Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-7

by William Bernhardt

  Loving jumped to his feet. “You shouldn’t make fun of things you don’t understand.”

  Loving was a huge man, muscled from head to toe, and he outweighed Jones by about two hundred pounds. Jones, however, knew him well and wasn’t intimidated in the least. “Don’t you think if aliens had really landed it might have made the front page of The New York Times? Or at least the Tulsa World?”

  Loving slapped the cover of his magazine. “These guys print the news the surface media is afraid to cover.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Everyone knows there’s been a cover-up. Vested interests are makin’ sure the truth don’t come out. People in the know know aliens have been abductin’ earthlings for decades.”

  “Is that right?” Jones said, heading back toward his desk. “I guess that’s what happened to all our clients.”

  Jones scanned his calendar, mulling unhappily on all the empty untouched squares on the Day-Timer. When Loving first opened this office in Warren Place, using his share of the loot Ben made off his last case, Loving had a stream of clients who needed his private investigator services. After about two months, though, the work had dried up. With some reservations, Loving had asked Jones to share the office space (and the rent), and Jones had agreed. Unfortunately they’d both been virtually idle ever since. Although they had enough in savings to hold out for a few more months, they both knew they couldn’t last forever without more business.

  “Have you heard anythin’ from the Skipper?” Loving asked, his face buried in the magazine.

  “No. Christina keeps saying he’ll come back.”

  Loving grunted. “Wish he’d hurry.”

  “Yeah, well, you know how he is.” Jones put a goofy expression on his face and raised his voice an octave. “ ‘Yes, I could practice law, but should I? Is it the ethically appropriate thing to do? Is it the best use of my journey on Spaceship Earth?’ ”

  Loving dropped his magazine and guffawed. Jones was a talented mimic. He could do dead-on impersonations of other people’s voices, even after having heard them for only a short time. And of course he had heard Ben Kincaid’s voice a lot.

  “Well, this is incredibly boring,” Jones said, returning to his own voice. “I’m going online.”

  Loving shook his head. “You’re gonna go broke on that Internet crap.”

  “Brilliant minds crave stimulation,” Jones replied, as he triggered his modem to connect. “Sherlock Holmes had cocaine. I have the Internet.”

  There was a short succession of beeps, then a growling mechanical hiss that told him he had connected with his Internet carrier. He clicked on his desktop icon for Netscape and started browsing the Web, but it didn’t hold his attention for long.

  There had to be something more stimulating.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Loving was back in his magazine; he didn’t appear to be paying any attention.

  Quietly Jones closed his web browser and clicked the icon to open his IRC client software. He chose the University of Oklahoma’s undernet site and logged on.

  A moment later, a blue-bordered window told him he was connected. A click after that, the program began scanning and automatically listing the names of all the chat rooms.

  Once again, Jones marveled at the vast array of chat rooms—over three thousand, according to the toolbar at the top of the screen. And for some perverse reason, the program always loaded the ones whose names began with exclamation points first. Exclamation points were a tip-off that this was a chat room your mother wouldn’t want you to be visiting, like !nastytalk or !!!perversex or !!!!!!!!!barnyardfun.

  Well, it was a little early for that sort of thing. Jones drummed his fingers and waited patiently while the rest of the channels loaded.

  He knew many of the rooms would be empty this early (before midnight), but there were some exceptions. There were a few chat rooms in which participants played quiz games, but he wasn’t in the mood to display his superior intellect. There were always stacks of people in the rooms to discuss sci-fi shows like Star Trek or Babylon 5. But he needed something more challenging to liven up his dull existence.

  Like music. After all, the Boss (sadly enough, he still thought of Ben that way) wasn’t the only music lover around. The Net was full of them. He clicked on the Music subheading, then MusicLovers. A long list of subtopics filled the scroll bar on the right side of the screen. Scanning the channels, he saw rooms devoted to the life and works of Patti Smith, four for Elvis, a couple for John Lennon.

  His computer screen blipped and the picture momentarily disappeared. This happened sometimes; the Internet was far from infallible. One random surge of electricity, and you could be anywhere.

  He scrolled down the channel listings, trying to figure out where he was. Something caught his eye—a room labeled THE WILD SIDE. Good, he must still be in the music subsection; that was obviously a reference to the works of Lou Reed. “Walk on the Wild Side” had always been his favorite Reed tune.

  Jones clicked the Join button, which allowed him to enter the room using his online moniker Fingers. A second later, he was in. He was pleased to see there were more than a half-dozen people “chatting.” Their “conversation” began to appear on the text portion of his screen:

  COBBLEPOT>Welcome, Fingers.

  Jones smiled and sent his fingers into action.

  FINGERS>Welcome back at you. And a bluesy good evening to one and all.

  He smiled. A clever inside Lou Reed reference these aficionados would be sure to pick up on.

  MADMAX>Glad you could be with us.

  PAUL89>Ditto.

  PILOTBOB>I’m Bob. Fly me!

  Well, this seemed like a friendly bunch. Jones felt better already.

  FINGERS>So, what are you folks talking about?

  PAUL89>Well, now that you’ve arrived—you.

  This was typical chat-room behavior. Even in cyberspace, folks wanted to get to know you a bit before they included you in the conversation.

  FINGERS>How flattering. What would you like to know?

  PILOTBOB>Well, for starters, I’d like to know if your fingers are girl fingers or boy fingers.

  Jones stopped typing. Now that was a bit unusual.

  FINGERS>And may I ask why you want to know?

  PILOTBOB>(snicker) Well, if they’re girl fingers, I might invite you to let your fingers do the walking over to my cockpit.

  Jones pushed himself away from the computer. Yuck! Who was this pervert? And what was he doing in a perfectly respectable music chat room?

  PILOTBOB>Still no answer? C’mon, baby. I’ll let you play with my stick shift.

  FINGERS>(indignantly) For your information, they’re boy fingers. So back off.

  COBBLEPOT>LOL. Way to put that horny devil in his place, Fingers.

  MADMAX>Cut the guy some slack. We’ve been in here for half an hour waiting for a woman to show up. But so far, it’s just us guys.

  Jones frowned at the screen. He was beginning to get the impression he had made an error regarding the subject matter of the Wild Side chat room.

  PILOTBOB>Are you sure you’re a boy, Fingers?

  FINGERS>Absolutely positive. Have been all my life. Wanna see some ID?

  COBBLEPOT>Bob is just being thorough. Sometimes when women log on, they pretend to be men. At least until they get the feel of the crowd.

  And Jones could see why, too.

  PILOTBOB>Sorry, Fingers, but for some reason, you make me suspicious. People do log on as the opposite sex. I’ve seen it many times.

  FINGERS>Well, the longer one goes, the less one knows.

  PILOTBOB>No offense intended, Fingers. What brings you to our room tonight?

  FINGERS>I was hoping to find a discussion of music.

  PILOTBOB>Music! (Explosive noises) Are you trying to show your sensitive side? Despite your protestations to the contrary, I think you are a she-male. Wanna go to a private room and let me look up your dress?

  Jones drummed his fingers on the keyboard. He�
��d had just about enough.

  FINGERS>Well, it’s been fun, all. But I’m out of here. So we’ll go no more a-rovin’ …

  PAUL89>Wait! Don’t go!

  Jones stopped just before his mouse clicked on the Exit button.

  PAUL89>Please don’t go. I’d like to talk with you some more. I mean … if you don’t mind.

  FINGERS>Sorry, Paul, but this room is not what I expected. I thought we’d be discussing music.

  PAUL89>Really? So did I! Please stay!

  FINGERS>Sorry, no. I’m outta here.

  PAUL89>Please don’t go.

  Jones paused. And a few seconds later, he read:

  PAUL89>I have a confession to make. I’m a lurker. (Breathless pause) Truth is—I’m actually a woman.

  PILOTBOB>Whoa-ho-ho! The femme unmasked!

  COBBLEPOT>Paul! Who’da thought it!

  PAUL89>Actually … my name is Paula.

  Jones let go of the mouse. He couldn’t resist exploring this turn of events. His curiosity was definitely piqued.

  FINGERS>Why were you pretending to be a Paul?

  PAUL89>Need you ask? You saw how these lugs came on to you.

  FINGERS>Then why log on at all?

  PAUL89>I don’t know. I just wanted … someone to talk to.

  Jones stared at the words at the bottom of the screen. He could have written them himself.

  FINGERS>I can understand that.

  PAUL89>Please don’t leave me to these heathens.

  PILOTBOB>Who are you calling a heathen?

  FINGERS>I should probably go back to work.

  PAUL89>Later then. I’d really appreciate it. Maybe I’m crazy, but—you seem … different somehow.

  Jones’s lips parted. Had someone finally recognized and appreciated his innate superiority?

  PAUL89>I just wanted someone I could talk to. About music, I mean.

  PILOTBOB>Hey, baby, I’ve got lots of music for you. I’ll play you like a violin. You’ll hear the angels singing.

  PAUL89>(shivering with disgust) Fingers, will you join me tonight in a private room? So we can talk? Alone.

  Jones stared at the computer screen. He knew he had to decide fast. And he knew agreeing to join her would probably be a mistake. And he knew if Loving found out about it, he’d give him no end of grief. But she just wanted someone to talk to …

  FINGERS>All right. Channel 365. Tonight at midnight. I’ll restrict admission to everyone but you.

  PAUL89>I’ll be there! :)

  “What is this, some kind of on-line romance novel?”

  Jones almost jumped out of his seat. Loving was standing right behind him, hovering over his shoulder. And reading the computer screen.

  “Uh … right. Yes. Exactly.” Jones reached forward and switched off the power to the monitor, darkening the screen. “Man, that World Wide Web is really not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Yeah. But I notice you’re glued to it all day long.”

  “Well, I had to do something. At least until the aliens return our clients.”

  “Ha, ha.” Loving smirked, then walked back to his desk.

  That had been close, Jones thought. He would have to be more careful in the future.

  He picked up his pen and made a note on his calendar. At last, his Day-Timer for the month of April was not completely bare. At the bottom of the column for the day, he penciled in:

  1200AM—CHAT, CH. 365. PAUL89EXCL.

  He thought about it for a moment, then added:

  BE THERE.

  Chapter 6

  BEN STOOD ON his tiptoes and stretched up to adjust the center stage light. He had to stand on the piano bench to reach it. The overhead light was about the same width as the baby grand Ben played. It was flat and square and, thanks to some rusty wheels that did not easily roll down the guide track, a real pain in the butt to move. Unfortunately, it was the only overhead on center stage, and it always seemed to be shining down somewhere behind and to the left of the piano, which was not a heck of a lot of help to Ben when he needed to read his set notes.

  He placed both hands on the closest edge and tried to yank the light toward him.

  “Ben, stop that!”

  It was Earl, and he was scowling. He’d been pacing maniacally, and it was still more than an hour before the club opened and the anniversary show began. “Ain’t I told you not to mess with that!”

  “Ain’t I told you to buy another light?” Ben shot back.

  “Can’t afford another light. ’Less you want me to take it outta that chump change I’m payin’ you.”

  “How can I possibly play when I can’t even see what my fingers are doing?”

  “You don’t watch your fingers play, boy. You jus’ let it happen. You let the music take over.”

  “Well then, why don’t we turn out all the lights, and we can all just let the music take over?”

  Earl turned about-face without replying.

  Ben felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Denny Bachalo—Dr. Denton on the marquee. He played drums in the combo. “Hey, Ben baby. Chill already.”

  “Easy for you to say. The drum set is always lit.”

  “Cut the bossman some slack, okay?” Denny had long jet-black hair. He always seemed to be wearing the same pair of torn blue jeans and the same NO FEAR T-shirt. “Can’t you see he’s seriously stressed?”

  Ben glanced back over his shoulder. Earl had been on edge, pacing and mumbling and generally acting as though the world were coming to an end at any moment. “I don’t get it. He’s had the club for a year and he’s never acted like this before.”

  “Yeah, but tonight’s gonna be something else again. Ain’t it, Scat?”

  The tall, lean older man idly fingering his saxophone nodded. His actual name was Ernie Morris, but on the club circuit, he was the Scatman. Scatman Morris could run his fingers up and down the sax stick so quickly it was like a scat singer free-falling through the scales.

  “Major to-do tonight,” Scat answered, never removing his eyes from the sax. “All the cards on the table. Make-or-break time for this club. Earl’s been in honeymoon land till now. But tonight they’re gonna expect him to show what he can do.”

  “Who’s this they?” Ben asked. “You think someone will cover the show?”

  Scat nodded. “Major press tonight. The World. The Oklahoman. Word is John Wooley’s going to be out. Maybe James Watts. Maybe even some of the TV babes. Karen Keith. LeAnne Taylor.”

  Ben’s head tilted to one side. “Karen Larsen?”

  Scat shook his head. “Didn’t hear the name. Why?”

  He suddenly looked embarrassed. “Oh, no reason.”

  Denny let out a snort. “That’s the third time I’ve heard you mention her name tonight. Have you got a thing for this Larsen woman?”

  Ben turned away, his face flushing. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Dr. Denton and the Scatman exchanged a long look, followed by a hearty chuckle.

  “Where’s Gordo?” Ben asked, changing the subject as nonchalantly as possible. “If he’s late for rehearsal again—”

  “Speak of the devil!” The voice boomed out from the back of the club. A moment later, they saw the youngest member of the combo, their lead guitar and sometime bass player, emerging from backstage. “Did ya miss me, Benji?”

  He did not smile. “My name is Ben. Benji is a trained dog who appears in sappy children’s films. And you’re late.”

  “Sorry, pal. Had a little trouble at home.” Gordo Grant was a punk from the deepest, poorest part of the North Side who had somehow managed to pull himself up and out, send himself through two years at TCC, and teach himself to play guitar licks like nobody’s business. “Gimme a second and I’ll be ready.”

  “Fine,” Ben said. “Maybe I can use the time to shed a little light on the subject. You guys wanna help me move this stage light over?”

  “Not particularly,” Denny said. “Why?”

  “Well, you know what they say. Many hands make lights wo
rk.” After checking to make sure Uncle Earl wasn’t watching, he stood up on the piano bench and began grappling with the huge overhead, trying to bring it closer to the piano.

  Eventually Gordo was unpacked and Ben had a sliver of light, so they began to play. The first number in their set was their own version of “Sweet Georgia Brown,” mostly arranged by Scat. What began slow and almost balladic gradually picked up steam until, by the final stanzas, it was a full-blown jazz spectacular. They led with it for a reason; it was their best number.

  Usually. Tonight, however, it reeked. Denny was dragging the tempo, Ben was botching the syncopation, and even Scat, who was normally flawless, missed a few notes. The song limped to its concluding riff.

  “Well,” Gordo said, smiling amiably, “that stank on toast.”

  “What’s wrong with us tonight?” Denny called down from the drums. “My grandma plays better than that.”

  “It’s nerves,” Scat pronounced, pushing his sunglasses up. “I’ve seen this before. Uncle Earl’s jitters are infectious. S’like some kinda virus.”

  “Now wait just one cotton-pickin’ moment.” Ben looked down and saw Earl, his considerable girth winding its way through the tables on the club floor. “Don’t be pushin’ your load off on me. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that pathetic noise I just heard.”

  “But you’re the bossman,” Scat answered.

  “When you’re good, I’m the bossman,” Earl said. “When you suck gas, you’re on your own.”

  Ben grinned. “Scat thinks you’ve infected us with your anxiety about the anniversary show tonight. The reviewers and TV people and all.”

  “Aw, hell.” Earl made a little hip-hop and parked his rear on the edge of the stage. “I don’t give two good goddamns about no reviewers or TV people.”

  “Then—”

  “I got my own reasons.” He paused, obviously debating whether they needed to know any more. “I’m expectin’ a visitor.”

  “What’s this?” Denny stepped out from behind his drums, pushing his long hair behind his shoulders. “Would this visitor by any chance be … a woo-man?”

  A chorus of oohs and hubba-hubbas drifted across the stage.

  “Calm down, you horny devils.” Earl acted casual, but Ben suspected he was anything but. “It ain’t nothin’ like that. This here’s a special woman. From the old days.”