by Mark Coggins
“So what’s with the Flash Gordon get-up?” I asked.
“Since you’ve seen fit to accuse Mephisto of software piracy, I decided to take a look at the product in question.”
“I’m not following. We’re talking about a chess game that you play on a personal computer. Not this goofy stuff.”
Duckworth laughed. “It’s best when you accuse someone of theft to get a good description of the stolen property. Take a closer look. This is a virtual reality chess computer. When you put on the goggles you see animated chess pieces on a board that looks like a miniature battlefield. You can ‘pick up’ and move a piece while wearing the glove, and the computer uses the sensors in the glove to figure out what you are trying to do and updates the image you see through the goggles accordingly. Put on the glove and goggles and see for yourself.”
I slipped on the glove, which was made from a synthetic fabric with wires stitched along the fingers and palm, and then put on the wide plastic goggles. Both were attached to the board by an insulated wire. I had to admit the view through the goggles was pretty astounding. Looking down at the board I saw a full set of chess pieces in three dimensions. All the pieces were modeled after medieval soldiers, the tallest appearing about six inches high. The pawns were foot soldiers armed with pikes, the knights were knights in armor on horseback, the rooks were dismounted knights armed with broadswords, and so on up to the king and queen, which were decked out in robes, wearing magnificent crowns, and holding royal scepters. If that were not enough, each piece moved in place, making menacing gestures at the enemy across the board.
“Wait until you see what happens when you capture a piece,” said Duckworth. “Use your gloved hand and take the black pawn in the center of the board with the white one that is next to it.”
I reached down to the board and moved the white pawn Duckworth suggested across the diagonal into the square occupied by the black pawn. As I released it, the white pawn thrust forward with its pike, impaling the black one, causing it to dissolve slowly into the board like a sand castle melting in the tide.
I took off the goggles and glove. “That is very impressive,” I said. “But Bishop didn’t say anything about this stuff to me. I had the distinct impression that the game had been developed for personal computers and was something you could buy in a software store on CD-ROM.”
“Yes, Mephisto is releasing a version of the game for personal computers, and it will be sold on CD-ROM. The original author of the game-be he an employee of Mephisto or not-would have developed the software in that format as well. But we’re also releasing a version of the game that runs on a virtual reality computer like this. It’s more expensive of course, but it’s also a lot more entertaining.”
“All right, then. Let me get back to the question I asked earlier today. Just what is it that makes this program so swell?”
Duckworth sipped some of his white wine and grinned at me over the glass. “Well, I’m not really an expert, but the game is head and shoulders above any I’ve ever seen and it’s easy to say why: it thinks and plays like a person, not a computer. Did you notice the way the board was set up when you looked through the goggles? The chessmen were arranged as they were immediately before the eleventh move in a game between two old farts from the nineteenth century, Anderssen and Kieseritzky. Chess historians have dubbed this particular match ‘The Immortal Game’ because of the exceptional play of Anderssen.
“Anyway, Anderssen has begun the game with a gambit-an opening in which a player places a piece in jeopardy in hopes of gaining a positional advantage over his opponent. Kind of like a Trojan horse. It’s Anderssen’s turn to play but the piece he has placed in jeopardy is about to be taken. If he’s had a change of heart and wants to save the chess piece, this is his last opportunity to do it. What do you think he does?”
“If his original plan was to let the piece be captured, I imagine he tells it good-bye and sends a letter to the widow.”
“Yes, of course. But if you set the pieces up like this for any other chess program and let the computer make Anderssen’s next move, the other programs will invariably move the piece out of harm’s way. But not this one. This program makes the exact same move that Anderssen made-king’s rook to king’s knight one-thereby permitting capture of the gambit piece.”
“So what does that prove? This program plays more aggressively than other programs?”
“Sort of. Other programs make their moves on the basis of rather short-term cost-benefit analysis. They aren’t capable of following a strategy that requires some sacrifice up front to achieve the desired long-term goal. If a piece is in danger, move it. That’s all they think to do. This program, like a human player, is more flexible. It can balance the long-term priorities with the short term and take a few lumps along the way if that’s what’s required to get the job done.”
I wasn’t sure I understood the explanation completely, but being a private investigator I could relate very well to the part about taking a few lumps to get your job done. “Okay,” I said. “I think I get the main points. But there’s still something I’m not clear on. It goes back to what you said about getting a description of the stolen property: just exactly what is it that I’m looking for? If Bishop’s program can take so many forms, how will I know which is the right one? Do I have to recover them all?”
Duckworth laughed out loud. “You really are a babe in the woods, aren’t you? You’re not looking for a compiled version of the game. That’s what the end consumer buys in the store. What you’re looking for is the source code.”
“Right. The source code. I’m glad we cleared that up.”
Duckworth grinned and shook his head. “I ought to be charging you by the hour. All computer software starts out as source code. The source code, in turn, is ‘compiled’ into a program that runs on your computer. Think of sheet music for a song: that’s like source code. The process of playing the song from the sheet music is analogous to compiling the source code, and a recording made from that performance would be similar to a finished program.”
“So the source code is the valuable thing because it gives you the ‘notes’ for a computer program.”
“Right. Without the source, you can’t change a computer program-just like you can’t alter a song unless you have the notes for it. What’s more, you can’t compile the program for other kinds of computers-just like you couldn’t play the song on other instruments.”
“Enough already. If I get within a mile of anything that smells even remotely like source code, I’ll consult an expert. But I have to say, listening to you talk about this, you sure don’t sound like someone who hates his job.”
“You bet I do. When I told you that today I meant it. There’s a heck of a difference between having an interest in chess and computer software and suffering through eight hours a day of sheer boredom working for people you don’t respect.”
“There’s the obvious question.”
“Why don’t I quit? Precisely because it is so boring and easy. As a struggling entertainer who works nights, I need a day job that isn’t too taxing.”
I thought I could tell which way the drag queen was sashaying. “Don’t tell me...”
Duckworth smiled, cocked his head, and made a gesture like he was fluffing his ‘do. “You guessed it. Just call me Cassandra-that’s a Greek name that means ‘helper of men.’ I’m doing the late show after Solome and Giselle. In fact, I should probably be getting back to the dressing room soon.”
“I play a little jazz bass myself. I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of show biz. But, do you mind if I call you later if I think of anything else?”
“Not at all. I’ll give you my card.”
Duckworth pulled a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to me. One side was sturdy gray card stock with his name and office number engraved in plain black type. The other side was lavender with the name Cassandra written in script, along with a home phone number. “Thanks,” I said. “I have to say I fee
l better now that I know you work here. I was pretty sure the only reason you had me come here was to shock me.”
Duckworth laughed. “Non, mon cherie! There are much better ways to shock.” In a sudden movement, he lurched across the table and planted a wet one on my cheek.
I yelped like I was snakebit and jumped out of my chair.
“Now there’s shocking for you,” said Duckworth impishly.
I touched my cheek where he kissed me and waggled my finger at him. As I made for the exit, an emcee walked up to one of the microphones on the stage and announced:
“And now, what you’ve all been waiting for-the most dangerous entertainment in San Francisco for ten dollars!”
THREATENER’S ANONYMOUS
PARKING LEGALLY IN SAN FRANCISCO IS LIKE trying to wedge that last coffee cup into an already overcrowded dishwasher: it seems possible, but it often can’t be done. I don’t even try anymore. It was close to nine when I drove back from The Stigmata and pulled my car into the back half of a bus stop near my apartment. That’s normally good for a $250 ticket, but I plopped a laminated placard reading, “San Francisco Chronicle, Official Press Business” onto the dash before I got out. No doubt the meter maid finds it surprising how many newsworthy events happen near me.
I lived on the top floor of a four-story building on the corner of Post and Hyde. It was close enough to the sleazy Tenderloin district that I didn’t pay much in rent, but far enough away to avoid doing the hootchie-cootchie with drug dealers and winos every time I came or left. I stopped at the entryway to pick up my mail-two questionnaires, one titled, “Are You Curious About Yourself?” from the Church of Scientology and another from a dating service that blared, “Want to Meet Quality People?”-and went upstairs to my apartment.
While the water molecules in the chicken potpie I took from the freezer were being energized in the microwave, I filled out both questionnaires and sealed them up in the postage paid envelopes that accompanied them. I told the Church of Scientology that I was indeed curious about myself, but gave my name as Don Giovanni with the address and telephone number of the dating service. I gave the address and phone number of the church to the dating service, and said my name was L. Ron Hubbard and I wanted to meet someone who liked science fiction.
I garnished the pie with rosettes made from that cheese you squirt from a can, then poured myself a glass of Maker’s Mark bourbon and took the whole movable feast into the living room and set it down on the card table where I eat my meals. I can’t fit a bigger table in the room because it is almost entirely filled with stereo equipment, phonograph records, and tapes. I have an extensive collection of jazz recordings-mostly from the 30s, 40s and 50s-but it’s my hi-fi system that I really pride myself on. It’s made up almost entirely of components manufactured and sold before 1980, before the introduction of digital recordings on CD, and before stereo manufacturers started caring more about glitzy consoles with small footprints than they did about the quality of the sound. The heart of the system is a pair of Altec Lansing “Voice of the Theater” speakers. These babies are about five feet tall and they consist of a large subwoofer unit with a set of four tweeter horns stacked on top. They were made primarily for use in movie theaters, and the truth is I can rarely play them at even a quarter of full volume-and there’s also the little problem of them taking up about eighteen square feet of my living room floor.
I picked out the 1957 Benny Carter LP Jazz Giant and got it started on my Empire Troubadour turntable. While I munched on the pie accompanied by Carter’s ornate filigrees on alto sax, I reviewed the day’s events. The assignment Bishop had given me seemed to be basically on the level. Certainly everything Teller said and did when I talked to him at Mephisto was consistent with the set-up I got from Bishop. Still, even without seeing Terri McCulloch’s videotape, it was clear the relationship between Bishop and McCulloch was a complex one and Bishop wasn’t eager to have me prying into it. Having watched the tape, one had to wonder whether the theft of the software didn’t fit into some broader power exchange or struggle between the two of them. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to find out. Why a man would enjoy being humiliated in that way-particularly a smug, sanctimonious bastard like Bishop-was beyond me.
But what about the woman who did the humiliating? I had already decided there was more to Terri McCulloch than Bishop’s other girlfriends, Jodie and Lisa. Now with her tattoo, pierced nipples, and S&M accessories, it seemed even with that assessment I’d sold Terri shorter than flea-market patio furniture. All I knew was, when I finally did run into her, I was keeping my trousers tightly buckled and my butt cheeks pressed firmly against the wall.
I finished up with the chicken potpie and went back to the kitchen to pour myself another glass of bourbon. I was heading to the bedroom to grab my electric bass when the phone rang. Perching on the edge of the bed, I picked up the extension on my nightstand and listened as a faint sound of street traffic came over the wire. A male voice, low and muffled, said:
“You could find better ways to spend your time, Riordan.”
The voice was not familiar. I said, “You mean stamp collecting, crochet, things like that?”
“Can it,” said the voice, louder and less muffled. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes,” I said airily. “I believe I do. You are referring to home composting, aren’t you?”
“Look, shithead, what I’m telling you is leave Terri McCulloch alone. That’s the only warning we’ll give you.”
“So now there’s more than one of you. Part of the Junior League, maybe? I hear they travel in packs.” He started to say something, but I cut him off. “Say, have you heard about the new service from the phone company? It’s called caller ID. It lets you know-”
There was a sharp click. I pressed the plunger down to get a tone and dialed the number on my display. It rang a long time, but eventually a different male voice answered with, “You know this is a pay phone, don’t you?”
I said I assumed so and asked the location of the phone and whether anyone was just using it. I was told the corner of Chestnut and Columbus, and, no, nobody had been near the phone.
Chestnut and Columbus is smack dab in the middle of North Beach, the Italian district. That corner in particular was home to Bimbo’s 365 Club, an old nightclub famous for its “girl in the fish tank” gimmick, now better known as an intimate venue for medium-sized rock and jazz acts. In any case, the call was puzzling because I’d hardly been on the job long enough for anyone to know about it unless Bishop had blabbed. I made a mental note to ask him the next time we spoke.
I picked up my electric bass again and headed back to the living room. There I plugged into the auxiliary input of my Crown amplifier (a classic powerhouse from the late 1960s), and spun up Billy Cobham’s 1973 LP Spectrum to play the bass tracks along with Billy’s bassist, Lee Sklar. I stayed with it until about 11:30 when I knocked off for bed.
THREATS OF A FEATHER
I GOT UP THE NEXT MORNING AT EIGHT, showered, dressed, and walked over to a cafe near Post and Leavenworth called Post-worth. I ordered eggs and bacon with hash browns and washed it all down with a pot or so of coffee. In between bites, I read the paper and argued with the waitress about borrowing your partner’s toothbrush on sleepovers. She said it was perfectly okay, but I said it was a disgusting practice, and besides, why did all women’s toothbrushes look like they’d been used to scour Nelson’s Column at Trafalgar Square.
After breakfast, I continued down Post until I came to Powell, and then turned right and walked towards Market. This took me past Union Square and into the heart of a six-square-block area that vied with Fisherman’s Wharf for the highest concentration of tourists in the city. The main draw was the cable car turnaround where Powell dead-ended into Market. This was the start of the cable car line that ran back up Powell over Nob Hill and down into North Beach.
Everything and everybody near the turnaround was set up to separate tourists from their money. First the
re was the cable car itself-three bucks for a two-mile ride on a rickety, exposed carriage that crept along at ten miles an hour, was filled with cold, overweight tourists and their preteen progeny, and on occasion slipped the cable and went zinging down Nob Hill towards a violent encounter with a bus or garbage truck. The last such encounter cost a tourist his leg, and caused the manufacturer of a well-known prepackaged rice dish to remove their billboards from the back of the cars.
Next there were the glitzy camera and consumer electronics stores that lined the street near the turnaround. Here you could buy the latest miniature video camera for 120 percent of the price you’d pay back home in a good department store, often without the knowledge that you were getting a factory refurbished unit, and always with the very minimum in customer service and the prohibition “No Refunds or Exchanges” printed at the bottom of your receipt.
Moving down the food chain were the street vendors. They specialized in knockoff sunglasses, silk ties sealed in plastic wrap like smoked salmon from the deli, hand-made jewelry and leather goods, and a complete assortment of New Age trinkets and fetishes, including magic crystals, soapstone carvings, cassette tapes of whale mating calls, and chips of red rock supposedly harvested from psychic “vortices” in Sedona, Arizona, but more likely obtained by taking hammer and chisel to Uncle Ed’s flagstone patio.
At bottom, and employing the most direct approach to raising cash, were the panhandlers. Among this group there was considerable variance in technique. Some merely sat on the sidewalk, heads bowed, with a cardboard sign stating their plight and a cup or a hat nearby to collect change. Others stood and barked a pitch at passersby. This might be a straightforward request for money or could involve humor, such as, “Please contribute to the United Negro Pizza Fund.” Often, the most successful panhandlers brought props with them to garner sympathy and interest. These included cats, dogs, and children that looked cute or needed to be fed.