by Ray Daniel
“‘Fought him off’ is overstating it,” I said.
“Really?”
“Why don’t you get settled and I’ll tell you what happened.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened right now?”
I turned back into the kitchen.
Adriana followed me. “So? What happened?”
“Maria summed it up. I took her to the museum and some guy in a suit was following us.”
“And you fought him off?”
“I confronted him. Asked him why he was following us. He ran away.”
“Who was he?”
I shrugged.
The front door opened. “I’m home!” called Catherine.
“In here,” called Adriana. “Tucker was just telling me how he got in a fight today.”
“What?”
Now there were two of them in the kitchen. Adriana recounted my story.
“Seriously?” said Catherine. “We asked you to watch her for one day.”
“Actually for one week,” I said.
“Yes, and you got only two days into it before screwing it up.”
“I didn’t screw it up. I don’t see how this is my fault.”
“Of course it is,” said Catherine, “unless everyone has a guy in a suit following them.”
“Yeah, but I don’t see—”
“You never see,” said Adriana. “That’s the problem.”
“Look, if you don’t like how I’m watching Maria, then just tell me.”
“I am telling you.”
“Okay, well, thanks for the feedback.”
“And I’m telling you that we’re done with this experiment.”
“What experiment?”
“You acting like a dad.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I think you need to go back to happy-go-lucky uncle,” said Catherine.
“Yes,” said Adriana.
“What’s that mean?”
Adriana walked to the front door, to the coat hooks. She pulled my coat off and handed it to me. “Your services are no longer required.”
I took my coat, picked up my laptop. “I have to go to dinner tonight anyway.”
“No. I mean not required at all. I’m taking over suspension duty.”
“You said you had to work.”
“I’ll call in sick.”
I looked from Adriana to Catherine and back. “What, so I’m out?”
“You’re not out,” said Catherine. “We’ll call you when things settle down. We’ll have dinner.”
“Don’t call us, we’ll call you?”
“It’s not like that.”
I pulled on my coat, opened Maria’s bedroom door. She had been listening. She looked up at me, stricken.
“I’ll see you later, kiddo,” I said.
Maria said in a small voice, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told.”
“Not your fault.”
I turned from Maria, left without saying another word. Thought it instead.
Fuck this.
Sixteen
The knuckleheads who tore down the West End in the name of urban renewal didn’t know the first thing about renewing the urban. Big politics and big money don’t turn a neighborhood around. The only thing that’s been proven to work is a generation of young people bearing a funny name.
The yuppies renewed my South End neighborhood in the eighties and nineties, wading into the heroin dens and gang-ridden streets, dragging with them builders, painters, high property values, and fern bars. I now lived a block from Walnut Street, whose biggest claim to fame had been getting featured in a book in which an idealistic young couple gave up on the place and fled to Newton.
The yuppies were gone now, the members of that generation being no longer young nor upwardly mobile. They had been replaced by the hipsters, who now took on new neighborhoods, and the hipsters had decided to turn Jamaica Plain into the coolest place on Earth.
After I had gotten Maria home, Bobby called to tell me that he and Special Agent Hunter wanted to talk to me about Runway. He and I now sat in a bookstore-cum-tapas bar named Tres Gatos. The small amalgamation had been nestled inside a Victorian house: restaurant in the front, bookstore in the back. Bobby and I sat at a black bar, drinking beer and eating warmed olives. A black guitar sporting the words Take me to Tres Gatos hung from the wall, while vinyl records and old books decorated the dark wood of a painted fireplace mantle of what must have been the house’s formal dining room.
“What’s with the vinyl records?” Bobby asked.
“I have no idea,” I said. “They’re either before my time or after it.”
Hunter walked through the front door, approached Bobby, and tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re sitting in Ron’s seat.”
“What?”
Hunter pointed at a nameplate attached to the bar in front of the seat. It said Ron MacLean. “It’s his seat. You’ll have to get up if he comes in.”
“I’ll take my chances, Mel.”
“Suit yourself.” Hunter climbed onto the stool next to Bobby, kitty-corner from me. Took an olive, chewed on it, produced a pit, and placed it in a little pit bowl.
The bartender stepped up. “Hey, Mel. The usual?”
“Thanks, Brett.”
“Agent Hunter,” I said.
“Special Agent Hunter,” she said.
“Am I the only person in the world who calls you Special Agent Hunter?”
Hunter fixed me with a gaze. “No. All my suspects call me that.”
“Suspect? Suspected of what?”
“You tell me, Rosetta.”
Bobby said, “Hold on, Mel.”
Hunter said, “You should call me Special Agent Hunter in front of Tucker.”
“I’ll call you Special Agent Hunter when you do something special.”
“You’re disrespecting me in front of a suspect.”
“No,” said Bobby, “you’re disrespecting my friend in front of me.”
I said, “Do you guys need some alone time? I could go look at vinyl.”
“Shut up,” said Bobby.
At least our relationship hadn’t changed.
Bobby continued, “What were you doing in that chat room?”
“I don’t think I’ll answer that,” I said.
“Just a friendly conversation,” said Hunter.
“Talk about disrespect. You think I’m an idiot.”
Bobby raised his hand. “Mel, let me handle this.”
The bartender brought Hunter a glass of white wine. “These guys bothering you?” he asked her.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I said.
He gave me a hipster scowl and turned away. I drained my beer, gnawed a warm olive, and spit the pit into the plate. “Why were you guys spying on me?”
“We were not spying on you.”
“So then why the phone call?”
“We’re working on another case.”
“Seriously? By lurking on the IRC chat? You going to put some kid in jail?”
“We’re not chasing kids, Tucker. We’re retrieving some information.”
“Yeah? What information?”
Hunter broke in, “You’re not going to tell him, are you, Bobby?”
Bobby winced. “I am going to ask for his help.”
“But he’s Rosetta! You know? The Rosetta?”
“Yes, I know.”
“The one we studied in Quantico.”
I ate an olive. “Who says I’m Rosetta?”
“Did you write the Nappy Time Virus?”
“Not that you know,” I said.
“See? He practically admits it. He probably brought down PayPal.”
“Rosetta didn’t bring down PayPal.
”
“Cut the Rosetta shit, okay?” said Bobby. “Jesus, I hate nicknames.”
“She started it.”
Bobby slugged his whiskey back.
“Any good?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
I made a twofer motion. The bartender poured us each a Nikka Coffey Grain Whiskey. Bobby got a little more than a shot; I got a little less. Never tweak your bartender.
Hunter asked, “So what has Rosetta brought down?”
“The Tunisian government.”
Hunter said nothing. Bobby spit an olive pit into his hand.
I continued, “Not the whole thing; just the website.”
“That’s espionage.”
“Arrest me.”
Hunter reached for something—handcuffs, gun, wallet?
Bobby said, “Enough.”
“But—”
“Enough, Mel! We’re not arresting Tucker.”
“But—”
“If arresting Tucker were valuable, I would have done it years ago. As it is, he does slightly more good than harm.”
I raised my whiskey. “Here’s to being marginally good.”
Bobby ignored me. “We have bigger fish to fry and you know it,” he said to Hunter.
Hunter crossed her arms, stared at her wine. Almost pouted. I felt bad for her. She was trying to prove herself, and I wasn’t helping.
I pushed the olive dish toward her. “Olive?”
No response.
“In the name of peace.”
Hunter took an olive. “Did you really bring down the Tunisian government’s website?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“It seemed like the thing to do. You know, Arab Spring and all that.”
“How did you do it?”
“Nothing you didn’t study in Quantico.”
We ordered supper. Let the funky ambience of the little restaurant settle over us.
I decided to break the ice. “Is this your happy place?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Hunter said.
“It’s a good one.”
“Thanks.”
“So why were you guys spying on me?”
“We were not spying on you,” Bobby said. “We’re on a case.”
“What kind of case?”
“Runway stole some information.”
“Secret?”
“Confidential.”
“Confidential? Since when do they send the FBI after confidential information?”
“Since now.”
“So why were you watching me?”
“I told you. We were watching Runway.”
“Why?”
“When he stole the information, he left a trail.”
Hunter said, “We’ve traced his IP address.”
“Pretty sloppy of him,” I said.
“Hackers screw up all the time.”
“They’re like other crooks,” said Bobby.
“How so?”
“They’re not as smart as they think they are.”
“Good thing I’m not a crook.”
“And yet … ” said Bobby. Hunter laughed into her hand.
I asked, “So what do you want from me?”
“Just leave Runway alone until we get what we want.”
“I don’t know if I can do that, Bobby.”
“Seriously?”
“He’s really hurt Maria. I just want an apology.”
“How are you going to get that?”
“Threaten to dox him, then video the apology.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“Maybe. Who do you think he is?”
Hunter said, “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
“No,” said Bobby.
“You might as well tell me,” I said. “Confirmation can’t hurt anything.”
“I just said I’m not telling you. You’ll fuck everything up.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Forget it,” said Bobby. “You get him after we do.”
“Fine,” I said. Drank my dram of whiskey. Got up, left the bar.
Next stop, a place I rarely went.
Seventeen
Life is full of simple rules that avoid disasters. For example: never guess that a woman is pregnant, order all hamburgers medium well, don’t eat the yellow snow, and never, ever drink and post things on the Internet. If you’ve drunk a few tumblers of whiskey, do not go onto Twitter or Facebook and tell the world how you think it should be run. You’ll read it the next morning and realize that drunk you is not half as clever as he thinks he is, and he’s a jerk.
An addendum to that for hackers is, never drink and join an IRC chat.
I sat at my kitchen counter, refilled my whiskey glass, silenced my phone, and logged into the IRC chat as Rosetta. The chat software announced my presence and the anons noticed me immediately.
Epomis: Welcome back, oldfag.
Tron: I looked you up, Rosetta.
Rosetta: Yeah?
Tron: Righteous resume!
Rosetta: Just horsing around.
Epomis: You logged in twice in two days. What brought this on?
Rosetta: Lack of closure.
Tron: ??
Runway: He means me.
I had noted that Runway was logged into the channel, but didn’t know if he was paying attention. I guess he was.
I sent him a private message
Rosetta
Rather than keep things between us, Runway decided to bring our little dispute into the public.
Runway: Rosetta wants me to apologize for a life ruin.
Tron: Did you do it?
Runway: Yeah, but she’s a dumb slut.
Rosetta: Hey!
Runway: The dumb slut is all unhappy because I put up pictures of her lesbo moms.
Rosetta: Those were not her moms.
Runway: Yeah, her slut moms aren’t hot enough to post. Little man-hating bitch is probably in training.
Rosetta: Jesus, Runway, she’s 10 years old.
Tron: You life ruined a ten-year-old, dude?
Runway: Yeah but she’s a nasty little whore.
Tron: LOL!
The whiskey kicked in.
Rosetta: It’s nothing to be proud of, you jackhole.
Runway: Listen to the oldfag whine.
Epomis: I would be careful, Runway.
Runway: Or what? What’s the oldfag going to do?
Rosetta: I’m going to ruin you, that’s what I’m going to do.
Runway: Ha! You’re funny. You can’t do anything to me, you fucking dinosaur.
Rosetta: Don’t count on it.
Runway: You going to go crying back to Maria? Tell her I wouldn’t apologize?
Rosetta: This is going way beyond Maria.
Runway: Puleeze. Besides, everybody knows you’re an FBI spy.
I said to Click and Clack the hermit crabs, “Can you believe that Bobby blew my cover already?”
Rosetta: That’s bullshit.
Runway: Yeah? I Googled you.
Rosetta: Everyone Googles me.
Runway: No. I Googled the real you.
Tron: Dude, you doxed Rosetta?
Epomis: Try to keep up, Tron.
Runway: And the real you is good buddies with the FBI. It was in the newspaper. All about your wife?
Rosetta: Stay away from that.
Runway: Your wife got slashed, dude.
Rosetta: I said stay away from that.
Runway: And the FBI helped you get away with it.
Tron: No shit! That’s sick!
Rosetta: I caught the guy who did it.
Runway: Sure. Your fall guy.
Rosetta: I swear to God, Runway, you’re gonna burn.
Tron: Rosetta, did you do anything to her first?
A little something snapped deep in my gut.
Rosetta: What do you mean “anything”?
Runway: I’ll bet he did. I saw the pictures. She was hot.
Tron: Man that’s just cold. You murdered your hot wife? Who would do that?
Rosetta: I did NOT MURDER MY WIFE!
The ALL CAPS were slipping out.
Runway: Hee. Hee.
Rosetta: I’m going to fucking cut your head off.
Epomis: Careful, Runway, Rosetta’s got the skills to dox you.
Runway: Yeah we already doxed him.
Epomis: We?
Runway: PwnSec.
Tron: You doxed a murderer? Badass! Do it here! I didn’t see the other one.
Adrenaline surged into my blood. My fingers twitched and shook, mashing around the keys. A little voice in my head said Log out! Log out! but I told it to shut up. There was no way I was going to let this little shit get away with it.
Rosetta: Go ahead, you FUCK! Do it. See what happens.
Tron: Uh-oh, Rosetta comin’ in hot!
Runway: I’m gonna teach you something, Rosetta. Maybe get your slut friend Maria to apologize.
Rosetta: I’m waiting, fuckhead.
Runway: You want me to dox you here?
Rosetta: You don’t have the balls.
Toto, the dog in the Wizard of Oz, has the honor of doing the first recorded doxing. Toto ran to the wizard’s little box and pulled back the curtain—and suddenly the Great and Powerful Oz was revealed to be a little old man in a black suit and a pompadour. Oz’s power disappeared as soon as everyone knew who the real person was behind the curtain.
Those who troll the anonymous chat room feel the same way. As long as you don’t know who they are, they’ve got power. They can puff themselves up, make themselves look like giants, but as soon as you reveal who they are, you show them to be a kid sitting in a bedroom under a Matrix poster.
Runway thought he was about to unleash hell.
Runway: Here it is. Rosetta, the wife murderer and FBI spy, is really named Aloysius Tucker.
The chat room went silent as people digested it and Googled my name.
Epomis: Yeah, no shit, Runway. Everybody knows that.
Tron: I didn’t know that.
Epomis: That’s because you are the newest of newfags.