Life Struggles (Life Stories Book 1) (3 page)

Next step was to move about three miles then pull into a fast food restaurant. While in the drive-through lane I dug out my supply of burner cellphones and cash. There were only three cellphones left, but I still had $800 in twenties. I hoped it was enough. I picked a cellphone at random, plugged it into the charger and dialed.

“Hello.” No name. Good. I recognized the voice.

“You know who this is?” We had agreed not to use names on the phone. He knew me.

“You got a few minutes? Need to talk now. It's important.” I didn't want to spook him, but I also didn't want to wait until tomorrow.

“Where we met time before last. See you in an hour, and I can keep talking as long as you're buying the beer.” Got it. Smoking patio for a dive bar outside downtown.

I got my food, ate it in the parking lot, and then drove the three miles to the bar. I stopped on the way to get him two packs of cigarettes. I called Flint from the payphone in the convenience store. Yeah, some of them still have pay phones.

“Flint.” The answer invited me to speak, so I did.

“First visit is to an internet fraud source. Hitting the highway, gotta go.” I hung up.

I parked a block from the bar and walked up to the smoking patio. I could see Shorty sitting by himself nursing a beer. In the bar I ordered a pitcher of beer and a coke. I shoved a twenty dollar bill between the packs of cigarettes and joined him.

Shorty's eyes lit up when he saw the beer. He'd been a decent programmer until the booze got him. Lost his family, his job, his house and his self-respect. He did some odd programming jobs for shady clients, but his skills were aging and he couldn't keep that up much longer. I had no idea what would happen to him when he couldn't get any work. I tried to convince him to go to AA, no joy. He had finally accepted a burner cellphone from me and used it judiciously. A good guy done in by his addiction.

“Hey, man, good to see you! Ah, do you mind pouring the beer? I ain't had enough to drink yet today to steady my hands.” I first passed him the cigarettes. He took a peek between the packs and smiled. “What can I do for you?”

“My son is missing.” Might as well start with the punchline. Shorty did not react at all. “And you may be able to help me find him.”

While he downed half of his mug Shorty scratched his head of wiry black hair. He had started losing his hair maybe a year ago, and combing over the tightly-wound strands was not an option.

His skin was a color that could be anything. It was darker than mine, but so were most Italians'. It was lighter than Marcus's, who himself was a relatively light-skinned African-American. Mottling from the alcohol abuse didn't help. I once asked him what his race was and he said “Kentucky Derby.”

“How am I suppose' ta help?” he asked. “I'm just a fucking drunk.”

“You ever do any programming for on-line games, you know, special programming they don't want people to see?” I stilled the hand ready to bring more beer to his mouth.

“Yeah, do it from time to time,” Shorty allowed. “A couple a months ago I done somethin' for that “Real Housewives of Orgy City” game. Ya know it?” Never heard of it.

“It's kinda like, ya know, the Simpsons?” Still no help.

“OK. Well, they got this buncha big-boobed mostly naked sluts runnin' around. The purpose is to track em down and fuck em. It's online with a buncha players at the same time.” He looked as though that should explain it to me. It did not.

“So, OK, like, they was wantin' to let the guys pick how big their dicks was gonna be. The game was open to anyone over eighteen. Or, anyone who could click a box sayin' he was over eighteen. Same difference.” Shorty wanted more beer and wanted it now. I could handle that. If he got too much booze in him he wasn't going to be any help. This was going to be a careful balancing act. Just like life. Ya know?

“So I did what they ast. I didn't tell em how fuckt up it was gonna be, just did what they wanted. They was back in a week because all the sluts was pinned to the players. Every slut had a four foot long dick stickin' out of her and nobody could figure out howta separate them. It was hilarious. Beer, please.” I was beginning to doubt that Shorty was going to be much help, but he was on a roll.

Interviewing 102 is about knowing how much the source needed to tell you. Almost everybody has a need to impart information about what they think is important. Until the source has met her or his need to I impart information the interviewer's agenda had to wait. Otherwise, the other guy or girl was answering your questions but really just thinking about what they wanted to say about their own topics. That didn't help with accuracy or completeness of the information.

To sum that up, I allowed myself to complain inside, but outside I had a smile and all the patience in the world.

Shorty smacked his lips. I liked beer. This guy lived for it.

“Where was I?” The alcohol had destroyed enough brain cells that Shorty got lost from time to time. Such as from Monday through the following Sunday most weeks.

I mentioned the sluts and the players pinned together with four-foot long dicks.

“Oh, yeah. So, I did what I knew I shoulda done the first time and put a limit on how big a player could make his dick. They was real happy and they paid me twice. Life don't get no better than that, except with beer. Speaking of which….” I poured him some more.

“Then they came back and wanted me to fix it so that the game could sneak through parental controls on kids' computers. I don't do that shit and told em so. They offered more money and I still refused. I got no job, no house, no family, almost no brains and zero self-respect. But I still got some standards.” Shorty was looking proud of himself. I didn't want to know the answer, so I didn't ask him how hard it would have been to penetrate parental controls on kids' internet access.

“How do you get these jobs?” At last, I could start moving the conversation closer to what I needed.

The one-time programming whiz beamed. “I been movin' up in the world and got me a agent.” Getting closer.

“Who's your agent, Shorty?” Shit, I knew that expression. I had moved too quickly away from what he wanted to tell in the direction of what I wanted to hear.

“Need some more beer. Can't talk when my throat's so dry. Ya know?” Shorty lit a cigarette and leaned back. Patience, Ethan. Journalism 101. Shit, Life 101. Patience.

I came back with more beer and “accidentally” dropped another twenty on the ground.

“I think you dropped this.” I picked up the twenty and handed it to him. He grinned and put it in his pocket. This was going to be one of Shorty's better days if I could just keep him sober long enough.

“So, I was tellin' ya I gotta agent. Big ugly motherfucker, Japanese or something. Barfus or Doofus maybe.” How Shorty could remember programming commands when he couldn't remember his own name most days stumped me. But, it wasn't relevant here.

“Rufus?” I knew who Rufus Yardley was. For the first time I hoped I was wasting my efforts in talking to Shorty. I knew who Rufus was. I knew
what
Rufus was. And who and what Rufus was scared the crap out of me.

“Yeah, that's it! Rufus.” Shorty was beaming as if he'd thought of this all by himself.

“So, Rufus brings you jobs for underage online fuck games. Is that it?” Please let it be yes or no, just not ‘I can't remember.’ If it was yes, then deadly Rufus wasn't part of this. If it was no, then maybe I hadn't been wasting my time. If he couldn't remember I'd have to follow the lead a different way, and I wasn't looking forward to that.

“A coupla months ago I made a maze for some fuckin' video game. It had a triple log-in and two failures froze the whole thing. If someone got in there was a maze to follow before you could really see anything. I made it too complicated, though.” Shorty paused and reached for his mug. I let him take it.

“What do you mean too complicated? I thought the more complicated the better it was to secure something.” I showed my ignorance immediately.

Shorty asked me to pour more beer. I let him have half a mug out of the pitcher. Never stupid, just drunk, he realized I wasn't going to let him inebriate himself before I got what I came for.

“Yeah, the lady said that she couldn't never get through that shit. So she had me put in a back door where she could go in and fix things.” Shorty guzzled the beer. “Dumb cunt had me put the same back door into the rankings and the photos. Even I know how stupid that is, but that's what the animal wanted.” He was dismissive of less technology-savvy people than himself.

“Who was the lady?” The mention of photos and rankings had piqued my interest. I wasn't sure the lady was the next step in the chain, but wasn't about to pass her up. And an animal is a creature.

“Doan know, some Chinese or Japanese woman. Rufus brought her to me, said she was one dangerous animal. Now, gimme some more fuckin' beer, OK?” I half-filled his mug again; it was empty in seconds.

“Do you remember the back doors?” I needed some information yet, and needed to prioritize.

“Yeah, they was all the same.” He asked me for pen and paper, which I immediately supplied.

“Here it is.” I read the code.

‘tnucbmudamai321’

“Read it backwards,” he said. I already had.

‘123 i am a dumb cunt’

“She must really have been stupid,” I observed.

“Yeah, and so was her video game. All people hittin' and killin' each other, stabbin' and knocking down and kickin' and shit.” Shorty held up the mug, and I gave him another half. He now had enough alcohol in him that our productive time together was approaching its end.

“Shorty, another twenty if you tell me the video game website and the addresses for the photos and rankings, and another twenty if you tell me how to get ahold of Rufus.” Those were all the pieces I figured I could get from him. And he gave them to me.

“Rufus ain't nobody. He does enforcement for somebody, don't remember who. His last name starts with a Y. He's Oriental. He's gotta office at the Pussy Willow. That's all I know.” I gave Shorty another forty and poured the rest of the beer for him.

“Be safe, and thanks, man. Please like always, don't tell anybody about our talk.” I found it necessary to remind some of my informants of this. Several were drunks or addicts, and a few were just plain stupid.

Shorty waved absently as he lit a cigarette before lifting the mug one last time.

I went to an internet café where they let you use their computers for a charge. I searched for descriptions of the video game. Yeah, that sounded like it. The descriptions were all from people with names like “Lord of Darkness.” I found one from KINGDORK. Bingo.

A couple of the reviews talked about taking the game into RL (real life I assumed) and getting points for pictures. That was all I needed to know.

I called up a free internet phone service that allowed one two-minute call at a time for free. After that you had to pay. I didn't expect this to take more than two minutes. I typed in Flint's number.

“This is Myra Hartag, how can I help you?” Shit. Why was she answering Flint's phone?

“Counselor, this is Ethan McQuade. I need to talk to Flint immediately.” I was watching the seconds go by.

‘Mr. McQuade, you can tell me and I'll give him a message when he's available.” Maybe she's just trying to be helpful here, but I didn't have time to find out.

“Ms.Hartag, there's only a minute and a half before the connection turns into a pumpkin. I need Flint immediately. Please.”

I heard her yell his name along with a string of expletives. I was trying to humor her as best I could, but her attitude just wasn't conducive to a good relationship.

“Flint, what do you have?”

“Get ready to copy, detective. Website is the one the investigator found.” I rattled off the addresses of the photo site and the rankings site, then gave him the backdoor password.

“Do not let anybody detect entry through the back door or my informant dies.” I paused. Confirmation is the lifeblood of journalism. “You know any big ugly Oriental motherfuckers named Rufus other than Rufus Yardley?”

“Ethan, stay away from Yardley. When Alex comes home freshly laid and totally shit-faced I don't want to have to tell him his step-father's dead.”

I paused while he shouted an order. “Next call let me know if Alex is on the photo site.” Seventeen seconds left.

“Bye.” Time had run out.

It's getting darker. This is Decadence, the country's largest gay gathering of the year. Bourbon Street was always a circus, but now it was a circus with an overflow of testosterone and an underflow of clothing. In maybe an hour I'd have to brave the river of ribaldry to get to the Pussy Willow. I had a bit of time to kill, so I drove to another internet café.

First, though, I called Bookie. He was the paper's archivist and had everything on file, and most of that in his head. He couldn't tell you shit about tomorrow, but he had the entire history of the world up to this morning at his fingertips. Or so it seemed.

“Bookie, it's me. Is there anywhere in the world with a market for human sex trafficking involving late-teen boys?” Thank god Bookie had the good sense never to ask questions he didn't want answered.

“Yup, Belarus. Also known as Byelorussia or White Russia.” Didn't have to consult a single reference. Actually, that kind of bothered me.

“Thanks, bye.”

Fortunately Bookie was accustomed to dealing with out-of-left-field questions and didn't bother inquiring about their purpose. If the story wound up in print he'd have all of his answers anyway.

Some people are faster, but I'm more than fast enough. The basics became clear in minutes. I ruled out air. Sea shipments to Belarus mostly went through Klaeipeda in Lithuania. Nothing direct from New Orleans. Nothing in the last 24 hours from anywhere in the western hemisphere; in another two weeks there was one from Houston. Nothing from Mexico in the next six months.

Most freight from the Americas to Klaeipeda actually went through Rotterdam for transfer between ships. Nothing from the U.S. or Mexico today, Houston in five days, Vera Cruz, Mexico, in four days. Cargo from Houston would spend nine days in Rotterdam before connecting, so I could scratch that. Vera Cruz had a one-day transfer. That was just possible.