Kzine Issue 8

by Graeme Hurry

  “Well, I hope you have fun.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Marselle said, sure he wouldn’t. “And bowling’s just the beginning. From now on, I’m going to ‘take life by the horns’.”

  Prouty smiled. “Ride ‘em, cowboy.”

  Marselle felt he was one cliché away from a five-alarm grimace. Somehow he would repay Plankton for this. “I take a size 13 shoe.”

  Sitting down at their lane, LeMay looked doubtfully at Marselle. “This isn’t the way things happened on T-vision. It took a couple of weeks before I even talked to Prouty.”

  “This will be the expurgated version,” Marselle said, tightening the laces on his clown-like shoes.

  He soon noticed he and his partner possessed different styles. Marselle was tentative, and whether he’d left a diamond, a split, or a lone ten pin, the ball rolled with a mind of its own. LeMay, on the other hand, shot as if his intention was not only to scatter the pins but maim them. In both cases, the gutter claimed most of balls. Marselle watched a large woman, her eyes focused and mouth grim, barrel down the neighboring lane. The knockout punch of ball striking pins sounded so full. By contrast, whenever one of Marselle’s balls met any pins, the anemic sound reminded him of someone clipping his nails.

  “Did you ever get good at this?” Marselle asked, after they completed their first game.

  “If I did, I would consider it evidence of intellectual infirmity.”

  LeMay’s look of disgust convinced Marselle not to pat him on the back. “Let’s give the gutter a break while I talk to Prouty.”

  Prouty was wiping off the counter as Marselle approached.

  “This game looks a lot easier on TV,” Marselle said, brushing his forehead.

  Prouty smiled. “I guess that’s true with most things.”

  Marselle leaned closer. “But some things you want to do rather than just watch.”

  Prouty nodded. “Life is more than a spectator sport.”

  “Right. So, my friend and I are new here and we were wondering if you knew where we could find some…company.”

  Prouty’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of company?”

  “You know, female company.”

  Prouty chuckled nervously. “Well, we have a lot of singles right here in the bowling league.”

  The thought of lying next to someone as she recounted the details of converting the 5-10 split chilled Marselle’s bones. “I was thinking of something more discrete.”

  The geniality in Prouty’s voice vanished. “Buddy, I run a bowling alley.”

  “What about Inez, you bastard?” LeMay asked, suddenly behind Marselle, the writer’s body spitting sparks like a roman candle.

  “Inez? My daughter? What about her?” Prouty’s red face looked as if it were about to come to a boil. Marselle groaned, before and after his body blocked an onrushing LeMay.

  The next morning, his back stiff as a diving board, Marselle trod into Plankton’s office.

  “Don’t introduce me to any more of your friends.”

  “You didn’t meet anybody interesting at the bowling alley?” Plankton asked, punching buttons on his keyboard.

  “Did you read my report?”

  “I did. T-vision seems to have missed the spaceship on this one. No evidence of prostitution. No scheming wife. And Inez is his fourteen-year-old daughter. Plus you and LeMay received a lifetime ban from Cedar Bowl.”

  “That’s a shame. Look, I think we have to forget whatever T-vision showed and focus on what actually happened.”

  “Which is?”

  Marselle flexed his back. “A salesman came to LeMay’s door and no one else’s and gave him a 70% discount on that set. Am I still on the clock?”

  Plankton’s eyes hardened. “Yeah. Go see Alex Lane.”

  “Nice to see you again, Detective Marselle, said Lane on the wrong side of the visitor’s window at Dedham prison. “In my business a lot of people cross my path, but then I never see them again.” Lane maintained his thin mustachioed smile and affable air, despite his unflattering orange jumpsuit.

  “Was Bob LeMay one of those people?”

  “I’m good with faces, but names…” He winced.

  “Extrapolation gave him a 70% discount on a T-vision.”

  “What?” He looked genuinely surprised. “That doesn’t sound like good business sense. Valerie has a lot to learn.”

  Marselle couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. “I don’t understand you, Lane. Why give your job to the woman who helped put you in here?”

  “She testified against me to save herself. I would have done the same thing. Where’s your sense of honor, Detective?”

  “Where’s yours? Your game ruined Bob LeMay’s marriage.”

  Lane met Marselle’s eyes. “How many people’s lives are ruined by casinos, or bars? I give adults what they want. I can’t help it if what they want isn’t good for them.”

  “Some lawsuits might find otherwise.”

  Lane laughed. “If someone wants to pay a lawyer to sue me, fine. I’ll take the game off the market, modify it, and get free publicity. When I bring it back, it sells faster than I can make it.”

  Marselle rose slowly from his chair. “Thanks for clarifying your sense of honor for me.”

  “No problem. Sorry T-vision doesn’t appeal to you. Maybe someday I’ll develop a game even you can’t resist.”

  Not if I have anything to say about it, Marselle thought.

  Returning to his office, Marselle downloaded all the information he could find on Lane. The most recent item was four years old, when Lane was convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to eight years. Why would someone looking at another four years of prison want to ruin the life of a criminologist not even connected to the case? He called the warden at Dedham prison.

  “Weren’t you just here?” the warden asked, his voice tired and barely curious.

  “Yeah. I have a few more questions about Alex Lane. Has he been behaving himself?”

  “Of course. He’s got a parole hearing in three weeks.”

  “Ain’t justice grand,” Marselle said, disgusted. “Wait a minute. Could you tell me who’s on the parole board?”

  “I suppose I could if you give me a minute.” The warden read off some names. After he said Bob LeMay’s name, Marselle thought “Ha!” and stopped him.

  “Lane couldn’t have been too happy to get him,” Marselle said.

  “I don’t know. Some of the other guys are probably tougher.”

  Marselle wondered if Lane knew that. “So when’s this review going to be?”

  “You are making me earn my salary tonight. That would be September 27th.”

  Marselle checked his notes. It was the same day the T-vision had predicted LeMay’s murder, a day the criminologist might just want to stay inside.

  Marselle’s next call was to Seth Dillard, the former employee of Exemplary who testified in the “Time Phone” case. Dillard had lost his job when Lane was arrested and Exemplary folded, but as a 30-something, indefatigable computer whiz, he had no trouble latching onto another game company. After Marselle explained the case, Dillard agreed to accompany him to LeMay’s. Marselle banished LeMay into the kitchen as Dillard looked admiringly at the T-vision.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind owning one of these things,” Dillard said, his close cut brown hair bristling like a wire brush. “I wouldn’t mind having the ten thou they cost either.”

  “The real cost of one of Lane’s toys comes after you buy it,” Marselle said, turning on the set. “Can you help me prove Lane used this to get LeMay?”

  Dillard shrugged his narrow shoulders. “If I know Lane, he’s got the box covered with warnings, but I’ll try.”

  “Good. Now the future programming is based on data from the subject and ten of the most influential people in his life. Is there a way to check the identity of the ten people?”

  “Let’s see.” Dillard pulled a chair up to the set and pressed some icons. Marselle watched dumbly as li
nes of print flashed on the screen. It reminded him of the thousands of words in software agreements that nobody read. About a half hour later Dillard said, “I’ve got them.”

  “Give me the names.”

  Dillard read each one while Marselle wrote them down. “You know them?” Dillard asked.

  “No,” Marselle answered. He was about to stick the list into his wallet when he stopped. “Wait a minute. That’s only nine names. Did you miss one?”

  Dillard took a deep breath. “Let me go through it one more time.” He did. “Interesting. There are only nine names, but ten profiles. Someone removed the name from the first one.”

  “Let me see.” Marselle started reading, but to his disappointment, everything was about LeMay and his family, not about the person the data was derived from. It took Marselle ten minutes just to read a small portion of the profile. He scanned for another couple of minutes, then stopped. “This data about LeMay is all negative. No wonder he ended up with such bizarre programming. Can you do a search for a specific name?”

  “Sure. Who?”

  “Sean Prouty.” Marselle spelled out both names.

  Dillard pressed the screen a few times. “There’s no Prouty, but there’s a Proudy with a d, and he’s popular. He shows up 67 times.”

  “In which profiles?”

  Dillard checked and smiled. “All in mystery profile number one.”

  “Right. One more thing. Can you tell me when the data was input into the machine?”

  The young man did a few more presses and read the screen. “All were done on June 21st. Except the first one. That was done on June 15th.”

  Marselle felt his body relax. “Thank you.”

  The next morning Marselle strolled into Valerie Starling’s office. He caught her at her desk, talking animatedly on her cell. Though her face froze at the sight of the detective, her voice didn’t miss a beat. Marselle waited patiently while she gave someone an extended browbeating.

  “Wheeling and dealing?” he asked after she disconnected and shot him a withering stare.

  “What do you want?”

  Marselle leaned casually in her doorway. “I did a credit card search on Bob LeMay last night.”

  “So?”

  He smiled and approached her desk. “I discovered he paid Extrapolation Enterprises three thousand dollars on June 20, the same day a salesman came to his house.”

  “That’s fascinating.”

  “No, it isn’t, but what is fascinating is how one of the ten profiles on his T-vision could have been put on five days before he’d even heard of the product.”

  At first, all Valerie could come up with was a soft “Huh,” which for a lot of people would have been enough. “We must have accidentally sold him the prototype and forgot to erase something,” she said finally.

  “And the fact that LeMay’s future murder happened the same day he was to sit on Alex Lane’s parole review—that was an accident too?” When Valerie said nothing, Marselle continued. “There were a couple of things I didn’t understand. Why go to all this trouble to keep Bob LeMay off the parole board when it was full of tough guys that were unlikely to give approval. Second, why would a good looking, smart woman like you stay loyal to a piece of scum like Alex Lane.”

  She smiled ruefully. “Like I said, people like a little danger in their entertainment.”

  “I think what you like is being head of Extrapolation Enterprises. But some day, maybe in three weeks, maybe in a few years, Lane will get out of prison. Unless…” Marselle looked at her wearily… “for some reason he’s suspected of tampering with his parole board.”

  Valerie Starling just stared at Marselle.

  A few nights later Marselle sat alone in his tiny apartment, amid clothes-strewn chairs and soiled pots piled in his sink. He checked his bank balance to make sure Plankton had paid him for the LeMay case. Marselle had turned down Plankton’s offer of a used T-vision in trade.

  There it was. He marveled how a few numbers on a screen could give satisfaction, especially when nearly everyone else associated with the case had come out disappointed. The LeMays continued their trial separation with no end in sight. Bob LeMay planned to sue Extrapolation and Valerie Starling for psychological damages. Though Alex Lane wasn’t directly involved, the bad publicity could only hurt his chances of an early parole.

  It occurred to Marselle that though T-vision was short for Tomorrow-Vision, it easily could have stood for Tunnel-Vision. Both LeMay and Starling had been so wrapped up in its false vision of the future, they’d messed up the present. He glanced at the clock and saw it was 12:03 PM. Tomorrow already. Why would anyone pay ten thousand dollars for it to come earlier?

  THE ABOLITIONIST

  by Mjke Wood

  People say there are worse places than prison. I might have given them an argument once. I might have said there are no such places.

  Okay, Ronnie, you might say, how about dead? Dead is worse than prison. Dead is worse than anything, yeah? Well, once upon a time, my friend, you might have been right about that, too.

  I mean, I know prison.

  But this place?

  Okay, this isn’t what you might actually call a place, bricks and mortar, like. But now, right now, I’m thinking prison would be better. And if not, well, I might just have to try dead.

  “We’ll have to tag you,” she said. “For your own protection.”

  Protection? Hell yes.

  The Brain Doctor, the neurologist bitch. That’s where this all started. Wait, though. Even before that. Four, five weeks before. The day I went to see Frank Moss.

  Yeah, that’s right. It started with Frank Moss.

  I was kind of cocky – almost a swagger in my step, and that’s dangerous, because when you’re inside you do not swagger. Even if you think you might be getting out that very day you do not show it. No sir. No swagger. When you’re inside you shuffle. Inside you keep your head down and your thoughts to yourself. You don’t say nothing to the screws, just ‘yes sir’ ‘no sir’.

  That’s how you get through. One day at a time. I’m in for thirty. Done twelve. That’s a lot of time. You don’t count the days; you just take each one and move it from in front of you to behind you. Every day behind you is just one more you don’t have to face.

  But the day I went to see Frank Moss I felt right, and my head was up. Because Frank Moss had sent for me. I had a good feeling.

  The screw was Martinson, and he’s a miserable bastard. Likes to taunt, you know? You might ask why I need a prison screw to ‘escort’ me over to a meeting with a fellow resident. Well Frank Moss is no ordinary resident. Rumour says he’s done twenty-seven. Was only supposed to be in for twenty-five. They say he don’t want to leave. Nothing for him on the outside. Prison’s his home. The screws respect that. Everyone respects Frank Moss.

  Frank’s cell is in Dartmoor’s East Wing. Sounds more like a soddin’ stately home, doesn’t it - and that ain’t so far from the truth. There’s special privileges in Frank’s wing. Like foam cushioning taped to the doors so’s they don’t clash and chime out. Noise upsets him, see. And they reckon there’s carpet in his cell. But that’s just hearsay, ‘cos no one’s ever seen inside his actual cell. You get to see Frank ‘in his office’. And that’s where I was headed. It’s like an office. There’s a desk and a chair for clients. And a hat stand. Honest to God. Why’s he need a bloody hat stand in the nick? But Frank Moss’s got one, I swear. There’s never been a hat on it though. Prob’ly never will be.

  “Hiya, Frank,” I says to him.

  He’s sitting behind that big old desk. He’s wearing a suit. Sure he’s wearing it on top of his prison greys, but shit, it’s a suit! Is it a good suit? I’m told it’s a Caraceni. You decide. Sounds more like some kinda pasta to me. The only suit I ever owned was a knock-off from Burton’s.

  Frank looks old. Hair’s grey. Okay so’s mine, and I’m only thirty-four. But Frankie’s hair is, you know, tired grey. He’s got some kind of aristocratic q
uiff thing going on with it but it doesn’t work because the tired grey hair doesn’t want to play. And the lines on his face are deep. Deep as prison wall shadows. He sits at that desk with his back all curved and he talks real soft. He whispers. His voice is gone. Sometimes not all of the words make it out. But Frank only has to breathe and everyone this side of the wall listens. Even the screws.

  At first he doesn’t respond to my chirpy ‘Hiya Frank.’ He keeps his eyes on his desk. Then, without looking up:

  “Mr Parkinson,” he whispers. Croaks almost. I have to watch his lips. “We seem to have a problem of respect here. Explain to him, if you will,” he says to the screw. And Martinson leans over me and he says. “You’ll address the gentleman as Mr Moss. Do you understand, Ronnie? Mr Moss.”

  I nod.

  “And some other ground rules: Speak only when spoken to. Do not argue. And, take heed, Ronnie, Mr Moss does not tolerate any profanity.”

  Seems strange that, in a prison, where effing this and effing that is… well it’s not really swearing, is it? I mean… It’s all the language anyone ever knows.

  Frank… Mr Moss, begins shuffling through the papers on his desk. He comes up with a brown manila folder.

  “Your appeal was Friday,” he says.

  You’re wondering why a tired old con is doing legal work from inside the nick? I can only tell you what’s been said to me. Frank Moss was a lawyer. The personal sort, none of your online, cash-up-front, fill-out-the-forms kind of lawyerin’. Frank had a little office in the East End. Came from a long line of criminal talent: father, mother, grandfather. Brothers and sisters. They’d all done time. But Frank wanted to be different. Frank Moss wanted to break out of the loop, or so they say. Frank was bright and he studied. Went to night school.

  But some bonds you can never break. Family is strong. What can you do?

  “Mr Parkinson,” he whispers, bending down real close to the folder on his desk. His eyes are going, I reckon.

  “Mr Parkinson, it is not good news I’m afraid. Your appeal was refused.”

  I just sat there and let it sink in. You put each day behind you, one at a time, but when another eighteen years worth of days get all stacked up in front of you, sudden like, then it’s hard not to see it as a wall you’re never ever getting over.