Everything but the Squeal sg-2

by Timothy Hallinan

  “You worked all night?” I said. I wanted to hug him.

  “I'm a kid,” Morris said. “Kids don't need as much sleep as old people.”

  “You win,” I said. “Let's look at them.”

  “Hold on,” he commanded, back in his element, “let me bring the first one up.”

  Keys clacked, and then he grunted. I patted Jessica on the head in a paternal, old person's fashion, picked up the empty cup, and peeked over his shoulder. Morris was looking at a screen full of words. I'd seen it before.

  “Morris,” I said, feeling disappointed, “I got that far.” I was considering a new career.

  “This is real cute,” Morris said, gazing at the screen as though it were TheLastSupper and he'd just bought it to hang on his wall among the fractals or whatever they were. “It looks just like word processing. In fact, it is, it's Wordstar, one of the later upgrades. Now watch.” He typed a few words and a warning came up at the bottom of the screen:

  DISK FULL.

  “I've gotten that far too.” Maybe I should go back to teaching, I thought. Tenure, pretty young students, regular office hours. It all looked a lot better to me than it had while I was doing it.

  “But you haven't gotten this far,” Morris said triumphantly. He typed the word and, and added a question mark.

  “My sentiments exactly,” I said.

  He hit Enter.

  The words fell away, and instead of a bunch of impenetrable math I found myself looking at a data-base entry just like the one I'd seen on Birdie's console. It read like this:

  RECORD 1. (186–486)1. 3088 Compton Blvd., Bellflower, CA 90266 (213) 555-12962. 4 yrs3. Turkey4. CURRENT5. ORDERSa. Fingers, 1200 orders, last order 1000 (913)b. Parts, 2800 orders, last order 2300 (913)c. Paper, 4000 orders, last order 3300 (913)d. Drinks, “A” category (no change) (911)6. SPECIAL ORDERSa. 188,u.r.,188(422–427)JX6b. 217,c.r., 188(517–522)CP1c. 217, c.r., 188 (523–529) UId. 202, u.l., 687 (unavailable) BXe. 226,u.r., 188(74-711)BXf. 226,u.r., 188(712–718)UIg. 193, I.e., 188(1001–1010)BX

  We sat there, all three of us, and stared at it. Nobody said anything.

  “Turkey?” Jessica finally said.

  “It still looks like garbage,” Morris said in his soprano, “but it can't be. Look at the trouble they went to to hide it.”

  “Page down,” I said. “I think there's more.”

  There was. There were five more records on the disk. They all consisted of similar gobbledygook. It was a classic data-base form, the same from screen to screen. All that changed was the data, and we didn't have any idea what it meant.

  “Fingers,” Morris said, flipping through the forms. “Parts. Paper. Drinks.” He shrugged. “All the disks are more or less the same.”

  “Let me sit down,” I said.

  He gave me a look full of deep misgiving. “Which keys are you going to touch? I haven't backed these up and I don't want you to trash them.”

  “I'll touch the keys you tell me to touch. Now get up.” He did, and I sat. “Page down, right?” I asked. “That moves me to the next screen.”

  “Right,” Morris said, “but be careful.”

  The next screen, even upon closer examination, looked pretty much like the last screen. So did the others.

  “Concentrate on one field,” Morris suggested.

  “What's a field?” Jessica asked.

  “The little answers after the periods. Each one of those answers is a field. The whole thing is called a record.”

  “Let's look at the first disk,” I said, pulling out the floppy that Morris had put in and inserting the one I'd labeled one, in imitation of Birdie. The top of the screen read: record 1. (186–486). “Since we haven't got anything else to do, let's look for numerical sequences.”

  There weren't any. The numbers were the same at the top of every record. They all read: (186–486).

  “That's real productive,” I said. “Let's look at the other numbers.”

  We did. We flipped from record to record. Some numbers seemed to have a logical sequence and some didn't. One thing did change: the words after the period following the number three. I wrote them down as we paged through the records, and then we all sat and looked at the page I'd written on.

  ‘Turkey,” Jessica read. “Inthe. Straw. Hollered. Begged. Hotwater.” She looked at both of us and shrugged.

  ‘They're code words,” Morris said. “If this is a bulletin board, which I think it is, these are the words people use to access the board. All the users have secret words. Without them, they can't get into the data base.”

  “What's a bulletin board?” Jessica said.

  “It's just a data base that people reach by telephone. See all the phone numbers? You use the modem in your computer to dial a number and then you've got to give a code to get to the information. If you use the wrong code, the bulletin board disconnects. There are dating services that work like that,” Morris said, blushing becomingly. “The people who called this board probably typed in these names, and that was their code.”

  “Look at the other disks,” I said, getting up.

  Morris dealt disks into the slots like an old Vegas hand playing a new form of computer poker. Each of the other disks contained six records, just like the first. The same six words, or combinations of words, came after number three on each disk.

  “They're duplicates,” I said, feeling disappointed.

  “Turkey in the Straw,” Morris said suddenly, looking at the page. “That's a kind of folk song, some kind of hillbilly music.”

  “Yeah?” I said, grasping literally at straws. “How does it go?”

  “Mom,” Morris bellowed. I quailed nervously, and Jessica retreated a step. “She'll know,” Morris said in explanation. “She and my dad are into hayseed music. They're old-fashioned liberals.”

  “Poor you,” Jessica said with the new conservatism of the American teenager.

  Elise Gurstein came to the door. “More coffee?” she asked.

  “Sing, Mom,” Morris commanded. ” Turkey in the Straw.’ ”

  “Morris,” Elise Gurstein said, looking flustered. “Surely you jest. It's nine-fifteen. I can barely talk at this hour.”

  “Then get Dad.”

  “He's asleep. They shot until three last night. Morris’ father is in television,” she said to me.

  “You get the part, then,” Morris said mercilessly. ” Turkey in the Straw.’ You and Dad know all those chestnuts.”

  “This is more than a trifle embarrassing,” Elise Gurstein said to me. “Especially since I don't know the words.”

  “Just ‘deedle, deedle,’ ” Morris said. “This could be important.”

  “It had better be,” said his mother. “Okay, but all of you have to turn your backs.” We did, and I heard her draw a deep breath. “Ohhh,” she sang in a pure soprano, “De deedle deedle deedle and de deedle deedle de. And de deedle deedle deedle, deedle de de de.”

  “Again,” Morris commanded.

  “I know the words,” Jessica said, cutting Elise off in mid-deedle. “My dad used to sing it sometimes when he was carrying Luke and me around on his back.” She looked down at the pad. “Oh, Jesus,” she said.

  “What?” I asked. “What is it?”

  “They're here, sort of,” she said. Then she sang: Oh, the little chickie hollered And the little chickie begged, And they poured hot water Up and down his leg.

  “That's pretty morbid,” Elise Gurstein said reprovingly. Words like those weren't in the Liberals' Children's Songbook.

  “It's a children's song,” Jessica said. “Or that's what Daddy says.”

  “Hot water,” I said. Something connected in my mind, with the force of a bolt lock being shot home. I heard the gush of water echoing on a tape cassette, almost drowning out Aimee Sorrell’s screams.

  “They've left out Chickie,” Jessica observed, scanning the words I'd written.

  “Is the concert finished?” Elise Gurstein asked. “Can I go back upstairs now?”

&
nbsp; “I guess so,” I said. She left.

  “So that's it,” Morris said. “Maybe they're all folk singers. Maybe this is a folk singers' bulletin board. They all get together on Saturday nights and clog-dance.”

  “They're not anything that dull,” I said. “Look, we've got one sequence already. The words occur in the song in the same order as the records. One is ‘Turkey,’ two is ‘Inthe,’ and so forth. Let's look for other sequences, numbers, this time.”

  “There aren't any,” Jessica said. “We already did that.”

  “Not on a single disk, there aren't. But what about if we look from disk to disk?”

  “Wait,” Morris said. “I'll load them onto the hard disk and then we can look at them all without having to change disks all the time.” He did some magic at the keyboard, and two minutes later we were able to page from disk to disk as well as from record to record.

  “Look at the numbers at the top,” I said, “the ones we were looking at before.”

  After five minutes we'd found the progression.

  The disk I'd labeled one had in parentheses the numbers (186–486). There were similar numbers in parentheses on each of the records on the disk. The disk I'd numbered two identified all the records on it as spanning (586–986). three began with (1086-187). Morris hadn't copied them to the hard disk in numerical order, so it took a little longer than it would have otherwise.

  “They're dates,” I said conjecturally. “One-eighty-six means January 1986. Look at them all. They're a continuous record. Disk one ends with April 1986, and disk two begins with May 1986. They're not duplicates, they're some sort of chronological record. ’ ’

  We all looked at the screen.

  “Yes,” Morris said, rubbing his chin with an oddly middle-aged gesture. “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?” Jessica demanded, sounding like her old self.

  “Then some of the numbers following the orders and the special orders are dates too,” Morris said. “Just put a slash in between the first or second number and the last two. Look, all the numbers to the right are sequential top to bottom. Special order A lasted from April 22 to April 27. Special order B goes from May 17 to May 22, and special order C is May 23 to May 29. I think you're right.”

  “It's Simeon's job to be right,” Jessica said.

  “Why no years in those fields?” I asked, thinking out loud.

  “Because the year is at the top,” Morris said in the patient tone of one who had to break the news to a half-wit. “This disk covers January 1988 to October 1988.”

  “Wooey,” Jessica said, staring at the screen.

  “There's another sequence,” Morris announced to the room at large, paging through the records and the disks. “Look: 1200 orders of fingers, 2800 orders of parts: 4,000 orders of paper. So fingers and parts equal paper. See? The amount of paper equals the number of parts and fingers added together.”

  “Son of a bitch,” I said, moderating my awe at Morris’ expertise. Addition had never been a comfortable subject. “Can you print this one out?”

  “Sure,” Morris said confidently, “no prob.”

  “Before you do, type in the dates.”

  Humming to himself, Morris typed for a few minutes, then hit a couple of keys, and said, “Here it comes.”

  Something behind me panted and then whirred. I turned to see a laser printer. After a moment it stuck out a tongue of white paper at us.

  “This is really neat,” Jessica said, grabbing the sheet. She put it on the desk and we all gathered around it. Now it looked like this:

  RECORD 1. (April 88-October 88)1. 3088 Compton Blvd., Bellflower, CA 90266 (213) 555-12962. 4 yrs3. Turkey4. CURRENT5. ORDERSa. Fingers, 1200 orders, last order 1000 (September 13)b. Parts, 2800 orders, last order 2300 (September 13)c. Paper, 4000 orders, last order 3300 (September 13)d. Drinks, “A” category (no change) (September 11)6. SPECIAL ORDERSa. 188,u.r., January 88 (April 22-April 27) JX6b. 217, c.r., January 88 (May 17-May 22) CP1c. 217, c.r., January 88 (May 23-May 29) UId. 202, u.l., June 87 (unavailable) BXe. 226, u.r., January 88 (July 4-July 11) BXf. 226, u.r., January 88 (July 12-July 18) UIg. 193,l.c.,January88(October l-October 10) BX

  “What the hell happens only in January or June? And what are the numbers on the left? What's u.l.? What's u.r.?” I asked. There was a long silence, followed by a mutual shrug.

  “Look at the other disks,” I said, and Jessica and I looked over Morris’ shoulder as he toggled some key or another to bring disk after disk to the screen. As he did so, a number caught my eye.

  “Back up,” I said. “No, not that one, the one before it.”

  The record I wanted came obediently back to the screen and sat there glowing a comfortable green. “Well, I'll be damned,” I said.

  “Which number?” Morris said, eyeing the screen intently.

  “The phone number,” I said. “At the top.”

  “What about it?” That was Jessica.

  “I picked it up off Birdie's memory dialing buttons. I called it a couple of times.”

  “And?” Morris said, popping his knuckles in his eagerness.

  “The guy who answered it said ‘Captain's.’ When I asked him Captain who, he hung up. Find me a number with an L.A. area code.”

  Morris found two. “That one,” I said, stopping him at the Bellflower screen. “I got the same answer there.”

  Morris did something, and I found myself looking at another screen with an L.A. address and area code.

  “I didn't have that number.”

  “You've got it now,” he said. “Fingers, parts, paper, drinks. The Captain.” Suddenly he giggled. “Chickie. Oh, my gosh, chickie. Come on, Jessica,” he said. “What's there? Sixty-one-sixty Sunset. Fingers, parts, paper, drinks, chickie, the Captain. What's there? Think single-digit I.Q.”

  “How should I know?” she said defensively.

  “Full of idiots. Wearing masks. The most bogus place to eat in the whole wide world. Fingers, Jessica.”

  “Morris,” she said reverently. It was a tone I hadn't heard from her since Wyatt explained how the world was round, when she was six. “That's brilliant.”

  Morris glowed modestly while I sat there feeling like a floor lamp. “Listen,” I said after they'd simpered at one another for a few moments, “I hate to intrude on the communing of true spirits, but what's there?”

  “The Captain's,” Morris said. Then he extended a hand, vaudeville-style, to Jessica, and said, “Ta-da.”

  “Cap’n Cluckbucket’s,” she said, slapping his palm. “The world's corniest fast-food restaurant.” She gave Morris a blinding smile, and he ducked back toward the keyboard as if he were afraid her smile would blow his head off.

  “Cap’n Cluckbucket’s,” I repeated in complete incomprehension, but even before I breathed in I knew what they meant. “Chicken,” I said. “Chicken fingers. Chicken parts. Drinks. Paper for serving all that crap on. Guys in chicken suits.”

  “Paper masks. Cute little beaks and rooster combs,” Morris said.

  I got up. “Listen, Morris,” I said, “can you get into this data base and screw around with it? Change it around, make it do things?”

  “Probably.” He looked at Jessica for approval. “Why?”

  “I don't know yet. I just need to know that you can do it.”

  He hesitated and then decided on bravado. “Sure I can,” he said.

  “Where are you going?” Jessica said.

  “I'm hungry,” I said, going through the door and up the stairs and into the nonfractal world. As I'd promised, I dropped Jessica at home. As a bonus I fended off her ferocious parents before heading Alice into Hollywood.

  21

  At the Cap’n’s

  Considering that it was Hollywood, absolutely nothing was going on. Anywhere else, the big guy in the chicken suit would have been news.

  Cap'n Cluckbucket's hunkered down on a littered square of asphalt in the 6100 block of Sunset, between a new coppery-glass office building and a once-elegant 1930’
s apartment house with paper trash from Cap'n Cluckbucket's heaped against its walls like a postindustrial snowdrift. Even for a detective who had to have his work done for him by a teenage kid with a voice like Minnie Pearl's, it was easy to tell which building was Cap'n Cluckbucket's: it was the one with the eighteen-foot-high yellow chicken on the roof and the 270-pound chicken walking around outside.

  I'd been in the vicinity for a few hours, mostly watching and trying not to attract attention. First, I'd parked across the street until the occupants of an LAPD cruiser had checked me out twice. Then I'd driven around the block ten or twelve times. Finally I'd abandoned the car out of sight in the Starlite Bagels parking lot down the street, hiked to the restaurant, and sat under the interior neon, cheek to jowl with a rain forest of plastic ferns, eating greasy fried chicken from an orange tray until my cholesterol count zoomed into the red zone. I also took the “Chicken Trivia Quiz” that was printed on my napkin. I scored in the Big Cluck range.

  A beefy individual in a gaudy rooster outfit stood at the curb outside and waved the cars in. And in they came, drawn from the flow of Sunset by the promise of noise and company and a quick meal on a day that probably already seemed too long. The cars were full of Mommies and Daddies and Kiddies. Many of them, more than you see in any other country on earth, were overweight. And no wonder. The chicken breasts I'd ordered were so puffed up with batter and oil that they could have been dinosaur thighs. From a very greasy dinosaur.

  Cops ate there too. The occasional black-and-white pulled in and two guys, or a guy and a girl, dressed in blue and packing iron, jingled in through the crush of families and named their poison. I didn't see any of them pay. Fast-food joints are cash-intensive businesses, and they like to have the cops on their side. That was worrisome.

  The seed of cop paranoia had been planted by good old Marco and watered by the Mountain. On the whole, it seemed to me that there were more cops patronizing the Cap'n's than the Cap'n's food warranted, even given that it was free. If the restaurant was involved in child prostitution, it was possible that some of the folks in uniform were too. I kept my eyes on my food and wallowed in anxiety.