There was instant coffee, though. Instant creamer, too. And sugar—though, unfortunately, there was a roach carcass legs-up in the sugar. Still. Unsweetened instant coffee was better than no coffee at all. He found a hotpot way in the back, pulled it down from its long span of disuse, set some water to boil, and found somewhere to plug in his netbook.
When he crawled back out from under the table, he found Nelson and Randy standing there, looking at him. A grin spread across Nelson’s face that telegraphed he’d just been checking out Tim and thinking, “been there, done that.” And hopefully, “I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”
“We’re gonna go have a smoke,” Randy said.
“Out there?” Cabin fever must have been setting in already, and they’d been asleep almost the entire time they were there. Aside from…that other thing three of them had been doing.
“Want one?” Nelson asked. He held up a cigar, and somehow made it look embarrassingly phallic without even trying. He knew it, too. Tim could tell by the twinkle in his eye.
“Don’t you think that’s a little reckless?” Tim said.
Randy snorted. “Mister Drive-on-the-Sidewalk is calling us reckless?”
“I just think we should stay inside until we know what’s going on.”
Randy and Nelson exchanged a look that said they thought Tim was taking it all way too seriously, and Nelson gave the cigar he was holding a languorous sniff—pointedly phallic—and said, “But they look like they’re Cuban.”
“Of course they’re Cuban.” Javier said, awake now. He had his eye patch in place before he’d even sat completely up. His hair was tousled. It looked sexy tousled. “Alejandro wouldn’t be caught dead with a box of Nicaraguans.” Tim wished he had the guts to ask him to repeat himself. The way he said “Nicaraguans” was sexy, too.
Tim said, “Can’t you just smoke them in the bathroom, or…?”
“I will make anyone who so much as thinks of lighting a cigar in this trailer wish they’d never been born,” Marianne called from the other room.
Nelson raised his eyebrows expectantly and said to Tim, “Well? Are you coming?” Now, Nelson seemed incapable of saying anything that wasn’t a blatant flirtation…which Tim had never realized would make him feel as phenomenally awkward as it did. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had acted flirty toward him. If anyone ever had at all. And if they had, somewhere in his vague and distant past—it was utterly forgettable compared to the look in Nelson’s eye now, the one that fairly screamed out, I love dick.
On the table behind him, Tim’s netbook chimed an alert message; the security on it was set sky-high in case it was ever stolen. He glanced over his shoulder and okayed the DLR wireless network with a click. “No, I think I should maybe…” he felt the flash drive Javier had stolen for him, square and unyielding in his pocket. “I have some work to do.”
Randy mouthed “work?” like Tim had just spoken a foreign language.
“Stay behind the truck,” Tim suggested. “Keep out of sight.”
Javier stood and tucked his shirt in, then smoothed his hair. “I’ll keep them out of trouble,” he told Tim, and he followed Nelson and Randy outside. Once Nelson and Javier were gone, Tim felt like he could breathe again…although the moment Nelson was no longer watching him with that naughty half-smile and that look in his eyes, Tim began to doubt that he’d actually done the sort of thing with Nelson that would prompt that sort of look.
Concentrate, he told himself. On something other than the memory of stuffing your dick in his mouth…alongside Javier’s. Tim sighed. And here he’d thought the idea of meeting Javier in person was distracting. Reality was definitely underrated. His netbook beeped loudly, and another warning flashed. UNENCRYPTED NETWORK. He hit OK.
He’d saved the initial work he’d done back on his home system on the portable drive. No need to hack past Canaan Products securities again. Tim had set up a new identity in the I.T. department as Joe Johnson, and now it was just a matter of seeing what kinds of permissions he could secure for “Joe.” Yes, Javier had told him to look in Shipping and Receiving. But while he might find evidence of large amounts of manna being moved around in that department, he wouldn’t necessarily know why. He might as well see what else he could find—and I.T. guys had access to everything.
Tim should know.
Within moments, “Joe” was approved. Tim let out a slow breath and began to feel his way around the system. Research and Development. Financials. Company email. And…there it was. Warehouse.
He began accessing directories, and then downloading. His computer was fast, for a netbook. So much of it was custom that the only thing original to the unit was the keyboard. But it still wasn’t as fast as the powerhouse desktop back at Tim’s apartment. The file grab would take a while.
One by one, the file names flashed on his screen as they transferred. Databases, emails, any documents he could find. Tim grabbed them all with the objective of getting in, getting out, and sorting through it all later.
Once that process was underway, Tim turned to the documents they’d already appropriated from the HR rep at the job fair. Nelson Oliver’s job application was the most recently viewed document…and there, now, was another document Tim had overlooked back at the apartment. The analysis of his application—right there beneath it, just waiting to be browsed.
Tim flicked the scroll bar and spotted a Javier Santos. That wasn’t Javier’s last name, but a quick search showed no other Javier on the roster. Javier’s job application would be all lies—or at least creatively re-worked versions of the truth. But still, it seemed that even the lies he’d told might give Tim some insight about what made him tick. What to open? Nelson’s analysis, or Javier’s mostly-phony application?
Tim wavered, surprised that he felt so torn about where to look first. Funny, how much his perspective had shifted over the last twelve hours or so. He hovered the pointer over Nelson’s file, then Javier’s…then Nelson’s, and back yet again.
And he hoped they would take their time smoking their cigars.
***
It was cold outside, sitting on the concrete slab that was sheltered from street view by the truck. Nelson drew his knees up to his chest, leaned his back against the side panel, and rubbed his hands together. “I don’t need a whole cigar,” he said. “I’m not much of a smoker. Just wanted to see what the whole buzz over a Cuban was all about.” He bumped Javier with his shoulder. “Wanna share?”
He’d taken care to sit on the side of Javier’s good eye. Javier glanced over him, cool as you please. Inscrutable. Nelson supposed it went with his whole calm, cool and collected persona. Still, it seemed like Señor Cool should have thawed a bit, given the fact that they knew each other a lot better now than they had the day before.
Randy pulled out a cigar trimmer—presumably from the office, unless he carried one around with him, which would be totally hilarious—and clipped off the tip. “See?” he showed the cut end to Nelson. “If it was a cheapo, it’d be rolled together from the sweepings off the cigar factory floor. You’d have tobacco crumbling out. But not this. Whole leaves. Nice and tight.”
Nelson glanced at Javier—couldn’t resist. But even the words “nice and tight” didn’t get a rise out of him. Sheesh. What did a guy need to do to make him smile? Oh well. Nelson had always dug a challenge.
Randy passed a cigar to Javier, and then the trimmer. Something in the way Javier handled it—what was it? He’d done it before, yeah…but so had Randy. There was something else to his motions, though. A sureness. Like it was no big deal to fire up an expensive Cuban.
Maybe because he was Cuban. A rich Cuban. If such a thing even existed. Nelson tended to learn his politics as he needed them, and he’d never kept company with a Cuban before, so he only knew the generalities: Bay of Pigs, dictatorship, boat people, embargo. That sort of thing.
Javier rocked the cigar over a lit match, then held it to his lips, puffed, rolled the smoke over his tongue, and bl
ew an experimental, wobbling smoke ring that was whisked away by the wind. While Randy lit his, Javier watched the lit end burn for a moment, then handed it to Nelson and said, “Don’t inhale. It’s not a cigarette.”
Nelson took a puff. The tobacco was wet from Javier’s lips.
“That is so gay,” Randy said.
Nelson laughed the smoke out of his mouth, and handed the cigar back to Javier. I’ll show you gay would have been his typical response, with a nice, juicy kiss right on another guy’s mouth—it was a blast to yank straight dudes’ chains like that—but he could tell by the set of Javier’s shoulders, he’d be seriously pissed at Nelson for even trying it. Even though the whole business of cigar smoking seemed to involve more holding and staring than actually smoking (evidently you didn’t want to get the tobacco too “hot” because that ruined the flavor) and you weren’t even supposed to inhale, Nelson found it companionable enough…with Randy, at least.
How Javier managed to seem so distant—sorting that out would be quite a challenge, all right.
Luckily, Randy attempted to break the ice, so Nelson wouldn’t need to. “So you worked here before?” he said to Javier—and Nelson couldn’t have asked for a better tone in his delivery. Don’t actually care, just random curiosity, something to talk about while we enjoy our cigars.
And then Javier smirked to himself before answering, “Not exactly.”
Nelson scratched his stubble to hide a smile. Javier couldn’t have piqued his curiosity better if he’d been trying.
“For this company,” Randy clarified—as if maybe Javier had been referring to the specific job site.
“It’s a family business.”
“De la Rosa? That’s your name?” Randy took a round puff of his cigar, cradled the smoke on his tongue for a moment, then blew it out—and gave Nelson a pointed look that said, Gay.
Nelson toyed with his hair to hide another smile. He knew the frat-boy humor should offend his delicate LGBTQ sensibilities…so of course, he found it all the funnier.
Randy talked about how he hated his job at the credit union. Nelson said his job at the video store was okay—except for the customers, who tended to be jerks. And the fact that it paid so shitty. Javier said absolutely nothing, just listened. And then the cigar burned down to the last couple of inches, he took it from Nelson and said, “That’s it. You don’t smoke it down to the butt—it’s not a cigarette.”
While Randy stared at his last couple of inches sadly, willing to risk another few puffs to extend his experience, Nelson stood up and dusted off the back of his jeans. He decided to poke around in the truck before he headed back inside, because all that stuff in the back—who could resist rifling through it, and seeing what made that Tim guy tick?
The boxes were labeled so cryptically Nelson needed to pry open the flaps of the folded-shut boxes and paw through to see what was actually in any of them. The heaviest boxes were water—but the gasoline, bleach and manna weren’t exactly lightweight, either. Clothes. Towels. Flares. Maps. Camping gear. Three different first aid kits. Since he’d seriously depleted the first kit giving Marianne her pedi, Nelson tucked another blue and white box under his arm and turned to head back inside, when he found Javier blocking the truck door. He couldn’t help it—he broke into a smile that made Javier look twice as exasperated as he already did. “What?” Nelson asked, all innocence.
“Watch yourself.”
“Why? Am I gonna do some kind of trick?”
Javier’s uncovered eye narrowed. Probably the one behind the eye patch, too. It might be damn near impossible to make him smile, but it was pretty easy to wind him up. But then he said, “With Tim,” and Nelson sobered. A bit.
“What about him?”
“Just…don’t be an ass.”
Nelson’s short-lived gravity broke, over the uber-serious tone of the warning. He laughed—he could hardly help his assish tendencies. “I’ll try my best.”
Javier didn’t move from the doorway. He had the body language of someone who was accustomed to being Obeyed. He said, “Don’t string him along if you’re going to drop him the second the roadblocks come down. He deserves better than that.”
Nelson looked Javier up and down a few times, unsure where to even begin a reply. “I thought we were all cool.” He shrugged. What did Javier expect to come from a quick-and-dirty hookup? “Aren’t we?”
Even with just the one eye, Javier gave Nelson a look that told him they weren’t.
Javier turned to go, and Nelson caught him by the shoulder. “Hey.” Javier turned back, and Nelson said, “I like Tim. He’s a good guy.”
Javier looked at him, hard. Nelson felt like he was being X-rayed. Maybe losing sight in one eye was like losing one of the full senses. It sharpened whatever remained to a preternatural point.
Nelson was sorely tempted to add that Tim had such a hot dick he wouldn’t mind taking another taste…but he suspected that observation wouldn’t exactly ease Javier’s mind. Sure, Tim wore his heart on his sleeve—it was pretty cute. Refreshing, actually, since Nelson had seen enough hipster ennui to last a lifetime. But Tim was a big boy…in more ways than one. Nelson figured he could speak up for himself if he wasn’t happy with the status quo.
Chapter 19
While the netbook didn’t carry Tim’s full contingent of custom scripts and macros, it was loaded with the important ones. Like the algorithm that cracked passwords, and the script that could erase traces of its user’s activity by overwriting it with innocuous-looking text files.
Two windows bisected the tiny screen: Javier’s fake résumé and Canaan Products’ Warehouse Division directory. Tim had meant to skim the job fair résumés while his algorithms did their work searching for password protected information at Canaan—but so far, good old “Joe” had access to anything he cared to view, thanks to Javier marching up to that laptop, bold as you please, and copying the credentials Tim needed to create him.
Javier…whose voice left Tim breathless, and whose kisses made him shiver.
A bachelor’s in Literature from Universidad de Costa Rica—was that real? Or a bending of the truth, something similar to what he’d done with a few details tweaked? Or was it a complete fabrication?
Tim could imagine Javier as someone who’d studied literature. Although the book of poetry his résumé said he’d published…Tim couldn’t quite picture that.
A beep drew his attention to the remote window. His algorithm had swept away evidence of his plunder of Shipping and Receiving, and so he moved on to the manufacturing directory of Canaan’s mainframe. The strings of formulae and scientific-sounding jargon meant nothing to Tim, but would probably be an easy enough read for a guy with a carbon molecule tattooed on his hipbone. A tattoo that extended down into his…pubic hair. Tim adjusted himself and began the download of the database, pleased with the extra ten terabytes of memory he’d added to the netbook. It was heavy, and it drained the heck out of the battery. But it was worth it.
Despite the ample free space, the download and subsequent cleanup would take some time, thanks to the sorry speed of the wireless connection. Another warning flashed. Someone else had logged on the same IP host.
“Marianne, are you on the computer in there?”
“Just emailing my mom,” she called back.
Tim hit OK, and looked a bit closer at Javier’s fake résumé. Judging by the year on his bachelor’s, he’d be about thirty—a year older than Tim. If he’d finished college in four years. If they even started at eighteen in Costa Rica, like they did in the States. If the degree itself wasn’t bogus. If that was where he’d even come from.
It wasn’t necessary to look at Nelson’s résumé again. Even though Tim hadn’t seen it since he’d copped a guilty look back at his apartment, that information was stamped on his brain as if a hot iron had branded it there. And given Nelson’s appreciation of the crystal structure of boron, Tim was beginning to suspect that the listing of his education or technical skills hadn’t be
en exaggerated in hopes of scoring a callback.
Nelson’s analysis, then….
Another warning popped up. The other computer was sending its email. Tim hit OK and considered disabling the warnings, but of course he’d never do something so crazy on a wireless network with such basic encryption. He double-clicked on the analysis.
Yet another warning popped up. Marianne had opened another browser window. Tim sighed, and considered asking her to surf the web some other time. Maybe he could tell her it was slowing down the connection. But then she would be bored. She’d probably start to linger around behind him and try to figure out what he was doing, so it would be best to let her keep herself occupied in the office, despite the annoying warnings that would pop up every time she navigated to a new page.
Tim increased the font size of Human Resources’ analysis of Nelson Oliver, but found he needed to scroll too much to make heads or tails of the information at that size, though he did see the words underemployed and lacks direction. He decreased the font by a click, and it was nearly impossible to read.
Marianne opened another browser window. Tim dismissed the warning message. As soon as he started to figure out how the analysis was laid out, what with it being nearly impossible to read at such a small font size, another message popped up—this one letting him know that the Canaan manufacturing database was finished downloading.
His remote connection to Canaan took priority over his curiosity about Nelson, and he began sifting through Canaan’s system to see what other information was there for the taking. Squinting at the tiny netbook screen was maddening, though. Maybe he could borrow the monitor from the other office…the one Javier had declared was off-limits. Tim sighed. Maybe not.
The Starving Years Page 16
