Lost in the System

by Nancy Jo Wilson

  I turn on the faucet and rummage through the medicine cabinet. I need info and fast. Most of the stuff in there is generic. I do find out my guy likes his cologne. There must be five different designer scents. That combined with his red bikini briefs tells me this guy is one step short of a metrosexual.

  Under the sink I find all her things: hair gel, blow dryer, barrettes, bobby pins, facial cleansers, but very little make-up. She’s a natural beauty. There was no way Cologne Man has an ugly chick. Jackpot! Along with everything else is a prescription bottle, antibiotics of some kind. Her name is Marisol Diaz. Having her name is more important than his at this moment. Women are funny, they only put up with being called Doll, Baby, Querida so long before they expect to hear their name.

  I glance at the pharmacy address to find out my city. I am guessing I am in the southwest. Arizona, New Mexico? I haven’t been those places yet. Jacksonville, FL. I freeze. To be in the same city is unheard of. In fact, They have a clause about it. “In order to maximize cultural exposure and minimize exposure of Life Modification Therapy, candidates will inhabit hosts of differing cities on a daily basis.” In other words, they don’t want you crossing paths with your previous host. It’s not like sci fi of the twenty-first century, there won’t be a matter-antimatter explosion or a time paradox. They are worried there will be recognition on a subconscious level. That recognition could lead to speculation which would be bad for the system.

  On top of being in the same city, I am in the same area of town. Jacksonville is huge. Not Balspar huge, a city that covers a planet with the same name. However, by most standards, Jax spans a lot of land. I learned as Marvin that living in two different parts of town could be like living in a different city. But I drove down that pharmacy’s street yesterday.

  I drop the bottle and look in the mirror at myself. No wonder my guy is metrosexual, he is handsome. Movie star handsome, Benjamin Bratt handsome. I examine the face in the mirror and picture him in a suit. I know him. He was the detective talking to Lovely Legs in the cop shop lobby yesterday. Not only am I in the same area of the same city, I am someone I had been in contact with the day before.

  “Oh boy, there is something seriously wrong with Life Mod.”

  I inspect the glitch from every angle. As far as I know, it started the day before with the weird voice saying, “I am Father to the Fatherless.” I heard it when I was near Marvin’s filing cabinet, and when I was standing near the guy who’s my current brain-hitching host. If the voice was a system hiccup, the first time the only nearby human was occupado with me. But the second time, Pretty Boy was nearby—maybe the code reset on him. He didn’t have a hitcher and was available, so to speak. Makes sense, sort of. Anyhow, it isn’t my problem. They have messed up, and They will have to fix it.

  I flash a grin at my new self in the mirror and say, “There’s no way they can pin this on you, you handsome devil.” I need to do what I do every day. Put my nose to the grindstone and stay out of trouble. No Ferraris for me, no sir. I will do it all by the book, which is longer than War and Peace. Detainees applying for Life Mod must read Acceptable Conduct and Behavior for Life Modification Therapy. It is time to get on with Pretty Boy’s “conventional and logical daily activities.”

  There is still the matter of Marisol, the wife, to contend with. I decide to implement part one of my Wife Exit Strategy. Simply stated—get out of the house as quickly as possible. Luckily, I already know this guy’s job and where he works. All I have to do is get dressed, grab the keys, and skedaddle.

  Pretty Boy’s closet is far more promising than Marvin’s had been. Benjamin Bratt has taste. Nothing designer, he couldn’t afford that on a cop’s salary, but good quality, nonetheless. He also isn’t afraid of color, like most guys. He has every hue in the rainbow represented. However, his work suits are appropriately sedate. I grab a dark blue one and accent it with a bright red and yellow silk tie. I would go with a milder one, but he doesn’t have any.

  It is clear Marisol has similar taste. Her side of the closet is equally bright although she has far more casual clothes than Pretty Boy. I bet she stays at home. But why? Kids? I don’t hear any shrieking.

  I snatch Pretty Boy’s wallet off the dresser and glance at his driver’s license. Benigno Diaz. Cool, now I have a name. His badge is next to the wallet, so I clip it on my belt. I open the door and start down the hall when I remember his service revolver. He’s supposed to have it with him 24/7. I wonder where he keeps it when he sleeps. Benigno is serious about his clothes, I am sure he is also serious about his job. He’d keep his gun near him at all times. Bedside table? Most logical spot. Please, please, please be in a thumbprint safe. I do not have the time or energy to finesse a four-digit pin out of Marisol.

  I pull the table door open and find the safe, as predicted. Yes! Thumbprint. I place Benny Boy’s digit on the pad. A muffled ka-chunk sounds the lock’s release. I turn the handle, and the door swings open, revealing its lethal occupant. I don’t want to pick it up; I know how to use it, sure. My chip has all sorts of information, but I’ve never actually held one. Technology in my day may be more advanced, but a weapon is a weapon. People still get hurt by them. I use my gift for gab to get me out of tight spots, I don’t need anything else. Still, it’s part of Benigno’s “conventional and logical daily activities” to carry it with him. I settle the holster and its charge under my jacket. I’ve heard guys say that guns make them feel powerful; I just feel off-balance.

  As I trot down the stairs, I notice that Benny was also serious about his heritage. All the furnishings are of Latin influence along with the art on the walls. I recognize a colorful rendition of La Perla from my day as a tour guide in San Juan. Benny Boy must be Puerto Rican. I am almost out the door when I am interrupted.

  “Benigno,” Marisol says from behind me. I whirl around and notice three things. First, she is holding a plate with toast and a glass with some clear liquid. Sprite or 7-up? Second, she is, in fact, a natural beauty. Her dark, wavy hair falls loosely around her shoulders, framing her face and equally dark almond-shaped eyes. Third, she is exploding with baby. Man, I don’t need this today. What if I get shot? Why do I gotta have the responsibility for leaving little Pedro without a daddy? They better get this glitch fixed fast. I don’t think I can spend the day in RIOT gear.

  “Coma para su estomago,” she says, concern lacing her 86% cacao eyes. Translation: Eat for your stomach. Great, she’s trying to take care of me. My options don’t look good. I can blow her off, saying I am fine, and risk hurting her overly sensitive pregnant wife feelings. Or I can stay and eat, pleasing the little woman, but increasing the risk of raising her suspicions.

  I smile warmly and kiss her on the cheek, picking up notes of coconut. Her shampoo or is it lotion? I say in Spanish, “You’re too good to me, sweetheart. I’m much better.” Taking the drink from her hand, I add, “I’ll drink this in the car. Don’t wait up—we have a lot of cases.” Part two of Wife Exit Strategy—work as late as possible. She kisses me back, and I escape.

  As I drive to the cop shop, drinking my Sprite/7-Up, which does help my somersaulting stomach, I ruminate on the situation. I’m not a marrying kind of man. Heck, I’m not even a monogamous kind of man. I’m a different girl, different planet every night kind of guy. I don’t want the responsibility of another person’s health, wealth, and happiness weighing on my shoulders. And I certainly don’t want my health, wealth, and happiness to be dependent on someone else. It’s a slippery slope. People always leave.

  I think about Benigno, his wife, and their bun in the oven. He has a potentially dangerous job. How can he go to work each day, knowing those lives depend on him? I pause. It’s day 778, and I’ve never been in a host with a death-defying job. I was a sports mascot (Go Wolverines!) but I don’t think that counts.

  While there isn’t a clause about dangerous work that I can remember, there is “the candidate will not participate in any activity that could potentially threaten the livelihood and physi
cal well-being of his host.” Getting shot by a crack addict would certainly threaten Benigno’s livelihood and physical well-being. I realize that I need to be extra careful today. When They review the glitch, my behavior should be stellar. I park in the lot and make my way inside.

  II

  Being in the cop shop again is eerie. Life Mod drops me in a different person in a different location every day. I haven’t experienced déjà vu since back in the twenty-fourth century; nothing has seemed familiar for more than two years. So being in this place where I’ve walked and talked with people is more than a little off-putting. I know the guy behind the desk and can recite the poster about charity scams.

  I haven’t felt this edgy since the last time I was on Earth. Me and Cod, a man who smelled like his name, were pulling Good Samaritan jobs. I prefer to work alone, but those scams require two people. Anyway, Cod got himself caught. I watched the oinkers nab him, cuff him, and haul him away. I imagined a giant blinking red arrow over my head saying, “Con man, arrest, arrest.”

  I spent the rest of the day looking behind me more than I looked forward. Of course, my suspicion was warranted because Cod rolled over for the boys in blue, and I got pinched. Further proof that you can’t rely on other people; they betray you. That’s when I ended up in Life Mod. I hope this day, with its major system glitch, won’t have equally disastrous outcomes.

  Steady, Smullian my boy. Today is just another day. Nose to the grindstone.

  Based on my guy’s conversation with Lovely Legs, I figure Beningno reports to Missing Persons. After a quick scan of the directory, I make my way to the third floor. Very few people wander around the space, which is good because I need time to find his desk. The search takes a few minutes. Benny Boy’s desk doesn’t need a name plaque—the framed picture of Marisol identifies the sappy user. Sitting next to the phone is my first case of the day. The irony of a grifter solving any kind of crime isn’t lost on me.

  A secretary had called to report her boss, Robert R. Clausen, as missing. I know he’s up to something. Everyone knows that Bobs and Bobbys are great guys. Men who insist on Robert are shifty. And don’t get me started on Robs. But I digress.

  Unable to contact him for three days, she had gone by his house this morning, only to find no one at home. Hmm. Going by the house rates a little more than regular secretary duties. I wonder if they had more than a “working” relationship. Poor Melinda, she must not know the Rob/Robert rule. It is possible she’s in on it, whatever it is. Only one way to find out. I pick up the phone and dial her number.

  Melinda confirms Robert’s malfeasance, of which she is unaware. Her distress and confusion are evident. “Something bad must have happened to him,” she says. “Otherwise, Robert would have called me.” She believes this relationship exists beyond steaming up the storage closet. Unfortunately, her only crime is having deplorable judgment in men.

  Then she says something that sets off all my bells and whistles. “On top of everything else, my check wasn’t in my account this morning.”

  “You have direct deposit?” I ask calmly. I bet Robert cleared out the accounts and escaped to the Caymans.

  “Yes, I thought maybe there was an error at the bank. So, I called, but they said if there was an error it wasn’t on their end.” Doubt creeps into her tone. She is starting to wonder if he had, in fact, left her. She is starting to wonder if he is capable of pilfering the payroll. She is putting it together.

  “We’ll find him.” In line at Jax International clutching his passport. “I’ll keep you apprised of the situation.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “He would call me, I know it.” Now, who’s she trying to convince?

  There are two avenues to pursue here—the missing man and the missing money. I’m lazy. Grifting requires little work on my part, due to my natural talent. A good haul supports my lavish (if you call eating three times a day lavish) lifestyle for three or four months. No one will ever accuse me of going the extra mile. I am delighted when I realize the money is not my problem. Making a quick call to Economic Crime, I hand that part off to someone named Fuller.

  That leaves me the missing man. Before I can get embroiled in it, another detective with a buzz cut parks himself on my desk. Something about his wide smile and square jaw says “high school quarterback” to me.

  “What have we got today, Benny?” he asks.

  Partner? Another first. I’ve been so busy worrying about the wife; I haven’t stopped to consider the possible ramifications of the rest of the day. The way I figure it, partners could be just as bad as wives, depending on how long they’ve been working with my host. “You’re late,” I say, stalling.

  “Only by fifteen minutes,” he answers with a Super Bowl-sized grin.

  I take a risk based on what little I knew about Benny, a man serious enough about his heritage to speak Spanish at home and hang ethnic art on his walls.

  “And my name’s Benigno. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “At least twice a day, Benny boy.” He chuckles and slaps me on the shoulder. “What’s new?”

  I fill him in on Robert, and the steps I’d taken thus far. “I was about to fax his info to airport and railroad security.”

  “I’ll get Miller to run over to Greyhound. He’s eager. Let him spend the morning at the bus terminal talking with the jewels of Jacksonville society.”

  I like the partner, whatever his name is. He doesn’t take life too seriously—my kind of guy. I could be friends with a guy like him, if I was in the habit of making friends. I watch my partner amble off to tell Miller he would be spending the morning in a dank bus station with homeless people and diesel fumes. When he is gone, I shuffle through some old reports on my desk to find his name. Charles Weidman. This guy goes by Charlie—that much I know. I watch him joke around with Miller and another cop.

  Cheshire Charlie might be a problem. I don’t have the luxury of taking off as I did with Marisol that morning; I’ll be stuck with him all day. My only advantage is his Y chromosome. Guys, by nature, aren’t as observant as women. Still, I need to have a plan for dealing with him. Bringing up the whole I’m-not-feeling-myself thing becomes priority one.

  I fax the info about Robert to the appropriate agencies and walk to the kitchenette. It’s stocked with coffee, tea, and an assortment of the finest innovations of the twentieth century—Krispy Kreme donuts. You’d think with all the technology we have in my time we’d be able to make a decent donut, but alas, that skill has gone the way of spinning and weaving. I can almost feel the confection melting in my mouth. With a sigh of frustration, I grab a plain bagel.

  “Didn’t Marisol make you a four-course breakfast?” Charlie asks from behind me.

  “My stomach was off this morning. I think I caught whatever’s going around. Her mallorca bread and eggs are much better than this,” I say, waving the bagel in the air.

  “Thompson from Records was bent over the toilet in the men’s room this morning.”

  “How long did he spend at Happy Hour last night?” I ask with a conspiratorial grin.

  “Good question, Benny.”

  “Benigno.”

  Charlie blows off my statement with a chuckle, something I have a feeling he does often. “There’s someone asking for you. Wasn’t she here yesterday?”

  I’ve been to most of the planets in the known universe. I’ve played chess with a giant gastropod, that’s a slug to the undereducated, who smoked and moved the pieces around with his antennae. I once discussed the works of Aldis Hexter, a twenty-second century prose poet, with a rock who had great insight into the symbolism. I know weird. Seeing was not required for believing who sat at my desk. Only one person could complete the orbit of odd I am circling in—Lovely Legs.

  “You know the one,” Charlie continued. “The waitress with the nice stems.”

  III

  I walk to my desk with Charlie hot on my heels. I have a feeling he isn’t overly concerned about the particulars of the cas
e itself, but rather putting himself in the position of being Lovely Legs’ hero. I run over the bit of conversation I’d overheard the day before: skipped school, fifteen, twenty-four hours—got it, should be enough to bluster through the intake interview.

  Even from a distance, I can tell she isn’t old enough to have a fifteen-year-old. Unless she’d had him when she was seven and that’s only possible on Tarnis where the people age and mature at a highly accelerated rate. A Tarnian will live an entire lifetime in twenty years, it’s quite amazing. This makes them great marks because they don’t have the experience and wisdom of races with longer life spans. A Tarnian will fall for a Three Dige Shuffle (twenty-fourth century Three Card Monte) over and over and over again. I always head to Tarnis when pickin’s are slim everywhere else.

  Back to Lovely Legs. Why is she reporting this kid missing and not his parents? Interesting. She is wearing jeans, which means she was taking the day off, not that I blame her. I miss the waitress uniform, though. My mind flutters back to an image of her perfect hourglass figure and sculpted legs. Based on that memory, I have great hopes for her face. Those hopes, however, are utterly dashed with one glance.

  She’s probably been crying for the last twenty hours. Red splotches cover her cheeks. Her nose is swollen to what must be twice its normal size and crusty stuff rings the nostrils. The red in her eyes makes the blue of her irises glow with an unearthly intensity. She looks like a plague victim—or a heroin addict going through withdrawal.

  Charlie takes a detour and heads for his desk. I understand why; I’d do it too in his position. He isn’t required to be there. I am. Mind you, he didn’t take off because she looked hideous. He left for his own safety. A woman’s tears are a man’s kryptonite. We are powerless in their sway. When exposed to them, we find ourselves compelled to do anything, everything to make them stop. We, normally rational and logical beings, will behave in manners beyond comprehension to end the torrent. There is nothing more dangerous than a woman who understands this power. However, Lovely Legs is not manipulating. The throes of pure grief envelop her. This is the last place I want to be.