by Jim Nisbet
“Hey,” she said, “it’s not like I just walked in front of a bus.”
“True.”
“Just two a night,” she added with a smile. “One before… And one after.”
“Star Trek, you’re referring to. That’s judicious.” He tore his eyes away from the lighter. “Could I borrow your phone?”
“Sure. Going to call your mother?”
“To hell with her.”
She produced a cordless phone from somewhere within the cushions of the couch and handed it to him.
Stanley dialed a number he’d written in the little spiral notebook. Iris caught his eye and they stared at one another, he listening, she smoking. As the number picked up, she blew a smoke ring his way.
The high-pitched squeal of a modem assaulted his ear.
He cursed, disconnected, redialed.
While it rang Stanley stared at the lighter.
Fong answered at the fourth ring.
“Fong. Stanley.”
“My white friend. What’s cooking?”
“I got a name and a password.”
“What, no phone number?”
“You can probably get to this outfit through any Internet gateway.”
“What outfit?”
“It’s a national database of living-will-type organ, blood and bone marrow donors called DonorNet.”
“Yuck.”
“Think positive. The organ they donate might be your own.”
“Or yours.”
“Very funny.”
“So what am I looking for?”
Stanley gave Fong a rundown of the glitch he and Giles had discovered.
“Oh,” said Fong. “That explains this wacky sexgram spamming my in-basket, here.”
“What sexgram?”
“Standby.”
Stanley could hear Fong’s fingers driving a keyboard, chording fistfuls of keys like it was a piano. Another touch typist. Where did they come from?
“Check it out, and I quote:”
Old Hippie,
We overlooked it just now (need to test this address anyway), but, given type O-Negative, turns out if change _Sex_ category from (M) to (F), donor info remains as selected (Y)es or (N)o. But, given O-Negative, if change (F)emale to (M)ale donor info automatically goes to (Y)es if already (N)o. In other words, the trapdoor’s only interest is in type O-Negative Males.
Hmm. Just had a thought. Right back…
Back. I was right. Changing category from (M)arried to (S)ingle does the same thing.
They’re after _single_ O-Negative males.
Will be in touch.
Guiro
“Go, Giles,” said Stanley. “Is there a return address?”
“Yeah.”
“E-mail him back. Mark it private and say, ‘Go Guiro Go’.”
Fong typed. “What does this mean?”
“That’s our inside boy, whom you’re in place to cross-check. And it means he’s on the case.”
“Hmmm. He’s got menu-driven software acting like this?”
“It’s possible the whole network is rigged.”
“In my entire Mah-Jong career,” said Fong, “that’s the most brazen bullshit I’ve ever heard of.”
“It’s worked on at least nine victims so far. Giles got interested in the problem on account it impugns the integrity of his data.”
“Is that a fact? We’ll have to run him for President.”
“It could have been a put-on, but I don’t think so.”
“Stanley, you are paranoid.”
“In normal people, excess paranoia is filtered through a system of paired kidneys.”
“You mean, to halve the number of kidneys is to square the amount of paranoia?”
“Axiomatic.”
“And all this time I think to myself, that Stanley, he’s not learning a word of Chinese.”
“So I’m thinking it might be advantageous if you continue with your inquiries, despite this guy MacIntosh’s apparent interest. Double up on him, so to speak.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Stanley gently freed his hand from Iris’ and took up the little spiral notebook. “The phone number there is 255-2289. The password foment in combination with some or all of the name Giles MacIntosh should get you on for starters.”
“Hey,” said Fong, “like the computer.”
“Not quite.” Stanley spelled all three words, holding his notes up to the dim light. “I want a sort off the organ database. Query for everybody on it who (1) is male, (2) single, (3) lives within fifty miles of San Francisco, (4) has type O-Negative blood, (5) is HIV-negative, (6) has tested negative for any kind of renal dysfunction or kidney disease, insofar as they are listed or considered, and (7) has been a client of the San Francisco Clinic for Sexually Transmitted Diseases in the past two years, whose modem number you now have. A list of everybody who works in the joint would be handy too, particularly the names of whatever computer consultants and sysops you can come up with. Look out for one with first name Tommy.”
While they were talking, Iris had worked the toes of both her bare feet under Stanley’s hip.
“You got that?”
“Sure.” Fong repeated the filter specs. Stanley listened in silence, staring at Iris, who wiggled her toes and blew smoke between Stanley’s face and notebook pages.
Fong said, “Should be easy, man. How’d you get that guy’s handle?”
“I just limped in and asked for it. This kid’s so sympathetic, I’m surprised he’s got time to feed himself.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Isn’t there a newspaper database on CompuServe?”
“Sure. It’s one of the handiest things on it.”
“Does it have both the Chronicle and the Examiner?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Query both papers for any mention of the black market in human organs, organ theft, illegal trade in organs, etc. Go back two years. Emphasize kidneys, kidney theft, illegal transplants, mysterious women in bars. We’re particularly interested in any local case of a guy with blood type O-Negative meeting a smart and sexy woman in a bar and going home with her, only to wake up in Golden Gate Park missing a kidney.”
“What if there are no such cases in the papers?”
“Then we’ll have to see what the cops have in their computers.”
“Now we’re talking fun,” said Fong.
“While you’re at it, see if you can download any articles about California surgeons or internists cashiered for egregious malpractice.”
“Man, you have to be egregious to get cashiered.”
“Call me,” said Stanley, holding Iris’ eyes with his own.
“Where?” said Fong.
“I’ll be at…”
“Five six six,” said Iris quietly.
“Five six six,” repeated Stanley.
“Two two three zero.”
“Two two three zero.”
“Got it.” Fong rang off.
Stanley had to take his eyes off Iris to find the button to turn off the phone.
“You’ll have instant access,” Iris said. “That phone can go wherever we go.”
“What if we stay right here?”
“It’ll do that, too.”
He set the telephone on the floor.
She moved a little bit closer.
Stanley put his arm around her shoulders. The kimono was silk, and now it parted over her knees, which were just under his chin and against his chest.
She kissed him.
He kissed her back.
She nipped his lip with her teeth.
He asked her, “Why me?”
She traced the lines of his mouth with a fingernail.
“You’ve been hurt. I’m a nurse.”
“That’s not enough.”
“You’re a hero.”
“Still not enough.”
She shrugged. “I’ve never kissed a hero before.”
“You’re not kissing one now
.”
She smiled and snuggled. “I’m getting pretty close, though.”
In the dim gloom each of her eyes reflected a tiny candleflame.
“No more than that?”
“Well…,” she said. “You really want to know?”
“Yes…”
“There’s that scar.”
She giggled.
“Scar? What—?”
“This scar,” she said, pulling at his shirt.
“That scar,” he said, grabbing her hand. “What about it?”
She stopped tugging and locked eyes with him.
“May I see it?”
“You’ve already seen it.”
“I want to see it again.”
“What for?”
She snatched the shirttail out from under his belt.
“Okay, okay,” Stanley said. “Ouch.”
“Just relax,” she whispered. Her voice had gone a little husky.
“Who, me? Sure, sure. I’ll relax.”
She plucked at the buttons on his shirt. “I can’t see the whole thing. Lie down.”
Stanley relaxed against the cushions of the couch.
Iris worked on the clothing problem.
“Ohhh,” she said after a while. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks,” said Stanley staring at the floor. “Though I feel I might well have gotten through life without it.”
“Oh, Stanley,” she said. “But now you have it, and it’s a beautiful scar.”
Stanley sighed loudly.
A moment passed, and another. He could hear her breathing.
When she spoke, he realized her mouth was inches from his hip. “May I… touch it?”
“Iris,” Stanley said. “Why…?”
She blew little puffs of air over his flesh.
He suddenly acquiesced. “Of course. Of course you can touch it.”
She ran a finger along the line of still-fresh sutures. The edge of her nail ticked them off slowly, like the tang of a zipper passing over its teeth.
It tickled, it itched, it felt very strange, but Stanley lay still for it, until he involuntarily shivered.
Iris permitted herself a profound sigh.
The scar began to feel better—or at least different. Stanley had to admit, it felt better than it had felt in quite a number of days.
She moved the fingernail back the other way.
“Iris.” He tried to sit up.
“Hush,” she said, pushing him back onto the couch. “I want…”
“What do you want?”
“Scarlingus.” It was a whispered hiss. A dragon’s exhale.
Before Stanley had time to believe his ears she added, “Also known as cicatricio.”
His mind helped out by supplying the image of a forked serpent’s tongue straddling the scar of his recently acquired incision.
“God almighty,” Stanley blurted aloud.
“She approves,” Iris chuckled.
Stanley ran a mental finger down the index to his inner catalogue of acceptable social behavior. Scar-licking, scar-licking… The categories skipped from Rorschach to Scintillant — no scarlingus.
Stall. See if you can get another shot — with a beer back, an inner voice hastily advised.
She had her own advice. “Stick with me, brain-boy. You’ll go far and come soon.”
“Don’t — don’t you get enough of that… in the hospital?” Stanley stammered.
“What — sex?” She laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No. I meant scars, enough of scars.”
“I originally thought that nursing would get me close to my most favorite thing in the world,” she admitted simply, addressing, in fact, the scar. “Alas, it’s a case of so near, yet so far.”
“Scarlingus…”
“Yes. May I, darling? You’ll like it. May I run the tip of my tongue along the entire length of your scar?” She laughed gaily. “You’ll probably scream with pleasure. Go ahead. The old lady downstairs is deaf.” He could feel her breath on his hip. “It’s a beautiful scar. And so fresh. It’s not even really a scar yet, you know. It’s still… it’s a nascent scar. It’s a wound, really. No longer an incision, not yet a scar. A healing wound. A blessing. Deliciously ripe.”
“I hadn’t really thought of it that way, Iris.”
“Licking is good for a wound. You know?”
“Dogs do it,” he suggested.
“We should do it, too,” she said. But she wasn’t even listening to him anymore.
Iris rose to brush her lips lightly over his shoulder, nuzzled the hair at the edge of his scalp, and said moistly into his ear, “I want to touch the tip of my tongue to it, just to its edge. It won’t hurt you. It might even turn you on.”
“Go for it.”
She didn’t move. “Then you can do anything to me you want, Stanley…”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There must be something I can do for you, Stanley. Something… special…?”
“Special? Well, I—.”
“I want to tongue the entire length of it! The entire length of your scar. Please, Stanley. After that… anything… anything you like. Please… your scar… I’ll do anything for you, Stanley. May I…?”
“Well… well, hell yes, Iris,” Stanley whispered. “Go for the scar.” Her tongue tickled the purpling tissue, as billed. It tingled. It felt… delicious.
You know what I really like, Stanley thought to himself, relaxing against the thick cushions of the sofa.
You know what’s my favorite…?
Later, she said, “I have a surprise for you.”
“Another one?”
“Let me get it.”
She went away in the darkness and came back, pushing a wave of incense before her. “Here.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a bear.”
“What?”
“It’s a special bear.”
Stanley maneuvered it in the gloom. It was a bear all right, stuffed, about six inches high, crafted in a sitting position. A fuzzy brown stuffed bear.
“Ah…what’s so special about it?”
“It’s a Get-Well Bear.”
“You’re kidding.”
She wasn’t. “And it’s just for you.”
“Oh, well, thanks.”
She observed, “You can’t see what it’s holding.”
“What? No, I… I’m not even looking at it.”
“Look. In his little paws.”
“It’s a he?”
She struck the green lighter.
“See it now?”
“It’s a flower.”
“No, silly. It’s an aster.”
Stanley stared at it. It was an aster, all right. A purple aster.
“Is this some kind of bad joke?”
Even in the dark, he could see that she blushed deeply. “No, Stanley,” she said. “It’s a good aster. Not like that bad one we found sewn to you.”
“A good aster…”
“Yes,” she nodded. “A healing aster. Presented to you especially by Mr. Get-Well Bear. Mr. Get-Well Bear and his healing aster are going to make you all better.”
He could see that she was completely sincere.
“Soon,” she added, snuggling against him. “Get well soon.”
Bartender, said the inner voice, deep in the tavern of Stanley’s brain. Hit me again.
Chapter Twelve
IT TOOK A MONTH.
Fong’s part, however, was accomplished overnight. Using Giles MacIntosh’s name and password, Fong penetrated DonorNet immediately. The computer answered his call, accepted foment as a password, and invited him in. Except that it was good practice to figure where the files were kept and what they were called, Fong was almost bored. Within a couple of hours he had gotten the software available on the host computer to do everything for him, and had the information Stanley needed. On the way out Fong’s evening was brightened by a browse through some interesting names, addresses
and statistics in a file called PROSTIT.OOT.
DonorNet responded to Stanley’s sieve with the names of twelve healthy, single, heterosexual, drinking men in San Francisco with type O-Negative blood.
Fong’s search of the Chronicle and Examiner databases on CompuServe yielded nine notices of kidney predation.
Six names were on both the DonorNet and newspaper lists.
Chronologically, the six duplicate cases succeeded the three previous incidents.
One of the duplicates was Stanley Clarke Ahearn.
Though the newspaper articles made no mention of blood types, Stanley had little doubt he had stumbled onto at least one of the means by which the thieves selected their victims. This left him with three avenues of approach.
First, he could canvass every bar in the city looking for a woman who liked to drink a Tom Collins and always carried a lime.
Stanley rejected this approach because of its obvious needle-in-haystack type of, uh, fruitlessness.
Had he been a cop, Stanley figured, he might have taken apart the Center for Sexual Diseases, department by department. No personnel or file would escape intense scrutiny. He would put everybody in the place under the bright light, one at a time, from the janitor to the philanthropist who put up the matching funds. Simultaneously he would have looked into the company that wrote and maintained DonorWare for the DonorNet, as well as the agencies involved with the collection and distribution of data on donors and sexual diseases and hangnails, too. Sooner or later a thread would emerge, and that thread would lead, eventually, to the Organ-ization.
If he merely wanted to solve the crime, all he needed to do was mention his discovery to Corrigan and wait.
Stanley rejected this approach as well. Of resources or time, he had little or none. And though there was an element of revenge in his quest, Stanley wasn’t interested in how organs were being pirated, let alone who was doing it. Stanley was interested in a new kidney.
This left him the third approach, which he pursued.
He cross-indexed and eliminated the newspaper victims from the list of blood O-Negative clients. This left him with a list of six potential victims.
On a hunch, he eliminated four names because they were homeless, divorced, or inhabited the income bracket known as “below poverty line.”
This left him with two names. He studied the available data. Both were single. Both made a living. Both listed “no close kin.” Much of their data closely matched Stanley’s. Single, employed, O-Negative, without immediate family.