just as great as with Carol. For the first time since Carol had left me, I realized that perhaps I
could
continue life without her. I still missed Carol's personality—the tender music of her voice (when she was in a good mood), and the rich play of her conversation (when she was speaking to me)—but now I realized that I did not need to miss Carol's body. How liberating; how sad.

Gretchen and I fell asleep in each other's arms. Sometime in the middle of the night the phone rang. Gretchen picked it up.

“Hi. Umm-hmmm. Scrumptious. No, no. For sure! Bye.”

Gretchen set down the phone and embraced me. We kissed and went back to sleep.

In the morning I got up and took a piss. Regally nude, I wandered into the kitchen for some food. I hadn't even thought yet to start worrying about my legal troubles. Just then someone tapped softly on the door. I harkened, and the tap came again, tinny on the hollow metal of the apartment door.

“Jerzy, can you get it?” croaked sleepy Gretchen from the bedroom.

“Who is it?” I asked, hurrying back in there to pull on my khaki shorts.

“Oh, it's one of my friends. A woman.” Gretchen snuggled her head deep into her pillow and closed her eyes. “You talk to her. I'll get up in a second.”

The soft tap-tapping had a bland implacability that set my nerves on edge. I found my glasses right away, but it was taking me forever to find my watch and wallet.
Tappity-tap.
The tapping was rushing me, the tapping was telling me what to do, the tapping was making me feel like a stupid doomed animal that tries to flee an oncoming locomotive by running straight down the track.

“I don't want to answer the door,” I hissed to Gretchen as I pulled on my argyles and buckled my sandals. “And how can you be sure it's your friend? Who knows I'm here? Who called you on the phone last night?”

“Go answer the door.”

So like an idiot I did. And guess what? It was Susan Poker.

“Mr. Rugby,” said she, smiling in a new, more personal, though still not very friendly, way. Her sharp curious eyes roved rapidly over me. “We meet again!”

“Oh God. I don't believe this. Susan Poker.” I looked past her to see who she'd brought in tow—but for now nobody was visible. She made as if to walk into the apartment but I held the door half-closed so as to block her way.

Rage was flaring up in me; I had to struggle to stay calm. Don't use curse words, I told myself. Don't be violent. One wrong move and Susan Poker would have the cops on me like stink on shit. I put my head through some major changes and choked out a civil sentence.

“What is your business here?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Rugby, I was hoping to discuss real estate with you.” She was wearing a green silk suit with a yellow scoopneck blouse. Her shoes matched her suit. I was shirtless. “Gretchen,” called Susan Poker, using her voice to reach past me. “Tell your gentleman friend it's safe to let me in!”

I sighed and stepped aside. Susan Poker closed the door behind her and Gretchen appeared from the bedroom, sexy and soft-eyed, dressed in a pale blue bed jacket over a silky, creamy button-up nightie.

“Well, Gretchen,” said Susan Poker. “Is Jerzy any good?”

By way of answer, Gretchen gave a whoop of laughter.

“That's a
yes
,” I claimed, and Gretchen didn't contradict me.

“Shall I make coffee?” suggested Susan Poker. “I know where everything is.”

“Thanks,” said Gretchen. “I want to take my shower.” She waggled her fingers and closed her bedroom door with a last injunction that we “Be nice to each other!”

“Was it you who called Gretchen last night?” I asked Susan Poker.

“I wanted to be sure she was safe. We single gals have to look out for each other. But I'm here this morning because I want to talk to you.”

“About
real estate
? Why don't we talk about how you turned me in?”

“Oh, you think I called the police? No, no. I just heard them on my scanner. Since I have an interest in your dwelling—and in you—I got there as fast as I could.”

“Why would a Realtor have a police scanner?”

“All the agencies have one. We need to know right away when a property is about to go on the market.”

“Like when the owner dies?”

“It's dog eat dog, Jerzy. But, no, I didn't turn you in. Until I heard the call it hadn't occurred to me that it was you who launched the GoMotion ants. That was over on the east side. Terrible property values there.” She gazed at me pleasantly, her face as blank and smooth as a cyberspace mannequin's. There was no way to tell if she was lying. This branch of the conversation had reached a dead end.

“So what was the real estate deal you wanted to talk to me about? You're getting me evicted, right?”

“You're so
suspicious
, Mr. Rugby! No, the deal is that I think you should acquire the Nutt property.”

“I don't have a million dollars.”

“You posted three million in bail, didn't you?”

“My new employer posted it for me.”

“Just tell them to buy you the house.” She leaned forward and laid her hand on my forearm. “Did you know that property is as good as cash for a bond? I double-checked the legalities yesterday afternoon. Your employer could convert part of the bond money into a deed on the house and simply post the deed. Your trial and appeals could drag on for a year or more, and in that time, the Nutt property would probably appreciate by twenty percent. As long as that million dollars just sits there as bond, it isn't drawing any interest whatsoever. If I work like mad, I can put the whole deal through in thirty days!”

“Well . . .”

“Just give me the name of the person you called to get your bail.”

“I . . .” Again I felt like a rabbit running from a locomotive. “I'll think about it. But I'm not sure I want that house, and I don't want to turn around and ask my new boss for another big favor right off the bat.”

“What did you say his name was? He's at Seven Lucky Overseas?” She was watching me closely, trying to read my face.

“Will you get off my case!” My voice was rising.

“Now, now!” It was Gretchen, dressed in red stirrup pants and a black blouse.

“How did this leech find out I'm here, Gretchen? I still can't believe you're friends with her!”

“Gretchen and I were looking out the front window of Welsh & Tayke yesterday,” said Susan Poker, looking pleased that I was beginning to lose my cool. “We were just sitting there leeching around. I spotted you walking by, and Gretchen took off after you. She said if she didn't come back it meant she'd picked you up again! I made
her promise that if she did, she'd let me come for breakfast.” She gestured cheerfully with her coffee cup. “Speaking of breakfast, Gretchen, can we have some toast?”

I felt like a moth being wrapped in spider silk: snared, envenomed, paralyzed, cocooned, and slowly sucked dry—or made the living host of eyeless larvae. I tried to struggle, to shake the web. “Have either of you heard of Hex DEF6?” I demanded. “Out with it!”

“Hex deaf sex?” giggled Susan Poker—a bit too glibly?

“What are you talking about, Jerzy?” asked Gretchen, bringing the toast.

“Hex DEF6 is the name of a simmie I talked to in cyberspace. It was Monday, the same day the ants scared you, Gretchen. That night I put the goggles back on and I flew out of the ant cloud you'd been in. One of the ants got big and it carried me back to the ants' cyberspace nest. Inside the nest was this simmie that looked like Death and he said his name was Hex DEF6. There was a Susan Poker simmie in there too. Were you in it Susan?”

“Me in cyberspace?” She laughed and shook her head. “I'm computer illiterate. Are you sure you saw a simmie of me?”

“Well, it might have just been there to scare me,” I allowed. “The whole scene was pretty weird. Instead of a mouth, Hex DEF6 had a metal zipper with a padlock on it.”

“Could he talk?” asked Gretchen.

“Yes. He said that he'd hurt me and my children if I didn't go work for—” I stopped myself from saying more.

“For Seven Lucky Overseas,” finished Susan Poker.

“That's not the name they're using!” I exclaimed happily, and bit into my toast. Once you got used to
Susan Poker she was sort of amusing. She was so totally out front about her nosiness and pushiness. A born Realtor.

“Have you considered selling your story to the press?” asked Susan Poker. “You could go on ‘Sixty Minutes.'”

“There's nothing but amateur TV anymore,” reminded Gretchen.

“Well, when the networks come back,” said Susan Poker, sipping her coffee. “You need an agent, Mr. Rugby. I could do it for fifteen percent. I've got more connections than you realize.”

Done with eating, I shook my head and stood up.

“Good-bye, ladies. It was fun, Gretchen. I'll call.”

“How will you get to work?” demanded Susan Poker. “Can I give you a ride?”

“And where will you stay tonight?” asked Gretchen. “Are you going to come back here?”

“
I'll call
. I am not going to discuss every goddamn detail of my life in front of Susan Poker.”