Virtually True (18 page)

“How much time?”

“SWAG?” Hackerspeak for
shitty wild-assed guess.

“Sure.”

“A month, maybe two.” Odessa drains the rest of the beer. “Then somebody’s going to try and get like the fucking Marquis de Sade on my ass.”

Reiner says, “Marquis de Sahd, not Shar-day.”

“What the fuck? I’ve only read the moniker myself.”

True sips ice water. “Why are you playing at a karaoke bar?”

Odessa’s shoulders graze his ears.

Reiner answers. “It’s a great cover.”

“Playing cover tunes
is
a great cover. ’Sides, I have a thing for retro-seventies. My daddy produced blaxploitation films back then. Collected residuals the rest of his Motown life, just like the white man.” Odessa peers at the stage, then shoots mobile in a huff. “No time for a break. One of them corp gangsta motherfuckers wants to sing. So I got to play. Before the quake they had themselves a virtual band. Now they got themselves the real deal. Later.” He clips True on the side of the head on his way to the stage.

Reiner looks almost sad. “He’s running out of time. I don’t think even he believes he’s going to be able to hide here, get himself an ID that can’t be traced. There are a lot of people looking for him—govs, corps, mafiosos. He fucked a lot of the wrong people.”

“There a bounty?”

“Big big big fucking bounty. Metahackers, CyberCops the globe over are tracking him, all for that one lotto pay day. I pay him shit next to what he used to get, but he can trust me.”

On the stage. Odessa plucks at his bass strings, the notes resonating less than they plod. Yet Odessa in most respects is as True pictured him: Someone who, though jalapeño-headed, is someone with whom he can biz. But he and Reiner will have to hurry. Neither Odessa nor True has much time before Tokyo is back online. Then he and Odessa will be like a virus under attack from corp hacker antigens.

Sato, meters away, closing fast. The kind of man who can frighten daylight. Reiner looks concerned. The first time he’s seen her thrown off guard. Sato places a hand on her shoulder and True notes the scarred knuckles. His suit fits snugly, tailored to bend to his will. He whispers into Reiner’s ear. At first, she denies what Sato says, then nods, holding out her hands as if trying to slow him down. Finally says, “OK. Fine. You win.”

“And who is this?” Sato’s sleet-y voice. A pursed smile.

Reiner switches to Japanese, but Sato cuts her off. “It is rude to speak Japanese in front of someone who is not familiar with the language.”

“How do you know he doesn’t speak Japanese?”

Sato to True. “
Nihongo ga dekiru?
”

True swallows. Guesses. “I don’t speak well. I’m learning, though.”

“Good.” Sato holds out his hand and True shakes it. Can’t get over how damp and hard Sato’s hand is. “Japanese is not so difficult, I think, to learn to speak well enough to express oneself. But it is difficult to read.”

“I’m aware of that,” True says.

“What with all those kanji,” Reiner adds.

Sato’s measuring them. “Reading requires some two thousand characters. It is much simpler to read English. It’s also simpler to read Americans. Can you say the same about Japanese?”

True volleys back. “The inscrutable Japanese?”

“Precisely. We do not wear out hearts on our wrists like you.” Sato taps a finger on True’s wrist-top. Uneasy silence. Then, “I didn’t get your name.”

True can’t afford to lie, can’t afford to tell the truth. “The name, Mr. Sato, is True.”

Flashing gold molars. “How do you know my name?”

“Reiner pointed you out. I was curious as to the game you were playing.”

“Mahjongg. And what game is it that you are playing?”

“Cut the intrigue. He’s my assistant.” Reiner blurts this too quickly, True thinks. “He’s here to help me work on some stories. You know how messed up things are these days.”

Sato cracks his knuckles. “Well, we all can use help in these trying times. I must see to my guests.” To Reiner: “Please reflect on what I said.”

“Reflecting now, Sato.”

“That is all I ask.” Sato, mahjongg-bound.

True’s amazed at his own calm. “What’d he say to you?”

Reiner napkins away sweat. “He’s PO’d about my quake coverage. Says I paint a negative picture, exaggerating the extent of the damage.”

“Why does he care?”

“Think about it. He says if I tell people Japan is ruined, no investment will flow in. He told me I have a responsibility to put a positive spin on things because it’ll make people’s lives better. Now you know the major difference between a free press and a Japanese press.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What I’ve been doing. The real question is, What are
you
going to do?”

Sato is patting Kodera. True averts his eyes when Sato looks over; studies his cup, runs his fingers over the black kanji painted on the side, wondering what they symbolize. “I don’t know. You think he’s going to check up on me?”

Reiner can’t stop laughing.

CHAPTER 14

Reiner’s apartment is framed by a dead sign over the door that when pumped with ions and electrons glows
WWTV Tokyo Bureau
. Reiner lights gas lanterns that color the walls newsprint-gray. Marijuana plants near the window stand two meters tall, the tops coated with cinnamon dust, the buds bursting. Female plants, because male plants don’t flower. To cultivate, Reiner must have pursued the strategy Death To All Males. Reiner’s creed in a nut graph. True pretends not to notice the indoor forest of contraband under 300-watt sulfur light, nor the skunky odor.

Reiner at her computer console. “I don’t sell it, you know. I smoke it, sometimes entice sources with it.”

“It’s been decriminalized, so I don’t know why you’re bothering to explain.”

“Not here. The Js treat all contraband the same.”

True collapses on the couch, cornflower blue linen, delicate. No wonder Reiner left Dog outside.

Reiner’s home office is a study in contradictions. Although it’s well-ordered, it’s an order that masks the disorder percolating underneath: Everything is categorized, compartmentalized, stored and filed, put, placed, and parked in its proper niche; but True’s positive—just positive—that if he opens a kitchen drawer or closet door he’ll get bopped on his head, as if Reiner’s more concerned with appearance than substance. A lack of detail where it counts most. A dangerous trait for an investigative reporter.

Reiner’s typing, confusion prickling her forehead. “This is some weird shit.”

“What?”

“I can’t access
Celebrity Stalker
or
Weekly Global Newsmaker
.”

“Are you sure they ran stories on Sato?”

“Y-e-e-s.” She’s annoyed True’d question her.

“Could there be a security block?”

“No. I just can’t access them.” Reiner pounds the console with her fist. “C’mon, you piece of shit. What’s the matter with you? Let’s try this instead. I’ll run a check on all video-published material on Sato, then cross-reference it. That ought to do it.” She types, cackles concomitantly. Then her smile bleaches out as her fingers slack over the keyboard.

“It won’t work. They’ve deleted these references from all the databases, right?” True’s seen it before.

“No way. I mean, no fucking way.” Reiner swivels the console so True can see the blank screen. “Nothing. It’s like the computer accessed the information and is displaying it on screen, but it’s like it’s been written in invisible ink.”

“It might be a virus. You’d better code in your virus prevention system.”

“Believe me. If there was even the hint of a virus in my system, I got enough bells and whistles in there to notify me.”

“It’s not you being notified that worries me.”

“What are you worried about?”

“Shut it down.”

Reiner shrugs.

True is shouting now. “Reiner! Disengage!”

Reiner in smug contempt as her finger remains poised. “Say
please
.”

And True sees the console light up in an audience of crackling colors, a hand reaching through, reaching for Reiner. But this is impossible, he knows, because digital media can’t suddenly transform into physical reality. Sensing True’s panic, Reiner jumps back. A muffled implosion as the console, like a condemned building, collapses in on itself. True and Reiner stand over the melted remnants.

“It can’t be,” True says. “It defies the laws of physics.”

Reiner’s face is ashen. She clears her throat. “Yet there it is.”

A quick check and True says, “Looks like the database and keyboard are fine. The console is another matter.”

“Could the computer house a poison pill to self-destruct if it receives the proper commands?”

“Maybe. I wonder if someone’s rigged a warning system. Access info on Sato, and this is a little taste of what’s to come.”

“But it’s clumsy.” Reiner rubs her elbows. Carpet burns. “Why go to all this trouble if you’re not going to go all the way?”

“Maybe Sato’s protected all his files this way. It could be innocent.”

“This? Innocent?”

“He might be protecting himself from the collapse of the Japanese info net. If so, this is only a deterrent. If someone died, it might raise a lot of questions—questions perhaps Sato doesn’t want answered. But if he puts in a system that merely intimidates, it’s less risky but probably equally effective.”

Reiner kicks at the techno-corpse, throws up her hands. “Where am I going to get another console?”

“I’m sure there are a lot of people who’d be willing to sell you one to stay alive.” He points through her window, to the street, to the mayhem below. “Anyway, we have a much bigger problem on our hands.”

“What’s that?”

“What if someone commanded the system to notify them when people try to access information about Sato? They could be on to us now.”

“I doubt it. They’ll probably assume whoever was poking around has learned the rules of this game.”

“We can’t be sure.”

“I’ll get Odessa to run a systems check in the morning. He’ll know if anyone’s on to us.”

“What about tonight?”

She waves him off. “We’ll be fine. The question I have is, Why booby trap the
Celebrity Stalker
and
Weekly Global Newsmaker
files? No one believes them anyway.”

True scratches his arm. “Perhaps he’s thin-skinned. Maybe he doesn’t like bad press.”

“Sato’s secretive. His people are next to impossible to glean info from. Must be the martial arts background.” Reiner heads over to a marijuana plant, pulls off a juicy bud. “I’m not nearly as disciplined.”

With a practiced hand, Reiner pulls the bud apart, crumbles it, grinds it into a gentle blanket, and, holding a sheet of rolling paper with her free hand, sprinkles it in. She licks the paper’s edge, rolls a one-handed joint, wets her fingertips and twists the end. Something about the way Reiner rolls a joint is ritualistic.