Murder Feels Bad

by Bill Alive

  “Want to go out?” Mark said.

  “What?” I said. I really wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. “You want to go out?”

  I liked the idea. For about five milliseconds. Then I thought, the last thing I want to do is drive two hours into D.C. to some club to to get ignored by more girls.

  Mark sighed. “Not girls, man. You know … guy stuff.”

  “Guy stuff?” Now I was really confused.

  Mark cleared his throat.

  “What guy stuff?” I said, suspicious.

  He looked away. “Tonight’s game night at Zack’s store—”

  “ZACK?!” I said. “Not those Linux guys!!”

  I told you about those guys, right? The Tribesy haters? I’m still not sure what “Linux” is … I think it’s this program you run so that you can’t run any normal programs or connect to your printer anymore, but you can run all these other programs that are free and ugly and no one’s ever heard of.

  Zack’s the leader, and he also opened this game store on Main Street. Because the computer stuff wasn’t geeky enough.

  “Relax,” Mark said. “It is their meeting night, but that’s not what I meant. On Friday, the store also does all these free games. You can get out, hang out with some guys.”

  “Random strangers,” I said.

  “Yes, until you game together,” Mark said, with forced patience.

  I could tell that admitting this level of concern for me was really taxing his macho persona, but unfortunately, I felt so crappy that I didn’t care. Which was the only reason he was even doing it. Ironic.

  “Gaming requires less social interaction than any other known group activity,” Mark said. “Why do you think it’s so popular with males?”

  “So you’re saying my social skills suck?”

  His eyes flashed, but he kept cool. “Look. Why don’t you just do some dude stuff for once?”

  “With gamers,” I said. “Hooray, I’ve officially arrived.”

  “Come on, Pete! Why does your whole identity have to be based on mutual pattern matching with some random chick?”

  I flinched. That hurt.

  Then he flinched. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “No, I’m sorry,” I snapped. “I know I’m supposed to be your non-stop super-cheerful emotional air freshener.”

  “Quit it,” Mark said. “If I was that utilitarian, would I be trying to bring you out with me?”

  I hesitated. He did have a point. “You’re sure I don’t have to talk to those Linux guys again?”

  “Absolutely,” Mark said. “You’ll barely have to talk to anyone.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Fine. Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Mark rocked off the couch and jangled his keys. “By the way,” he said casually, “what the hell happened with that Roger guy? He was very much not interested in a website.”

  I groaned. So much for not having to talk.

  As we drove down to Main Street, I told Mark the least embarrassing version I could manage of what had gone down with Yvette and Roger. I had braced myself for the usual Mark snark, (oh man, there’s my new hashtag … #MarkSnark) but he was surprisingly and mercifully quiet. Maybe he’d vibed that I had already suffered enough. Meaning, he had too.

  My story wrapped with Roger totally kicking me out, his face red and distorted. “THIS IS NOT A DATING SERVICE,” he’d said, and added some choice parting words that made it clear I wasn’t expected back.

  “So much for getting my spiritual game on,” I said.

  “Forget that guy,” Mark said. “Real spiritual people don’t feel like assholes. Time to get your game game on.”

  That didn’t help.

  We parked in a dark lot behind Main Street and plodded around to the game store entrance. I was literally dragging my feet … the closer I got to this den of geekery, the less I hoped that anything good could come of this encounter. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with those Linux guys.

  Right.

  As we approached, Zack himself flung open the front door. Zack is this tall, skinny, forty-five-ish black dude with retro glasses that make him look offensively cool. He is also super loud.

  “Mark!” he boomed. “The prodigal has returned!”

  “Could you not do that every time?” Mark said. “I’ve been busy—”

  “We know!” Zack said. “And behold, your ignorant sidekick! Welcome! Come in and know us better, man!”

  Sidebar: Zack and his crew consider you “ignorant” if you don’t know how to get Linux working on pretty much any electronic device, including a coffeemaker.

  “Hey, Zack,” I said, with as little resentment as I could. “Don’t worry, tonight I’m just here for the games.”

  “I think not,” Zack said, with a genial flash of his gleaming teeth. “You’ll scare away the customers.”

  I gaped.

  “Besides, our Mark does his best work with your emotional support. And I’ve got a job for him tonight.”

  “But—”

  But nothing. Zack whisked us past his tables of grown men arguing over little cards with monsters and wizards and never-ending rules, back into the inner sanctum of the Linux User Group.

  I cringed. Nothing had changed since my last visit. The long tables still groaned under huge laptops, enormous bowls of chips, and drinks with enough caffeine to qualify as a controlled substance. The electronics were sucking so much power that they radiated their own strange warmth and droidish body odor, and the aroma didn’t blend well with the smell of their intermittently showered owners.

  The master geeks didn’t deign to look up from their screens.

  I shrank against a wall and glared at Mark. “You promised,” I hissed.

  To his credit, Mark at least looked apologetic.

  “Gentlemen!” Zack boomed. “I present Mark Falcon, Back Mosby’s first and greatest independent detective, as chronicled for the public record by our very own Hannigan-Quinn!”

  “So you guys saw those articles,” Mark said, in a flat voice.

  “You could have shared some portions of credit,” grumbled Brzezinski, the chubby geek with bulky tech glasses and a Polish accent.

  “Are you kidding?” snapped the paranoid one with the salt-and-pepper ponytail. “We’ve got too many online traces as it is! Do you want to make it to fifty?”

  I still hadn’t heard Paranoid Ponytail’s actual name. Shocker.

  “And now for the real test of Mark’s skills,” Zack continued. “In which he’ll repay his karmic debt—”

  “What debt?” Mark snapped. “You were supposed to break that password, but you never—”

  “Hey!” I said. “Spoilers!”

  At this, the geeks perked up, eyeing me for the first time. Especially the fourth geek, the Kid, who is not only the one member under thirty, but is possibly under twenty as well. It’s so hard to tell with that pasty smooth Vitamin D deficiency look.

  “Spoilers?” the Kid repeated. “What what?”

  “I’m writing an ebook—” I began.

  “Don’t!” Mark said.

  Too late. The Kid tapped rapid-fire, then snickered with delight. “Murder Feels Awful,” he read. “‘To Ceci, the best friend and proofreader ever?’ Hubba hubba!”

  “What the hell?” I said. “How are you doing that? It’s not published yet!” (At this point, it wasn’t.)

  “I told you not to use Dropbox,” Mark said.

  Zack’s carnival barker grin had faded, and he clapped Mark on the shoulder with a more serious look. “Okay, Mark,” he said. “Let’s not haggle. I need your help. If you want another favor, just ask.”

  Mark hesitated.

  Zack leaned toward him, his eyes glinting with anticipation. “What is it?”

  Mark sighed. “I had a suspect skip town. Samantha.”

  “Samantha Fassell?” the Kid said.

  Mark sighed harder. “Please tell me you’re not tapping my phone again.”

  “You still haven’t found Saman
tha?” I said.

  Paranoid Ponytail spoke up. “I thought that’s what private investigators do. Snoop on people trying to get free of the system.”

  Brzezinski fixed Mark with a stern glance, which was maybe slightly undermined by the tech camera doohickey embedded in his glasses. “If you cannot do simple skip trace,” he said, “what is business model?”

  “Look, I tried all the official databases,” Mark said. “At least the free ones.”

  “Mark!” I said.

  “I didn’t hear you volunteer to pay those stupid subscriptions,” he snapped.

  The Kid rat-a-tat-tatted on his keyboard. For some reason he used a separate keyboard in his lap, plugged into the laptop. On his lap keyboard, the keys were black but the letters glowed in bright LED greens and reds, like a car tricked out with neon lights. “Samantha Fassell is staying with her sister up in Woodbridge,” he said. “Been there since last week. Want the address?”

  Mark frowned and rubbed his eyes. “Why do I even bother?” he muttered.

  The Kid typed again. “They’re currently binge-watching Amy’s Avatars, looks like episode five—”

  “I hate this,” Mark said.

  “Okay, done,” Zack said. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Mark squinted at Zack with focused concentration. Then his eyes widened. “No,” he said.

  Zack laughed. “Damn, dude. You really are for real.”

  It occurred to me to wonder when Mark had finally gotten around to telling Zack about his empathy. And why he’d ever thought that would be a good idea.

  “Zack, seriously,” Mark said. He glanced around the room. “I thought this was … you know…”

  “Confidential?” Zack said. “It was. Until you went and got all public with a murderous—”

  “Spoilers!” I said.

  “Kid, that’s really weird,” Zack said. “And you can tell I wouldn’t say that lightly.”

  “I didn’t go public,” Mark said. “That idiot Hannigan-Quinn, for instance, he still hasn’t heard.”

  “And who says he will?” Zack said. “No one here’s going to spill.”

  “Are you talking ‘empathy’ crap?” Brzezinski snapped, still focused on his screen. “I have no time for woo-woo nonsensicals.”

  “Oh yeah? What if Elon Musk is right?” the Kid said eagerly. “If it’s all a simulation, all bets are off! Empathy could totally be a thing!”

  I knew better than to ask.

  Brzezinski snorted, but Zack said, “Fine, don’t call it ‘empathy’. Call it extremely advanced perception and processing of subtle cues of face, posture, and intonation.”

  I wondered how “advanced perception” was supposed to explain vibing someone getting murdered hundreds of feet above you in a … oops, never mind.

  The Kid piped up. “Check it, according to this scientist who studies facial microexpressions, kids get especially advanced people-reading skills when they grow up with alcoholic or abusive parents.”

  “Thanks for that random, totally irrelevant fact,” Mark growled.

  I startled. From the little Mark had said about his childhood, his parents had nailed both those traits, hard. Creepy. Maybe in a couple generations of academic cycles, the cool rebellious scientists would be all New Age, and they’d put empathy right up there with quarantine mechanics. Or is it “quantity mechanics”? Whatever.

  “If you’re all quite finished,” Mark said, “my advanced perception skills are failing to process what Zack actually wants.”

  Zack cleared his throat. For the first time since I’d met him, he lowered his look to the floor. “There’s this … girl.”

  The geeks exploded with adolescent indignation and scorn.

  Zack shushed them with both outstretched hands, like a motivational speaker stilling his fans. “Her name’s Roxanne. She’s been coming to game night off and on the last couple months. I’m definitely feeling a connection, but—”

  “I feel dirty,” Mark said. “Besides, as I recall, when you saw me do the exact same thing with that girl Nicole—”

  “That was ten years ago!” Zack said. “And you were in a relationship!”

  “And Mark, you still vibe whether girls like you all the time,” I said.

  Mark squirmed.

  “Oh ho!” Zack said, and his loyal geeks jeered and whistled. “Big hypocrite!”

  “Fine! All right!” Mark snapped. “But just this once!”

  “Excellent!” Zack literally rubbed his hands with glee. “She’ll be here any minute! Come on, gentlemen!”

  Chairs scraped, and the geeks hurriedly disentangled themselves from their devices. I was mildly surprised they could actually get up and move around.

  “No way, guys,” Mark said. “I can’t do this with a huge audience.”

  “Afraid of scientific method?” Brzezinski sniped. “Observation?”

  “Observation always changes what’s observed,” the Kid cut in. “That’s Heisenburg.”

  “Quiet, quiet!” Zack said. He was peeking out the door toward the store lobby. “She’s here!”

  At that, the geeks swarmed us out into the lobby, all making a ridiculous effort to look nonchalant. Have you ever seen a kid hovering near his pile of birthday presents, trying to look like he doesn’t care? If you ever need a spy, hire that kid before these guys.

  At the glass front door, the woman Roxanne was hesitating, but her face was blocked by a poster for some anime cartoon that involved droids, wizards, and sentient concrete. In Tokyo. Below the poster, her short skirt desperately showcased long legs that at first caught the eye as skinny and smooth, but then showed the bulge of varicose veins. Even across the lobby. Red stilettos didn’t help.

  Mark startled.

  “What is it?” I said. Then Roxanne walked in, and I startled.

  She was the redhead vet. Who hated Vanessa’s guts.

  Mark inhaled so sharply that Zack snapped him an anxious look. “What? What are you getting?”

  “She’s not here to see you, you big idiot,” Mark grunted. He had that strained voice he gets when the emotion’s so vicious it physically hurts. “She’s after her ex-husband.”

  Zack looked stricken. “Ex-husband?”

  Mark leaned toward me. “No wonder the vet hates Vanessa so much. She’s Ed’s ex-wife.”

  He must have said the names louder than he thought. Across the entire room, across all those crowded tables of rowdy gamers, Roxanne’s fiery eyes snapped right at us, burning with open hate.

  Chapter 19

  Roxanne’s glare made my stomach churn. I wanted to lock myself inside a closet. That was inside another closet.

  Behind us, Zack bellowed right across the room. “Roxanne! You’re only coming here to stalk your ex?”

  Mark winced. He literally jumped sideways, escaping the sight line between those two. The gamers at their tables cringed, squirming and bewildered at this intrusion of real life.

  Roxanne bulldozed right for us, her heels cracking like gunshots.

  If I’d thought she’d been pushing too hard to be hot in her office, she now made Office Roxanne look like a cloistered nun. She had squeezed into a glittery tank top that a responsible salesperson really would not have sold her without approval by a neutral third party. Her perfume preceded her by several feet, though it didn’t quite mask her work smell of animals and antiseptic.

  She attacked Zack first. “Did you call him?” she demanded, her over-reddened lips twisting with rage. “Where is he?”

  “I didn’t call anybody!” Zack said. “I don’t even know who ‘he’ is! I had this crazy idea you were coming because you liked it here!”

  “Ed likes it here,” she snapped. “It’s one more way he’s still fourteen.”

  With the specific name, Zack’s face crumpled, like she’d kicked that stiletto in his gut. “You mean Ed Kimm? He hasn’t been in here for weeks—”

  “I noticed!” Roxanne snapped. She fried her laser glare on the rest of the geeks, who cow
ered behind Zack and tried to shrink. Brzezinski’s techie glasses shaded black in self-defense. Lucky him.

  “How the hell did you know I was here for Ed?” she demanded.

  They pointed at Mark and I. Seriously, actual pointing.

  She swung her scorching glare our way.

  In that moment, I had a strange revelation.

  Thanks to Roxanne, I hadn’t thought about Vanessa, or Yvette, or even the angry Roger for at least thirty seconds.

  I had to admit, that was pretty nice.

  On the flip side, I was about to get roasted alive by this human pepper spray.

  A prospect which, in turn, made me pine for those innocent days of depression and self-loathing back two minutes ago. It might not have been great, but it sure beat live annihilation.

  I know you think I’m exaggerating. You weren’t there.

  I turned to Mark with desperate hope. Was he vibing a way to deflect her?

  Well … he was squinting hard, like he was trying to vibe. But he looked like he was squinting into a hurricane.

  “Wow,” he said, trying to sound casual. “So Vanessa steals your husband, then comes back to use you as her vet?”

  Roxanne’s eyes bulged wider, and her caked foundation flamed red.

  Oops. That play had backfired. Mark grimaced like he’d gotten a hernia.

  I realized I should try to shield him. Problem was, I was already too smothered by Roxanne myself. And I wasn’t even an empath.

  “Who the hell are you?” she spat at Mark.

  “Private investigator,” he said.

  “Are you following me?”

  Mark gasped. He was straining his face into a tough-guy mask, but this woman’s rage was seriously putting a Vader chokehold on him. He could barely breathe. And she seemed to sense it.

  “Not you,” Mark said. “Vanessa.”

  Roxanne barked a fake laugh. “You telling me Ed finally figured out she was cheating on him? And he sounded so surprised.”

  Her laugh seemed to break her own focus. At least, enough for Mark to breathe and straighten. “What are you talking about?” he said.

  “I’m not going to do your job for you.”

  “What did you say to Ed?” Mark said. “Why was he surprised?”