by Ray Daniel
“What about Dorothy Flores?”
“How do you know about Dorothy Flores?”
“The FBI told us.”
“Great.”
“You going to get some information out of her?”
“There is no information to be got out of her.”
“Yeah. Sure. You fucking her?”
“Jesus! What?”
“I mean, that’s the only reason I could see for you protecting her.”
We had reached Huntington Avenue. There was a Sox game today, and the traffic showed it. Overcome by a fit of common sense, I pushed the walk button and waited.
“I’m not protecting her,” I told Pat. “I don’t think she knows where the video is.”
“She was friends with that Peter guy.”
“Yeah.”
“The guy who got his head cut off.”
“Yeah.”
“Could happen again.”
The walk signal lit up. I walked. Pat didn’t. Just as well. I didn’t need him screwing up an already screwed-up situation. The entrance to the Prudential Mall stood before me like a portal to shopping nirvana, but next to it was the entrance to the Cheesecake Factory, a portal to cheesecake nirvana. Cheesecake would be good.
Soon, my Precious.
Forty-Seven
Leaving your phone turned on while attending a hacking convention is like hanging salmon out of your pockets and hiking in grizzly country. The problem is even worse when you throw in all the Internet functionality of a smartphone.
Having Anonymous after me was pretty much as bad as going to a hacker convention. That was why I bought a flip phone, technology so antiquated that I might have been accused of hipster-grade irony. Still, it was the safe bet, because trying to hack a flip phone is like trying to pickpocket the James Michael Curley statue.
My new little burner phone resting in my pocket, I descended the escalator and turned into the Cheesecake Factory. Normally, I avoid restaurant chains. Boston has so many homegrown restaurants that it seems a sin to waste them.
But … cheesecake.
I got seated on a long couch, alone at a table for two. The server arrived: young, short hair, white shirt, and red striped tie.
“I’ll have the Blackout cake. It’s been a long week.”
“Whipped cream?”
“Hell yeah, I’m on a bender. Coffee too.”
While I waited for my cheesecake, I called people to give them my new phone number. Called Mel. Called Bobby. Called Jael. Called Caroline. Nobody answered, I left them all messages and my new number. Called Maria. Got Adriana.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Tucker.”
“Why do you have a new number?”
“It’s a long story. Could I talk to Maria?”
“You need to come to dinner tonight.”
“Okay.”
“Six thirty.”
“Okay.”
“Be there.”
“Can I talk to Maria?”
“Sure, tonight.” She hung up.
No wonder cousins aren’t allowed to marry.
“Aloysius Tucker.”
I looked up. The potty-mouthed vigilante known as CapnMerica stood before me, apparently trying to look menacing.
“Tucker is fine,” I said. “Preferable, really.”
CapnMerica said, “Aloysius Tucker, I—”
The server arrived. “Excuse me, sir.”
CapnMerica stepped aside. The server deposited my cheesecake.
“Thanks!” I said.
“Would you like anything else?”
I said to CapnMerica, “You want cheesecake?”
He shook his head, made a waving motion. “I’m good.”
The server left.
I forked a piece of cheesecake. “You were saying?”
“Aloysius Tucker, I am makin—”
“Mmmm … this is really good.”
“I’m arresting you, dude.”
“Sure you are.”
“You assaulted Eliza and kidnapped PwnSec.”
“Yeah, I apologized to ‘Eliza.’” I air quoted. “I think we’re good.”
“There’s still abduction.”
“Where’s your videographer?”
“What?”
“No, never mind, I see him.” Earl Clary sat at the bar, pointing an iPhone at us. I called over, “Earl, you want cheesecake?”
Earl looked panicked. Shook his head.
“You should kind of wave the phone back and forth so the audience will know you’re shaking your head.”
Earl frowned but kept recording.
I turned back to CapnMerica. “You sure you don’t want cheesecake, Billy?”
“No, I—wait. You doxed me?”
“Yeah—sorry. You pissed me off.”
“You bastard!”
“I get that a lot. Probably deserve it.”
A server veered around Billy carrying a tray.
“Why don’t you get out of the aisle, Billy? Sit down. Have cheesecake. You look thin.”
Billy sat. “You’re not my mom, dude.”
“I’m sorry. I interrupted you. You were arresting me. What are the charges?”
“You killed Peter, you beat up Eliza—”
“Russell.”
“Um, yeah. Russell. And you kidnapped Earl and the rest of PwnSec.”
“Kidnapped.”
“Yeah!”
“So that’s what they’re saying. That’s their excuse.”
“Tell it to the judge!”
I ate more chocolatey goodness, drank coffee. “So you think I killed someone, beat up Russ—”
“You beat me up too!”
“Sure, okay. And kidnapped people.”
“Yeah!”
“Wouldn’t that all make me a pretty dangerous man?”
“Exactly. That’s exactly what #TuckerGate is all about. Keeping a dangerous man off the streets.”
“Yeah, and Gamergate was about ethics in video-game reporting.”
“It was! It totally was!”
“Let’s not get distracted. So I’m dangerous.”
“Right.”
“Fine. Where is your gun?”
“I don’t have a gun!”
“Really? You mean you followed me, a dangerous fugitive, from my house to the Cheesecake Factory and you didn’t even bring a gun?”
Billy’s face took on the hue of the decadent whipped cream that adorned my cheesecake. Which reminded me to take another bite and drink more coffee.
“You should have brought a gun,” I said.
Billy asked, “Do you have a gun?”
I looked him straight in the eye. “No. I don’t,” I deadpanned.
“My God! You do have a gun!”
I ate cheesecake.
Billy stood, knocking his chair over backwards. Pointed. “Gun! Gun!”
People turned. One woman screamed and ran into the street, shrieking, “Gun!”
“For fuck’s sake, Billy, you’re causing a panic.”
Two cops, a man and a woman, burst in from the street.
Billy pointed at me. “He has a gun!”
The two cops put their hands on their weapons, walked over to Billy and me. Earl continued to record, a flushed This is going to be great! grin spreading over his face.
The woman cop asked, “Sir, do you have a gun?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t have a gun.”
“Would you step outside with us?”
“But I have cheesecake.”
“Step away from the cheesecake.”
The four of us walked out of the Cheesecake Factory into a blustery April wind blowing down Huntington Ave. Earl followed, recording.
“Sir, I’m going to ask you to consent to a search.”
I assumed the position against a column. The male cop patted me down. He said to his partner, “He doesn’t have a gun.”
“He told me he did,” said Billy.
I said, “Actually, shithead—”
“Sir!” the male cop said.
“Sorry. Actually, Billy, I specifically told you that I did not have a gun.”
The woman cop said, “Can I ask how the topic of a gun came up?”
“Billy was planning to kidnap me. He’s carrying handcuffs.”
The cop put out her hand, pointed at it. Billy placed the handcuffs in it.
“It’s not kidnapping,” he said. “I was making a citizen’s arrest.”
“Billy learned about this on the Internet.”
The male cop said, “The Internet! Well, it must be true.”
“You should still arrest him,” Billy said. “He killed a guy.”
The cops looked at me. I shrugged. “Internet.”
“Right,” said the woman. “Okay, Billy, that’s enough vigilantism for today.”
“Can I go?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I went back into the restaurant. They had thrown away my cheesecake.
Forty-Eight
Here is another Tucker Tip. If you’re going to follow someone, figure out a way to hide your ridiculous purple-tipped Mohawk.
I left the now cheesecake-less factory using the mall entrance, apparently surprising Russell, whose purple-tipped Mohawk flashed in the April sun as he pushed through the revolving doors. So, two out of three PwnSec kids were following me. Where was the third?
Rather than follow Russell, I took the escalator up and ducked into the bookstore. Hustled to the back wall, which featured a set of windows to the street. I watched as Russell, standing in front of the Colonnade, met Earl, clasped upturned hands, hugged it out, and fist-bumped. Apparently the two thought they had come through a harrowing adventure and were reveling in their survival.
I waited. Sure enough, Dorothy “NotAGirl” Flores crossed the street and joined the other two, though to much less fanfare. And finally, there was Billy “CapnMerica” Janks, hailed by the other two men as a conquering hero. They gathered around Earl’s smartphone, watched something—presumably Billy’s death-defying assault on my cheesecake snack—high-fived all round, and broke up. Billy, Russell, and Earl entered the T stop at Prudential while Dorothy walked back to the light, waited, and crossed back toward me.
I started to turn from the window, intent upon running down the staircase and intercepting her, when something caught my eye as Dorothy crossed the street. Pat Turner emerged from the Prudential stop exit and fell into step behind Dorothy.
This is not good.
I ran to the top of the escalator and watched through the giant glass windows as Dorothy walked past on up Belvidere Street. Headed back down the escalator, reached the bottom as Pat followed. Dorothy had never seen Pat before. She’d have no idea that she was being followed. Then again, Pat would be focused on keeping her in view, so he’d also have no idea that he was being followed.
I pushed through the revolving doors, saw Pat’s back as he walked past a giant concrete horse in front of P. F. Chang’s, and got into step behind him. We continued up Belvidere—past the concrete I. M. Pei building that lay on its side at the Christian Science Plaza, as opposed to the identical one that stands erect—and on up past the Sheraton.
It turns out that following someone is not nearly as interesting as I had imagined. Pat simply walked straight ahead, looking neither left nor right. Ahead of him I could see Dorothy doing the same thing.
Bored, I dialed my new flip phone.
Mel answered. “New phone number?”
“Doesn’t anyone listen to voicemail anymore?”
“No. Why the new number?”
“Anonymous has launched a denial-of-service attack against my smartphone.”
“Meanies.”
“Yeah. Guess what I’m doing?”
“Drinking?”
“No. Why does everyone guess that?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m following Senator Endicott’s muscle man Pat, who’s following Dorothy.”
“An espionage train.”
“Sort of.”
“What do you expect to get out of this?”
“No idea. Just want to see what will happen.”
Ahead of me, Dorothy had reached Mass Ave and had turned towards Back Bay. I had a suspicion of where she was heading. Pat followed her.
Mel said, “I’m getting pressure from the senator on finding that video.”
“I think Pat’s feeling it too.”
“Want to do some brainstorming tonight?”
I needed to catch up so as not to lose them on the busier street.
“I’ll call you back.”
As Pat turned the corner onto Mass Ave, I broke into a run, reached the corner, slowed down, peeked. Nothing had changed. Dorothy walked, Pat followed. He reached the Berkeley Performance Center. I fell in behind. Things got a little clogged as we reached the corner. Dorothy waited for the light, Pat stood next to her, confident that she had no idea who this hook-nosed guy in the gray suit really was. Pat knew me, so I hung at the edge of the waiting crowd, bending over to “pick something up” as he turned and scanned his surroundings.
The light changed, and the crowd crossed. I waited until the walk signal turned into a blinking don’t-walk signal and ran across behind the crowd. Dorothy, Pat, and I walked over the Pike, past the love locks clamped onto the chain-link fence.
I express my love for you by throwing this key onto highway traffic.
And I was right. Dorothy turned into the Hynes Convention Center T stop. Here Pat almost lost her. Dorothy, who obviously owned a Charlie Card, went right through the turnstile. I had a Charlie Card. Pat had to buy a ticket.
Moron.
While Pat stood in frustration behind a woman whose purse dog got in the way of her actually using her purse, I slipped past him and down to the outgoing train platform. I saw Dorothy. She didn’t see me, as I had cleverly moved behind a green concrete column at the end of the station.
Pat was in real danger of losing Dorothy now. She could take any train from this station if she was willing to walk five minutes.
A train rattled into the station. Pat still hadn’t navigated the turnstiles. Dorothy looked from her phone up to the train, noting the letter sign in the front of it. A B line train. She looked back down at her phone. Apparently she had walked far enough for one day.
The train unloaded, started to load. Pat ran into the station, saw the train loading, and ran up to climb aboard. The guy didn’t have a Charlie Card, so he probably didn’t know his train letters. Must live in the suburbs.
As Pat climbed aboard the train he glanced down the station, saw Dorothy, and jumped off the train just as the doors closed, catching his suit jacket.
Smooth move, buddy.
Dorothy, obliviously engaged in something on her phone, missed the whole thing. So much for our nation’s campaign for people to be aware of their surroundings.
The next trolley was a C train, the one that stopped in front of Dorothy’s house. She and Pat got on one car. I climbed in several cars down. I knew she was staying on until the end of the line.
I had a bad feeling about Pat.
Forty-Nine
The train lurched to a stop at the end of the C line: Cleveland Circle. I exited the train surrounded by a crowd of students. Dorothy stepped off the train, her eyes glued to her phone screen. Pat stepped off, eyes glued to Dorothy. Both oblivious.
Is this how I look to Jael?
Dorothy crossed the street, entered the Tedeschi’s. Pat stood around waiting for her to c
ome out. I hid behind a tree. Dorothy emerged from the Tedeschi’s swinging a jug of milk and turned into the alley next to the store. Pat waited, then followed. I ran to a spot where I could see the front door, but Pat had already done the doorbell trick and was gone. I followed, also rang the first floor doorbell, got buzzed.
A woman in a housecoat came out of the first-floor apartment. “Why did you buzz twice?” she asked, clearly peeved.
“I didn’t buzz twice, I—”
Dorothy’s scream echoed down the stairwell, followed by a man’s rumbling voice and a door slamming. I bolted up the staircase, thankful for my cardio regime. I took the steps two at a time, navigating the turns as the staircase reached up to the second floor. Ran past the second floor door, turned a corner, launched myself up another pair of steps, grabbing the railing and centering myself as I took the turn. Almost there, another few sets of double steps, took the final turn. Stopped.
A closed door barred my way.
Inside I heard Dorothy: “Stay away from me!”
Tried the door. It opened.
I stepped through. Dorothy had retreated to a far wall of the living room. Pat stood in front of her, baseball bat in hand. “Where’s the video?”
I pulled the phone from my pocket, raised it. “Hey, Pat! Say cheese!”
Pat turned and I realized that I was holding a flip phone, a relic from the days before cameras. Maybe I could bluff.
“Think the senator’s going to like seeing a picture of you threatening a young woman?”
Pat said, “That phone doesn’t even have a camera.”
“Sure it does!”
“Bullshit.”
Dorothy picked up on the idea. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve already got a movie of this guy breaking into my place.”
Pat turned back to her. “No, you don’t.”
Dorothy pointed at the fireplace where a Cyclops X-Men figurine stood. “He’s a camera.”
Pat turned, raised the bat.
I moved, getting between the figurine and Pat. “Don’t bother, Pat. The video goes right to the cloud.”
“Yeah!” said Dorothy.
Pat looked from Dorothy to me to Cyclops, who threatened to raise his tiny visor and deliver a tiny optic blast.
“Fuck me,” said Pat.
“Yes, Pat. Fuck you,” I said. “Now why don’t you leave, and maybe I can convince Dorothy not to release what would be an extremely damaging video. Even more damaging than the senator’s sex tape.”
