one day. I have until tomorrow to get files.”
“I promise you’ll have them by then,” Biff said. “Now let me
look at your eye.”
Sveta leaned back in her chair and Biff gently probed the
tender part of her face. “Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken.” He closed his
eyes and focused on the tips of his fingers, sending heat and energy into
Sveta.
“Mmm,” she said. “Feels good.”
Biff stepped back, and Sveta glanced at herself in the
mirror. “My face! Is no more bad!” She looked at him. “Mr. Andromeda, you are
magical!”
“Just a little talent I have,” he said. Then he opened his
third eye and sent the befuddling signals to her brain so that she forgot that
Biff had touched her. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure out a way to get Ovetschkin off
your back for good.”
As he walked back to his office, he wished he felt as
confident as he sounded.
6 –
No More Parking Cars
When he returned to his office, he picked up the phone and
heard the stutter dial tone which indicated a message on his voice mail. The
chiropractor at the far end of the mall was hiring a new office manager, and wanted
a background check. Dr. Oppsal had been burned once, when an employee with an
undisclosed criminal record stole medical information on patients and sold it
to a disreputable law firm. Since then, she had paid Biff to do basic checks on
everyone she considered hiring.
Biff walked back outside and along the sidewalk to the chiropractor’s,
where a full-sized plastic skeleton dangled in the front window. It made a
light clanking noise when Biff opened the door. The only patient waiting was a
black man, a dwarf, with kinky hair gelled up into a tall pompadour. He was
reading a magazine and swinging his legs in the air.
The front desk clerk, Sophia, was a short, chunky Latina
with slicked-back dark hair and a row of different-colored studs along each
ear. She wore tight-fitting polyester blouses in brightly-colored prints, and a
rhinestone necklace that spelled out her name.
“You have an application for me?” Biff asked.
“Another loser,” Sophia said. “I can tell a mile away. But
Aunt Rita won’t listen to me. Only you.”
“You get yourself a private eye license, she’ll listen,”
Biff said.
Dr. Oppsal was Sophia’s aunt by marriage, and they had a
love-hate relationship. The good doctor paid so little she couldn’t attract
good staff, and Sophia had such a limited skill set she couldn’t get a better
job.
Sophia stood up and began making a copy of the application
for Biff. “Not me. I’m going to cosmetology school.” She fluttered her
eyelashes at Biff. “See, I did my own makeup this morning.”
It looked to Biff like a spider had landed on her eyelids.
“I thought you were getting a real estate license.”
Sophia shook her head. “Nah, I gave that up. Too much math.”
She pulled the papers from the copier and handed them to Biff. “So, when are
you going to ask me out on a date?”
“I keep telling you, I’m taken,” Biff said.
“Yeah, by this imaginary woman I’ve never met. What’s her
name again? Farfalle? Farfegnugen?”
“Farishta. You never know when she’ll show up.” He took the
papers from her. “Thanks. I’ll get a report together soon.”
He put aside investigating the applicant, though, because
the issue of how he was going to get Ovetschkin to leave Sveta alone was more
pressing. It was clear to Biff that he had to know more about the man. He was
no hacker, but he subscribed to a number of different databases that tracked
everything from birth certificates to criminal records. From the same illegal
source that had supplied Laskin’s driver’s license number, he found Kiril
Ovetschkin’s Social Security number, and that was all he needed to do more
legitimate research.
Kiril was born in Kiev in 1957. He left Russia for Israel
in 1986, shortly after Mikhail Gorbachev had instituted his glasnost policy. In
1992 he had made a million-dollar
“I promise you’ll have them by then,” Biff said. “Now let me
look at your eye.”
Sveta leaned back in her chair and Biff gently probed the
tender part of her face. “Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken.” He closed his
eyes and focused on the tips of his fingers, sending heat and energy into
Sveta.
“Mmm,” she said. “Feels good.”
Biff stepped back, and Sveta glanced at herself in the
mirror. “My face! Is no more bad!” She looked at him. “Mr. Andromeda, you are
magical!”
“Just a little talent I have,” he said. Then he opened his
third eye and sent the befuddling signals to her brain so that she forgot that
Biff had touched her. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure out a way to get Ovetschkin off
your back for good.”
As he walked back to his office, he wished he felt as
confident as he sounded.
6 –
No More Parking Cars
When he returned to his office, he picked up the phone and
heard the stutter dial tone which indicated a message on his voice mail. The
chiropractor at the far end of the mall was hiring a new office manager, and wanted
a background check. Dr. Oppsal had been burned once, when an employee with an
undisclosed criminal record stole medical information on patients and sold it
to a disreputable law firm. Since then, she had paid Biff to do basic checks on
everyone she considered hiring.
Biff walked back outside and along the sidewalk to the chiropractor’s,
where a full-sized plastic skeleton dangled in the front window. It made a
light clanking noise when Biff opened the door. The only patient waiting was a
black man, a dwarf, with kinky hair gelled up into a tall pompadour. He was
reading a magazine and swinging his legs in the air.
The front desk clerk, Sophia, was a short, chunky Latina
with slicked-back dark hair and a row of different-colored studs along each
ear. She wore tight-fitting polyester blouses in brightly-colored prints, and a
rhinestone necklace that spelled out her name.
“You have an application for me?” Biff asked.
“Another loser,” Sophia said. “I can tell a mile away. But
Aunt Rita won’t listen to me. Only you.”
“You get yourself a private eye license, she’ll listen,”
Biff said.
Dr. Oppsal was Sophia’s aunt by marriage, and they had a
love-hate relationship. The good doctor paid so little she couldn’t attract
good staff, and Sophia had such a limited skill set she couldn’t get a better
job.
Sophia stood up and began making a copy of the application
for Biff. “Not me. I’m going to cosmetology school.” She fluttered her
eyelashes at Biff. “See, I did my own makeup this morning.”
It looked to Biff like a spider had landed on her eyelids.
“I thought you were getting a real estate license.”
Sophia shook her head. “Nah, I gave that up. Too much math.”
She pulled the papers from the copier and handed them to Biff. “So, when are
you going to ask me out on a date?”
“I keep telling you, I’m taken,” Biff said.
“Yeah, by this imaginary woman I’ve never met. What’s her
name again? Farfalle? Farfegnugen?”
“Farishta. You never know when she’ll show up.” He took the
papers from her. “Thanks. I’ll get a report together soon.”
He put aside investigating the applicant, though, because
the issue of how he was going to get Ovetschkin to leave Sveta alone was more
pressing. It was clear to Biff that he had to know more about the man. He was
no hacker, but he subscribed to a number of different databases that tracked
everything from birth certificates to criminal records. From the same illegal
source that had supplied Laskin’s driver’s license number, he found Kiril
Ovetschkin’s Social Security number, and that was all he needed to do more
legitimate research.
Kiril was born in Kiev in 1957. He left Russia for Israel
in 1986, shortly after Mikhail Gorbachev had instituted his glasnost policy. In
1992 he had made a million-dollar
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