didn’t work right. And he would always stop, no matter what he
was doing, to help a little girl having heart pains at the foot of the stone
fisherman.
He would,
he would …
Chapter 5
S ecret Agent’s desk was his flying machine. When
he sat in his Aeron chair and hunkered down at his Dell laptop, he could be in
Anywhere, USA. He could be on the wireless network, sailing on a cruise ship in
the Caribbean or the Atlantic or the Indian Ocean for that matter. He could be
in Paris, France. Or Akron, Ohio; Hartford, Connecticut;
Phoenix, Arizona; or Walla Walla, Washington. He could be in Vancouver
or Toronto. He could be at the South Pole. In reality, he was located in
Boston’s North End, above a café that smelled like espresso all day.
The apartment
was small, but no one need know. It could be a penthouse on Park Avenue in
Manhattan, a ranch in Montana, a beach house at the Jersey Shore with the
Atlantic out one window and Barnegat Bay out another—or maybe a place near
South Beach, not far from where that psycho had killed Gianni Versace a few
years back. Or it could just be the house-next-door, where he was just a
regular guy trying to bring home the bacon and keep everyone happy.
He was
hungry. Before getting started, he grabbed a root beer and microwaved two beef
burritos. Set the plate down on his desk, booted up, got ready to take off. Really hungry—ate one burrito in three bites. Waited for the machine to stop clicking, logged on. Where to
go today? Where should the flying machine touch down this evening? It was
Friday night … .
His
favorite sites: scrolled down the list, looking. He had his ladies’ sites, his
playtime sites, his sports sites, his business sites. First and foremost in his
mind was always the search: he was looking for someone, and he knew the kinds
of Internet sites she liked to go. It was a full-time job, trying to find her.
But he had other irons in the fire as well; might as well make some money while
looking for his girl—the bitch formally known as his wife. Today, looking at
the list, he focused on his “doing business” sites. The bank account was
getting a little dry. One of his most fruitful and profitable Internet
destinations had lately been SpiritTown.com. A fan site for
the followers of the band Spirit.
The band
was decent musically and popular enough to still be selling out stadiums and
arenas twenty years after its first album. It could always be counted on to
join all those group lovefests, raising money for good causes. Save the
Rainforest, Free the Unjustly Accused, Women’s Rights, Peace, all that
bleeding-heart liberal stuff. His wife had loved Spirit. Little
Miss Save-the-World …
Secret
Agent trolled the SpiritTown message boards. The members liked to take their
names from Spirit’s song titles—so typical, and so
easy for him to spot the soft touches. The names practically ensured that
they’d give him the money he asked for—PeaceBabe,OneThinDime, Wish23,
Love_or_die, LonesomeDaughter … His wife used to occasionally post here as
“Aurora,” but he had a feeling she’d changed her screen name after their
breakup. He hadn’t seen Aurora here in a long time … .
He took a
glance at the list of recent topics—about half the threads were discussions of
Spirit music, lyrics, shows, and bootlegs. The rest concerned politics and events
of major interest to Spirit fans. This was sad—he actually chuckled as he
prepared to start typing. These people were practically begging to be
taken—they cared about everyone and everything. “Breast Cancer Awareness,”
“World Hunger,” “Can We Help Kids Who Don’t Have Enough?”
He had
registered as a member of the site six months earlier, and during that time had
posted six thousand times. He had established himself as a huge Spirit fan (not
true), a collector of their CDs (not true), a left-leaning Democrat (totally
not true), a divorced father of two (partly true). His
log-on name, Secret Agent,
was doing, to help a little girl having heart pains at the foot of the stone
fisherman.
He would,
he would …
Chapter 5
S ecret Agent’s desk was his flying machine. When
he sat in his Aeron chair and hunkered down at his Dell laptop, he could be in
Anywhere, USA. He could be on the wireless network, sailing on a cruise ship in
the Caribbean or the Atlantic or the Indian Ocean for that matter. He could be
in Paris, France. Or Akron, Ohio; Hartford, Connecticut;
Phoenix, Arizona; or Walla Walla, Washington. He could be in Vancouver
or Toronto. He could be at the South Pole. In reality, he was located in
Boston’s North End, above a café that smelled like espresso all day.
The apartment
was small, but no one need know. It could be a penthouse on Park Avenue in
Manhattan, a ranch in Montana, a beach house at the Jersey Shore with the
Atlantic out one window and Barnegat Bay out another—or maybe a place near
South Beach, not far from where that psycho had killed Gianni Versace a few
years back. Or it could just be the house-next-door, where he was just a
regular guy trying to bring home the bacon and keep everyone happy.
He was
hungry. Before getting started, he grabbed a root beer and microwaved two beef
burritos. Set the plate down on his desk, booted up, got ready to take off. Really hungry—ate one burrito in three bites. Waited for the machine to stop clicking, logged on. Where to
go today? Where should the flying machine touch down this evening? It was
Friday night … .
His
favorite sites: scrolled down the list, looking. He had his ladies’ sites, his
playtime sites, his sports sites, his business sites. First and foremost in his
mind was always the search: he was looking for someone, and he knew the kinds
of Internet sites she liked to go. It was a full-time job, trying to find her.
But he had other irons in the fire as well; might as well make some money while
looking for his girl—the bitch formally known as his wife. Today, looking at
the list, he focused on his “doing business” sites. The bank account was
getting a little dry. One of his most fruitful and profitable Internet
destinations had lately been SpiritTown.com. A fan site for
the followers of the band Spirit.
The band
was decent musically and popular enough to still be selling out stadiums and
arenas twenty years after its first album. It could always be counted on to
join all those group lovefests, raising money for good causes. Save the
Rainforest, Free the Unjustly Accused, Women’s Rights, Peace, all that
bleeding-heart liberal stuff. His wife had loved Spirit. Little
Miss Save-the-World …
Secret
Agent trolled the SpiritTown message boards. The members liked to take their
names from Spirit’s song titles—so typical, and so
easy for him to spot the soft touches. The names practically ensured that
they’d give him the money he asked for—PeaceBabe,OneThinDime, Wish23,
Love_or_die, LonesomeDaughter … His wife used to occasionally post here as
“Aurora,” but he had a feeling she’d changed her screen name after their
breakup. He hadn’t seen Aurora here in a long time … .
He took a
glance at the list of recent topics—about half the threads were discussions of
Spirit music, lyrics, shows, and bootlegs. The rest concerned politics and events
of major interest to Spirit fans. This was sad—he actually chuckled as he
prepared to start typing. These people were practically begging to be
taken—they cared about everyone and everything. “Breast Cancer Awareness,”
“World Hunger,” “Can We Help Kids Who Don’t Have Enough?”
He had
registered as a member of the site six months earlier, and during that time had
posted six thousand times. He had established himself as a huge Spirit fan (not
true), a collector of their CDs (not true), a left-leaning Democrat (totally
not true), a divorced father of two (partly true). His
log-on name, Secret Agent,
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