In for a Ruble by David Duffy Read Free Book Online Page A

one of the Basilisk’s twelve server corridors, which took time because they’re all forty feet long, and I had to stop once or twice, leaning against a floor-to-ceiling wall of electronic brainpower, to rest. I finally emerged into the large open area in the back. The lights were off except in a few outer offices. The smell of marijuana floated in the air. Pig Pen heard me and squawked, “Russky! Tiramisu?”
    We’ve had this conversation before. Foos’s African gray parrot used to be obsessed with pizza. But he bonded with one of his master’s Ralph Lauren model girlfriends, two iterations ago. Veronica was her name. She ordered tiramisu every time Foos took her to dinner, ate two bites and brought the rest to Pig Pen in a parrot bag. When Foos moved on to the next girl, as he inevitably does, Pig Pen went into a funk. He’s still not completely over her—or the tiramisu.
    “No luck, Pig Pen,” I told him the first time he asked. “Do I look Italian?”
    “Russky,” he agreed.
    “Do I look like Veronica?”
    “No cutie. Russky.”
    “That’s right. So what makes you think I have tiramisu?”
    He considered that. “Cross Bronx. Accident cleared.”
    Resorting to the traffic reports, which he listens to constantly on 1010 WINS, is his concession whenever logic overwhelms desire. That hasn’t stopped him from continuing to try on subsequent occasions, however.
    Tonight, he took a closer look at me, and said, “Ouch.”
    “You got that right. Boss here?”
    “Boss man!” Pig Pen squawked at full volume, which is a lot louder than seems possible. “Russky help!”
    Foos emerged from his office. “Jesus, who ran you over?”
    “Leitz’s fault,” I said, stretching out on a sofa. The open area is divided into two seating arrangements—one organized like a living room, the other a big conference table with a dozen chairs. Around the perimeter are a dozen glassed-in offices and conference rooms.
    “Hang on,” he said. He went to the kitchen and returned with rubbing alcohol, disinfectant, and a bag of ice. “Can you do this, or you want me to?” he asked.
    “I can manage. Take a look at my back, though.” I could just shrug off my jacket and lift my turtleneck.
    He whistled. “That’s gonna be a pepperoni and eggplant pizza in a couple of hours. You sure you don’t want the hospital?”
    “I’m sure. Better have more ice, though.”
    He went back to the kitchen. I closed my eyes and used alcohol and disinfectant on my face where Nosferatu and the sidewalk had broken the skin. My gut was uncut, but turning its own shades of pizza color. Foos returned with more ice and the vodka bottle.
    “Drink?”
    “What do you think?”
    He poured two glasses as I tried to arrange ice bags. Pig Pen was holding on to the cage wire across his office door, watching with evident concern. His radio played in the background, forgotten for the moment. But I think they were on sports, in which he has no interest.
    The vodka burned going down but felt therapeutic. I held out my glass for more. Foos poured, but said, “Better take it easy. I’m guessing your head’s as rattled as the rest of you.”
    He had a point. I took another small sip, put down the glass, and shifted a couple of the ice bags.
    “So what happened?”
    I told him about West Forty-eighth Street, the cleaners, and Nosferatu and his friends. He listened without interruption, then said, “And you got no idea who this guy is?”
    “None. But he’s got Basilisk-like information about me. That says he knew my name, who I am.”
    “If the first bug’s his, he’s had access to my e-mail exchanges with Leitz. You okay for the moment?”
    “I can manage.”
    He went to his office and I could hear him banging on his keyboard. I think I dozed again until he came back.
    “Your bug’s working like a charm. We’ve got access to Leitz’s entire network, including servers and data storage. I can see the other bug, but I had to look hard to find it.