Callie’s Last Dance

14.

THE FIRST THING you’ll notice upon entering the lobby of Geek City is the noise.

It’s deafening.

Like a thousand live bands playing at the same time. All styles. Some of the songs sound like they’re being played backwards. Others, sideways.

Each song is being played at ear-piercing decibels. When they come together, it’s complete chaos. Agony for the ears. I make a mental note to explore the use of this taped music as a crowd-control weapon.

The lobby is small, with a redwood picnic-style table and two benches on one side, a couch and coffee table on the other. I take a seat at the picnic table for two reasons. One, I may have to jump to my feet quickly, to defend myself, and two, I don’t know these people. The couch could be a germ pit.

I’m alone in the lobby, but I know they’re watching. While I see no cameras, I feel them studying me.

“Can someone please turn down the music?” I shout.

The music mutes.

A moment later a door opens, and three people enter the lobby in lock-step. They include a midget, a dwarf, and what appears to be an elf.

“I’m Curly,” the first one says. “I’ve always preferred Kathleen to your other lady friends, but hey, what do I know? I’m a eunuch, right? It’s your love life to screw up, and my job to chronicle your screw ups. Still, I never understood your fascination with Rachel. You know she plans to kill you, right?”

“I’m Larry,” the second one says. “I’m a fan of Callie. I think you’ve got a window of opportunity there, but it won’t be easy getting her away from Gwen.”

“You must be Moe,” I say to the third.

The three put their hands over their hearts and look down, solemnly.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“Moe hung himself when Lou died,” the third one says. “You can call me C.H.”

“What does that stand for?”

“It’s the first two letters of my name. I go by C.H. because you’d never be able to pronounce my name properly.”

“It’s that difficult, is it?”

“You can’t imagine.”

“I’ve got a pretty good ear for names.”

“It’s a secret name,” he says. “Very few people know it.”

I stare at him a moment. “C.H. it is,” I say. Then add, “I’m sorry to hear about Moe. I’m sure he’ll be missed. Where’s the other one?”

They look at each other, confused.

“Lou told me there were five of you.”

They put their hands over their hearts and look down at their feet again.

And start to cry.

“What now?” I say.

“Lou was the fifth,” Larry says.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Curly says, “Now it’s you. But you don’t research. At all. Nor do you compute.”

“But he adventures!” C.H. says, brightly. “And when he does, we do!”

C.H. is the elfin one. If I knew him better, and could kid around, I’d ask him where he’s from, the forest or meadows? But I don’t want to offend him. I mean, I know there’s no such thing as elves.

Although I look at him and have to wonder.

“Guys,” I say, “I’m not Lou Kelly, and could never replace him in a million years. But I’ve always respected your work. Thanks to you, we managed to stop Miles Gundy from killing more kids.”

“Don’t be modest, Mr. Creed,” C.H. says. “You and Miranda gave us the proper search parameters. And you did all the killing. I’m happy to welcome you to the team. Especially since learning Miranda will be working with us. She’s my personal favorite. Do you think I might be able to meet her someday?”

“Are you saying you’ll work with me?”

“Only you,” he says. Then he shouts, “The Platters! Nineteen-fifty-five!”

Larry shouts, “Mercury Records. But it was their second release! Don’t forget that!”

Curly says, “Buck Ram wrote it for the Ink Spots.”

They make a little huddle, put their hands low and shout, “Heyyyy!” as they raise them up over their heads.

Each of them has a favorite joke, and I’m asked to listen and pick a favorite. The jokes are so poorly conceived and delivered, I chuckle throughout the telling to cover the fact I can’t decipher the punch lines.

“They’re equally funny,” I say, shamelessly.

“Not good enough,” Curly says. “You have to choose a favorite.”

I frown. It’d be easier to view Hell’s menu and choose between the unwashed tripe, fermented squid guts, and pig organs wrapped in flesh.

I pick one of the jokes and make two of my new friends unhappy.

But get the sense we’re bonding.

“Do you have an assignment for us?” Curly says.

I place my laptop on the redwood picnic table.

“I don’t speak computer, so this won’t sound professional.”

“Go ahead.”

“I want you to configure my computer in such a way that we can communicate in code. You send me a coded message, I respond in code. But since I don’t have the time or desire to learn a code, I want to type a password that turns your code into plain English so I can read it. When I type a response, I add a different password to the message and it changes my English back to your code. But my responses would also work with the first code.”

They look at each other a moment, stunned, then burst into laughter. Finally Larry says, “Yeah, we can do that.” Then he repeats what I said and they fall on the floor laughing hysterically, roll around, grabbing their sides.

“Plain English!” Curly yells between peals of laughter.

“Coded message!” Larry says, shaking with delight.

When at last they calm down, C.H. says, “Why a different code for the response?”

“If someone captures me and forces me to send you a message, I’ll use the same code both times. That way you’ll know something’s wrong.”

All three nod, sagely.

“I also want you to put a tracer on the computer, so you’ll know where I am at all times.”

They look at each other again, but refrain from laughing.

“That requires a lot of trust on your part,” C.H. says.

“I do trust you guys,” I say.

“That’s good,” Curly says. “Because we’ve been tracing your laptop since the day you got it.”

Larry says, “There’s a bomb in there, too.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s a bomb in your laptop. All we have to do is go online, punch in a code, and your computer blows up.”

“I got my laptop directly from the factory.”

“Yes. But you ordered it online from your old computer.”

“So?”

“We have a keystroke capture system on all your devices. Everything you type, every message you receive, comes to us. We read your computer order, hacked into the company’s system, had your new laptop routed to our address, assembled the tracking device, key capture, and bomb, and shipped it on to you.”

“How powerful a bomb is it?”

“Not that powerful,” C.H. says. “It has a blast area of four to ten feet, depending on if your laptop is open or not.”

I look at my laptop.

“There’s a bomb inside?”

“Yes.”

“If I’m carrying it, and you press the code, I could die?”

“Yes, of course.”

Curly says, “It’s not that big a deal. There’s a bomb in all the computers.”

“What are you saying?”

“You, Jarvis, Maybe, Gwen, Joe Penny, Jeff Tuck-”

“What about Callie?” I ask.

“We can’t get access to anything owned by Callie.”

“Why not?”

“She’s too careful.”

“More careful than me?”

They all start laughing again.

I say, “You’re telling me you could kill me and all my crew with the simple entry of a code?”

“Yes, provided you’re near your computers.”

“You could wait for us to start typing, then kill us.”

Curly turns to Larry and says, “By George, I think he’s got it!”

I say, “Who authorized you to plant bombs in our computers?”

“Darwin.”

“Wait. Which Darwin?”

“As you well know, there’s only one Darwin. Dr. Petrovsky.”

“You knew who Darwin was all this time and never told anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Why not?”

“No one ever asked us.”

“But Lou thought Dr. Howard was Darwin. He killed him.”

C.H. shakes his head as if saddened by my intellectual inefficiency. He says, “Dr. Petrovsky paid Lou forty million dollars to kill Dr. Howard and frame him for being Darwin. It was part of his exit plan.”

“Does Dr. P. still possess the code?”

“Yes. Should we change it?”

I do a double take. Dr. P., my new business partner, could have killed me and the entire crew, all but Callie, at any time. And still can.

“Don’t change the code. Cancel it. Immediately.”

Larry salutes me. “Yes, sir!”

“What about your agents?” C.H. says.

“Theirs, too.”

“But what if you want to kill them sometime?” Larry asks.

“I don’t kill my friends,” I say.

They look at each other.

“What?”

C.H. says, “Why does the name Augustus Quinn come to mind?”

I frown. “That’s different.”

He says, “It’s always different when they do it.”

“Can you disable the kill code while I wait?”

“Of course.”

Larry says, “I assume you’ll want us to clear you for a retinal scan.”

I say, “No. This is your home. I know how much you value your privacy.”

“What about emergencies?” C.H. says.

“You’ve been here for years. I’m sure you can handle any emergencies that come your way.”

They seem happy and sad. Happy I don’t want to impose, but sad that I don’t want to have access, like Lou did. So I add, “As we become closer, over time, I would love to have access to your area. But even so, I won’t go beyond the lobby without your permission.”

That brings big smiles to their little mouths.

“Want to take a tour?” Curly says.

“Would you like me to?”

“Absolutely!”

“How about you cancel the kill code first?”