Hacked

by Ray Daniel

  See? This is why nobody likes you.

  I shot back my whiskey, drank some beer. Let the alcohol derail my brain, lurching it off of the self-pity track. Brought it back around to the question of hooked-nose Pat and his threats. I had doxed Dorothy and told only one person. I flipped open my phone, clicked through recent calls, found Mel’s number—

  “Mr. Tucker.” A presence loomed over my shoulder. I turned, watched Xiong Shoushan take the barstool next to me. He ordered a Johnny Walker Black neat.

  There had been a time when a Chinese man sitting in a North End bar was at best an oddity and at worst a provocation. But those days were gone, the tribal barriers of Boston’s neighborhoods having been eroded and washed away by tides of young professionals. It was an improvement, certainly, but then again it would have been nice to know that a Chinese spy was at least a little bit unwelcome in a bar around the corner from my now ex-family.

  “Neat?” I asked. “Most people get Johnny Walker on the rocks.”

  “Rocks are for babies,” said Xiong. “I don’t like ice.”

  I leaned close, hoping my Jack Daniel’s breath would stun him. “And how did you get out of prison?”

  “America is a wonderful country. Defending your property is still allowed, even from the FBI.”

  “Property? Are you heir to a commemorative plate fortune?”

  “I own the building.”

  “And so why aren’t you in it? What are you doing here? Where’s your knife?”

  “I don’t need my knife.”

  I drank my beer. Turns out that Belgian beer isn’t a great chaser for Tennessee whiskey. So much for internationalism.

  Xiong continued, “I have something simple to tell you.”

  “Good. Maybe I’ll remember it.”

  “I’m going to release the senator’s video on Monday.”

  I finished my beer. Made a writing motion in the air. Check please.

  “Didn’t you hear me?”

  I turned to Xiong. “What are you doing here?”

  “I told you.”

  “No, I mean here. In this bar. How did you know to find me here?” I pulled out my flip phone. “This piece of shit has no GPS.”

  “You have family here.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I waited.”

  “How long have you been sitting outside my cousin’s house?”

  “Only a day.”

  Catherine was right. I was a danger to them. I stood.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Xiong asked.

  “Stay away from them,” I said.

  “I only wanted to find you.”

  “Stay away from them!” I slammed my hand down on the bar, the slapping crack turning all three heads in the place toward us. The bartender turned toward me, started to talk. I threw a twenty on the bar and left Xiong. Stormed out the front door, headed down Prince Street. Heard Xiong’s footsteps behind me as he ran to catch up.

  “You’re drunk!” he said as he pulled alongside.

  “Great. I get the world’s only judgy spy.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t ask you to comment on my coping mechanisms.”

  “Did you not hear me?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. You’re going to release the senator’s video Monday. So why tell me?”

  “Because you seemed to be under the impression that those PwnSec children had stolen the video.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “On Twitter.”

  “Figures.”

  “If you thought they had the video, then you would not believe it would be used.”

  I strode down the street, turned the corner at Salem, kept striding. “So you want me to believe that you have the video?”

  “I have the video.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “Hacking.”

  “Specifically.”

  Xiong said nothing.

  I stopped walking. “You didn’t get it yourself.”

  “I have it.”

  “You have people who got it. You don’t even know how it was done.”

  “Does it matter?”

  I regarded him. “No.”

  “I will post the video.”

  “What am I supposed to do with that information?”

  “Tell the senator that if I am bothered again I will post it, and that if he votes wrong I will post it.

  I crossed my arms. “Are you finished with the pointless threats? I have things to do, places to be.”

  Xiong looked at me, disgust tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You are a drunk.”

  I pointed back up Salem Street. “Everett is that way.”

  He headed off in the direction I had pointed. I digested the simple fact that I had brought a dangerous guy to Maria’s door. What was next?

  I pulled out my phone. Started to call E. Stopped. Called Mel instead.

  “You’ve got to hear this,” I said.

  Fifty-Two

  Mel and I had gone through a brief negotiation of “your place or mine” involving whether it was better for her to come to the South End or me to head to Jamaica Plain. I settled the issue using geography.

  “I’m in the North End right now,” I said.

  “Okay?”

  “And you’re in JP.”

  “Right.”

  “So the South End is halfway between us.”

  “Wait, that’s not fair. It’s right near your house.”

  “One cannot argue with geometry.”

  “I thought we were using geography.”

  “Both. I simply bisected a line segment on a map.”

  Mel said to someone off-phone, “Why am I talking about having a drink with someone who would bisect a line segment?”

  “Two reasons,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “First, a guy who can bisect a line segment is undeniably hot.”

  “Swing and a miss. What’s the second?”

  “Xiong told me to give you a message.”

  We now sat at the end of the bar at Cleary’s in the South End, a ten-minute walk from my house. I had stuck with my whiskey plan—Jameson’s now—while Mel drank white wine.

  “What did Xiong say?” asked Mel.

  “Wait a minute. Butter a guy up first. Ask me how to bisect a line.”

  “Really? You’re going to mansplain geometry?”

  I drank my whiskey. “I got kicked out of my family today.”

  “Because if you’re just—what?”

  “And they’re right to do it, because Xiong was waiting for me right by their front door.”

  Mel put her hand over mine. “Let’s start over.”

  I did, telling Mel about how Catherine had dumped me out of our quasi family and how Xiong had caught up with me at the bar and delivered his message.

  Mel asked, “How do you feel about Catherine’s point?”

  I drained my Jameson’s, motioned the bartender for another.

  “I see,” said Mel. “It’s upsetting you.”

  “Probably won’t be as upsetting after this one.”

  “Drinking’s not the answer.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “We should just focus on Xiong before you’re too blotto to make sense.”

  My drink arrived. “Also, you have to stop sharing information with the senator.”

  “What? Why?”

  “The senator’s guy Pat is not the lovable goofball he appears to be. He broke into Dorothy’s apartment and threatened her with a baseball bat.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I told Mel about what happened with Pat and Dorothy, and how I caught Pat in the act of assaulting Dorothy and demanding the video.

&
nbsp; “He thought she had it,” I said. “Where would he get that idea?”

  “I told Kamela that we’d made progress and told her who we were following.”

  “You shared the names I doxed?”

  “It was the only progress we’d made.”

  “You have to stop doing that.”

  “I can’t. This is my first investigation. I have to show something.”

  “Look,” I said. “I understand the need for positive feedback.”

  “What?”

  “You wanted the pat on the head.”

  “That’s insulting!”

  “Am I wrong?”

  Mel crossed her arms, looked at a TV playing the seventh inning of a Sox game.

  “All I’m saying is that once you let information out of the bottle there’s no getting it back in.”

  “You should know about the bottle.”

  “Har har. I’m serious.”

  “And so am I. I can’t stonewall a senator.”

  “Yes, you can. And in this case you shared bad information.”

  “It’s what we had.”

  “Xiong seemed positively insulted by the idea that we would suspect, what did he call them? Oh yeah, ‘those PwnSec children.’”

  My drink was empty. How did that happen? I raised my hand to order.

  Mel pulled my hand down. “Stop.”

  I grimaced at her. “I think I know what I’m doing.”

  “Oh, you know what you’re doing. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  The bartender approached. “Can I help you?”

  “Club soda for both of us,” said Mel. “And the check.”

  I considered asking for whiskey in mine, but didn’t. Mel had broken the spell, causing more-healthful thoughts to intrude. The club sodas arrived. I paid the bill.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked.

  “I think we should get you home.”

  “I mean about Xiong.”

  “I’m more worried about your problem with Adriana. You’re a mess.”

  “Xiong’s a spy.”

  “Yes, and we’ll get to him. But you’re still a mess.”

  I pulled out my flip phone. “I’ve been reduced to this.”

  “That is pretty low.”

  “It doesn’t even have a camera.”

  “Let’s go. Lead the way.”

  I stepped off the stool, took another couple of steps to catch my balance. “Where to?”

  “Your place, Drinky McDrinksalot.”

  “Ha! Drinky.”

  “Yeah.”

  We left Cleary’s, headed down Columbus Ave toward my house. The sun had set hours before, and April’s chill bore into me, knocking aside some of the whiskey’s effects. I didn’t have a coat. Being cold was worse than being depressed, so I focused on being cold.

  “It’s cold,” I said.

  “Do you want my coat?”

  “What kind of gentleman would take a lady’s coat on a cold night?”

  “You’re just loving that patriarchy.”

  I shook my head. “I’m a shitty patriarch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I told Mel about Maria, about her behavior. “She’s acting out or something.”

  “And you think a father figure would help?”

  “I think another adult would help, another perspective.”

  “You provide that, right?”

  “Yeah. If what she needed was a fun cousin.” We reached West Canton. “Turn here.”

  “She probably does need a fun cousin.”

  Clearly taking West Canton had been a tactical error. Trees vied with bricks for control of the sidewalk. The trees had been surrounded by granite slabs and cobblestones in an attempt to give them some growing space, but the greedy bastards weren’t satisfied. They heaved the granite slabs up, turning them into big tripping hazards, and deformed the brick sidewalks the way muscles deform the Incredible Hulk’s pants.

  I tripped almost immediately. Mel grabbed my arm, but there was no saving me. I went down in a heap, a root-heaved granite slab poking me in the back.

  I looked up at Mel. “Some father figure.”

  “C’mon, big guy,” said Mel, giving me a lift to my feet. “Let’s get you home.”

  Mel wrapped her arm in mine. I thought it was for support, but then she wrapped her fingers within mine and squeezed tight. “Tomorrow will be better.”

  Fifty-Three

  We stood in front of the steps leading to my condo. I sat on the curved railing, fumbling through my keys, trying to decide whether this was a date. Was there a kiss involved now? I found the key.

  “Thanks for the walk home,” I said to Mel, and leaned in, aiming to plant a kiss on her cheek.

  Mel ducked. “Not so fast.”

  “Huh?”

  “I need to use your bathroom.”

  “Sorry, I should have offered. Come on up.”

  I led her up the steps, had a better time with the key to my condo door, unlocked it, and swung it open. The apartment lay dark and silent before us. A straight line from my living room in the front, past my kitchenette, to the bedroom in the back.

  I swiped at the hall light switch, entered and pointed toward the bedroom. “Bathroom is that way.”

  “Thanks.” Mel hustled past me and on to the bathroom.

  I turned on more lights, checked on Click and Clack. “How are you doing, boys?”

  The hermit crabs had been sleeping, were still sleeping, were still enjoying the Zen-like state of living in the moment inherent to the brain of a crustacean. I envied them. Sprinkled some flakes on their sponge. They ignored that too, knowing in their crabby wisdom that the flakes would be there when they decided to eat.

  Mel returned from the bathroom. “This really is a nice little place.”

  “Thanks.” Remembered my manners. “Want a nightcap?”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t have to walk anymore.”

  “Got beer?”

  I pulled out a couple of Harpoon Winter Warmers, the last of my winter-beer stash. Poured them into glasses, making nice heads on each, and handed one to Mel.

  “Want to come into my parlor?” I said, moving toward the couch.

  “Sure.”

  We sat next to each other on the couch, clicked glasses, drank some spiced ale.

  “Thanks for the walk home,” I said.

  “My plea—”

  “Did you hear that?” I asked, putting my beer on the coffee table.

  Mel put her beer down as well. Reached for her purse. “What?”

  Murmurs slipped through the door.

  “Somebody’s in the hallway,” I said.

  “Yup,” said Mel, sliding her hand into her purse.

  A fist pounded my front door. “Police! Search Warrant! Police!”

  I said, “What the—”

  The door blasted off its hinges as a battering ram swung through. Somebody tossed something in. The thing exploded, filling my head with light, ringing my ears. Mel swore.

  Men in black uniforms poured through the smoke. “Police! Police! Get on the ground!”

  A guy in black shoved Mel to the ground.

  “Hey—”

  Another guy grabbed me, threw me next to her. Pushed my neck to the floor. I turned my head and saw Mel next to me, lying with her face in the rug as a cop cuffed her. The guy on my back grabbed my wrists, cuffed them. They dragged Mel and me to our feet, pushed us down on the couch.

  “What the hell is going on?” Mel asked the guy, then me. “What the hell is going on?”

  More guys in black swarmed in. They went through my rooms and into my office, came out with my computer.

  “Sons of bitches,” I said.
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  “What?”

  “They swatted me.”

  “Who?”

  I looked up to see Lieutenant Lee step through my blasted front door. He walked over to Mel and me. He pointed at Mel and told the officer, “Release Special Agent Hunter. She is with the FBI.”

  The cop said, “Jesus, sorry,” and unlocked Mel’s handcuffs.

  Then Lee turned to me and said, “Aloysius Tucker, you are under arrest for threatening the Boston Police Department and for the murder of Earl Clary.”

  Fifty-Four

  There’s a lot to love about Caroline Quinn. She’s beautiful, with red hair and a yoga-toned body. She’s smart, the top criminal-

  defense lawyer in the city. She’s tough, lost a leg to the Marathon bombing, yet drives a stick. But the thing I loved most about Caroline Quinn at this moment was that she was on my side.

  As for me, I was having an out-of-body experience. They say that beer on whiskey is mighty risky, but it’s not half as risky as jail on whiskey. I’d spent the night in a holding cell with an open toilet bowl and a cot. Nothing that happened in that room could be counted as sleep. My beard scuffed at my collar, my mouth tasted like dog crap, and my eyes could only approximate looking in the same direction. Dizziness and crankiness vied for my soul.

  “Gentlemen,” Caroline said to Lieutenant Lee and his boss, Captain Black, “do you think a five-million-dollar settlement would do it, or should I go for twenty?”

  Black and Lee, sitting next to each other in the conference room, glanced at each other. Lee shrugged. Black, using his steel-gray crew cut to look menacing, decided to out tough Caroline.

  “You’ll never get a dime, Quinn. We were protecting the city and our own,” he said.

  “Really? Not a dime?” Caroline turned to me. “Tucker, don’t you have Jerry Rittenhauser from the Globe on speed dial?”

  “Yes, I—”

  Caroline cut me off. “I’m thinking of a headline: Keystone Cops of the Internet Age.”

  Lee said, “We had evidence that Tucker was dangerous.”

  “Lee—”

  “Lieutenant Lee.”

  “Right. Lee, it’s so sad that you’re losing your mind. How long have you known Tucker?”

  Lee crossed his arms.

  “A couple of years, at least,” said Caroline.