“Peanut butter and surgical gauze. That’s the ticket.”
I had no clue what led to this sudden outburst from Virginia, my sometimes secretary and occasional drinking partner. Virginia had been distracted for the better portion of the morning, apparently unable to focus on the menial tasks of filing the various hardcopy papers that had collected in my office since the last time she’d come by to earn a few credits a week ago. It wasn’t a difficult task to sort the various sheets of paper that collected over the course of business, but it wasn’t a commonplace task these days. Virginia had only commented once about the vast stacks of records and papers I maintained, even venturing to ask why she didn’t depend on the Matrix to store electronic versions of the documents like every other person these day, but quickly shut up when I gave her the “that’s my business, not your problem” look suggesting Virginia was always welcome to seek another source of cred if she wanted to bitch about her choice in record keeping. A year later and Virginia hadn’t once brought the matter up again. It was an easy job I had given her and the credit was always good. No sense in fucking up a good gig when you had it just because her employer had an eccentric habit of relying on hardcopies when everyone else in the world was okay with storing their docs on the ‘net. We all have our fetishes, Virginia supposed and left it at that.
“What?” I asked, already too late. Virginia had already dialed the cyberphone she’d had surgically implanted in her head a few years ago. The phone was considered a necessary fashion and lifestyle enhancement within a few short months after the technology had become available and it seemed that everyone wore a unit these days. Like everyone else with the phone hardwired to their nerves, Virginia was adsorbed in the conversation at the other end, her mouth moving silently as she sub-vocalized her conversation with the person at the other end. I personally don’t trust cyberware any more than I trust electronic data, but I am grateful for the development in tech, for no other reasons than fewer and fewer people could be heard walking around public places, loudly sharing their conversations on the older mobile phone technology with anyone who happened to be in earshot. To tell you the truth, I’ve always hated hearing only one side of the conversation, which invariably consisted primarily of “u-huh”, “I know!” and “Nothing. Whatcha doin’?” I see no point in having conversations without a purpose. When I talked to someone, I want it to be about business and to get it over with as quickly as possible. Implanted phones at least spared me having to listen to that disjointed one-sided conversation, as sub-vocal mikes had almost become a standard accessory with each implant sold.
Virginia’s eyes were closed as she talked, but her arms moved animatedly as she explained to the person on the other end just exactly what she meant by the strange comment she’d made just moments before. I’m always amused how old habits die hard and there are an amazing number of people in our world who are unable to talk if you bind their hands behind their back. Even though no one can see your arms flailing about as you make your point, the activity seems to be the quicksilver that makes your conversations flow and you are helpless to speak without the physical movement. In my business, you wouldn’t last too terribly long if you were so easy to read from afar. To be successful in the shadows, you need to keep your thoughts to yourself and those who need to know those thoughts. Give the wrong thing away and you’ll either be looking up the ass-end of a gun or you’ll lose a potential client - someone will invariably sell the information before you do. Cold, old intel is worthless in the shadows. A flick of the wrist or a smile can sometime be all that betrays what secrets you are willing to sell to the highest bidder. Mr. Johnson might take umbrage to you sharing information indiscriminately and you could find yourself out of the cred you were hoping to take home. If Mr. Johnson is particularly pissed about your indiscretion, he might consider it worth his while to have you eliminated. Nobody likes sloppiness in the shadows and he might consider it his civic duty to spare other Johnsons your lack of professionalism.
That said, Virginia is not in the biz and I never put her into the situation where she’d come across anything in my work that would put her in a position of appearing as if she might be a loose end that needed trimming. I only let her handle work for my day-job, the less lucrative work I perform as a cover for my more covert activities. The work barely pays the bills and never leaves enough cred to do anything more than barely survive. Virginia was in that boat herself, which is why I gave her an opportunity to make a little extra here and there to afford life’s little luxuries - be it a cyberphone or enough cred to buy real beer instead of the swill made from soy served as an inexpensive alternative in most restaurants and bars around the city. The hardcopies she filed for me were primarily concerned with domestic infidelity, skip-tracing and suspected petty thievery. I’m not dumb enough to leave any trace of my other work around. What doesn’t get stored in my head is wiped from the memory stick as soon as the job is over. For good measure, I usually melt the stick to a useless heap of plastic and silicon with some magnesium tape I keep around. For good measure, dance on what remains a few times with my boots. When Mr. Johnson has what he needs, I make sure to forget what I learned and destroy all the evidence.
It’s all about being professional.
Virginia’s arms quit moving around and fell to her sides as her eyes opened, obviously done with her conversation. It still took some effort to focus on sub-vocalizing her conversation, as it did with all but the most adept at the new tech, which is why she generally closed her eyes to focus on the act.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” I told her as she looked up at me. The fact that I was looking at her at the end of her conversation instead of going about my business as I would normally seemed to make her uneasy.
“Shit. I didn’t talk out loud again, did I?” Knowing how much I hated to even catch a glimmer of other people’s inane conversations, she always made a valiant effort to keep the mumbles to a minimum.
I smiled reassuringly. “Not at all… You were very quiet, except for right before you made your call.” Her eyes rolled upwards as she tried to recall the moments beforehand. I decided to help her out, rather than make her recall what had only been a fleeting moment in her mind. “You said something about peanut butter and gauze. Rather excited about the matter, before you went off into la-la land.”
Virginia blushed a little. “Oh. That. I had just come up with a solution to a friend’s problem is all.” She glanced over her shoulder sheepishly to see if anyone else was around, although no one was ever around my office - I always met potential clients out in the city as an extra level of security. The door was always locked, whether I was inside or away. Never trust anybody if you want to stay alive is my motto.
“I have a friend who decided to hang out at Hidden Beach last night,” she told me. Hidden Beach was a popular place for people who like to socialize in the nude by moonlight and by the light of small fires built on the shores of Cedar Lake. Years ago, before the waters went toxic from pollution, people used to skinny-dip in the waters of the lake, but that had become a dangerous pastime in the last twenty or so years, leading to rashes caused by the chemicals leaching from a forgotten dump upgradient from the lake. Old rituals died hard and, while only a few masochists continued to bathe in the waters, an evolution of the ritual continued with the nudists that had claimed the beach as theirs.
I raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.
“The person assigned to watch for the badges got a little preoccupied with one of the other attendees and everyone had to make an emergency exit when the alarm hadn’t been sounded in time for them to get dressed,” she continued. “He ended up hiding in the tall grass near the beach while the badges arrested anyone they could find.”
“Was your friend one of the lucky ones to escape a night of detention?”
She smirked a bit as she considered what she would tell me next. “Yeah. He got away without much hassle from the cops. Unfortunately, the badges were pretty thorough in their search and he was in that meadow for several hours before he could leave. During that time, he found a number of little friends and, when he got home, he was covered with a number of wood ticks that decided he tasted good.”
Virginia was definitely enjoying her story, all smiles and barely-restrained laughter. Of all our advances in technology and science over the years, some of God’s creatures were still able to resist our attempts to control nature. Ticks, mosquitoes and roaches were impervious to most of our attempts to eradicate them, and apparently Virginia’s friend had found a bountiful nest of parasites near one of his favorite stomping grounds.
“He’s covered in as many as a hundred of the damned bloodsuckers,” she said. “For being a tough guy, he’s scared to death of bugs and is afraid that their heads will remain if he tried to pull them out.” She paused. “He’s very afraid of infection. Especially in, ahem, certain private areas.”
I fought the inevitable laughter. “And…?”
Virginia regained her faltering composure. “Well, I remember an old folk remedy my grandmother told me about just a few minutes ago. She said that they used to dab a little peanut butter on the tick and then cover it with surgical gauze until the tick smothered and backed its way out of your skin. I don’t know if it really works, but hell, I thought he should try it. Couldn’t hurt, could it?”
Aside from smelling like peanut butter, possibly for a few days, it probably wouldn’t hurt, I thought. I found myself being amused by the idea of encountering someone who smelled like an elephant had chewed them up and spit them out and I had to restrain a chuckle. I’d know where that person had been the night before… But I kept these thoughts to myself. “I don’t suppose it could hurt, but I wouldn’t put money on it working.”
Virginia shrugged. “That would be his problem, I guess. If it doesn’t work, he’ll have to get over his fear, start pulling and hope nothing gets left behind.”
Obviously enjoying her friend’s conundrum, Virginia played out a scene in her head before looking back at me. “I’d better get on with these files. He may need some help later with the cure I’ve proposed. Besides, you’re not paying me to socialize.” With that, she returned to her work filing the hardcopies in the various file cabinets I had lining the office while I returned to my laptop to check the email that had come in the last few days.
Virginia turned to ask me a question. “Hey Lorelei…” she started when there was a knock on the door. She knew as well as I did that I never received anyone at my office and that I conducted my business elsewhere. She had just enough street smarts to know that something was amiss. Without hesitation, she dove behind one of the metal filing cabinets and scrunched herself into a tiny ball as I sat down on the floor next to my desk, my Predator drawn from its holster and aimed at my office door.
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