[Steven Lyle Jordan]

Episode 4: L.A. Conspiratorial, subtitle: Only DOS facts, ma'am!
By Steve Jordan

1: How I got boned

It was developing into one of those hot San Diego days... and it was only 6am. It was hot enough for me to open up the balcony door, to allow some of the last of the cool breeze to blow into Pete's dining room, otherwise known these days as my Borg alcove, and at least attempt to cool off my Toughbook, the various and sundry electronic gear attached to it, and me. It wasn't working well, though.

Despite the relative uncomfortable feel to the air (at least it was a dry heat... hey, I had to say it), I wasn't going to stop working. I'd had an inspiration at about three in the morning. Actually, it was one of those cases when you have a dream, and it makes perfect sense to you during the dream, but the moment you wake up in the middle of the night, you realize it is complete crap. But before I fell back asleep, I realized the dream had actually hinted at something I hadn't yet done in my investigations into the little incident I like to call "How I got boned."

So I'd gotten up, booted up the alcove, and started working. It had been a little over two months since I'd been fired from my IT job in Baltimore under mysterious, spooky, and altogether ooky circumstances, and so far, the only hint I'd manage to dredge up from the other side of the continent was a few references to something called "Merc." The exact nature of "Merc" had so far eluded me, though... and I'll admit, my efforts probably weren't helped by the regular distractions I experienced during my research. That is, if you can call an occasional opportunity to help out my girlfriend's friends when they get into an IT-related jam, in-between running off with her and having the Best Sex Of My Life, a distraction. But back, reluctantly, to business... the inspiration from my non-sequitor dream was starting to look as if it might actually pay off.

But as I worked, my attention started to waver, and I had to stop to figure out why. Was it the heat? No, it wasn't that bad, yet. Getting tired? No... I might need an early run to Starbucks soon, but I wasn't that tired yet. Finally I realized what was wrong: The noise from my brother's room had abruptly stopped.

I know this doesn't sound like much of a distraction, but you don't hang at my crib. My brother and his squeeze, Riley, can and frequently will have at each other for hours. The only couple I know that is capable of out-performing those two, in fact, is me and my squeeze, Gail... who, coincidentally, used to be my brother's squeeze before I got here, though I'm not entirely sure why she wasn't anymore, and... but that's a story for another time. Anyway, between Pete and Riley, and me and Gail when we are here, we make enough noise during sex that it's amazing the neighbors haven't called the police on us yet. (Or Hustler.) While I've been staying here at my brother's place, I'd gotten good at tuning out the noise... it really is like getting used to traffic. But when it abruptly stops, like when the TV gets turned off in the middle of an action program... well, it can be distracting.

At about the time all of this was occurring to me, the door to Pete's bedroom opened. Out came Riley, dressed from the waist down but still pulling her top over her head, heading for the door. Riley has a big bag for a purse, and it looked like there was at least one piece of clothing dangling from it... I probably didn't want to know which. She threw a quick glance at me in the alcove, but neither of us spoke. Then she had her top in place, yanked open the front door, and headed out.

About a minute later, Pete came out of the bedroom. He had pulled on some shorts, and he looked wired, maybe a little angry, as he shuffled towards the front door. Then he glanced at the dining room and saw me, peering back from behind my gear. Pete stopped, glanced at the front door, back at me... then shook his head, changed direction, and headed into the kitchen. A moment later, I heard the telltale sound of a beer bottle being opened. And the next moment, Pete shuffled out of the kitchen and approached the dining room.

"What are you doing up?" Pete asked, sliding himself into a chair opposite mine. "Got a pen pal in the Outback?"

"What's wrong with Riley?" I asked, not that I was dodging the question.

Pete's eyes quickly disappeared under beetling brows, and he threw back his beer. After a moment, he replied, "I, uh... hell... I said Gail's name while—"

"Oh, for the love of," I started. "Pete, you are certifiable! First you do... whatever you did... to drive Gail away, then you actually utter her name while doing it with a girl who pretty much worships the ground you walk on..."

"I know, I know!" Pete said. "Man, I guy just can't get a break!" He took another hit from his beer. "It's okay... I'll patch it up with Riley. After all, we wouldn't want to ruin your Starbucks connection, would we?"

"Pete..."

"So, c'mon, what're you doing here, anyhow?" Pete asked, not that he wasn't dodging the subject. Because he was.

After a moment, I shrugged. "Had an idea last night. I've been tapping into server logs at one of my old client's offices. It occurred to me that I might be able to isolate this Merc thing by running some advanced search algorithms to find any connections between references to Merc, and any other documents on the servers. Then you create an interrelational digraph—"

"Whoa, flag on play!" Pete interrupted. "Unnecessary geekiness, five yard penalty!"

"You're such a dude, bro," I said lightly. After an appropriate sigh, I explained in non-geek terms, "I thought Merc might be some type of secret document or strategy that Byers & Mig, my ex-client, might be planning. So I'm trying to find references to a document that's been moved around on their server logs... sort of a back-door way to find documents."

"Could'a just said that," Pete nodded, and took another hit from the beer. I glanced at my watch significantly. Yes, it was only six-ten in the morning. Pete, missing (or pretending to miss) my silent admonishment, continued: "And is it working?"

"Making progress," I replied, "but nothing concrete yet."

"Ah," Pete said with little feigned interest. "Well, I'm gonna go back to bed... try not to make too much noise out here, 'kay?"

"I'll do my best," I said, turning back to my work.

"Hey, bro?"

I looked up. Pete had stopped halfway to the bedroom, and was looking at me. "Is it really so bad here that you can't imagine anything but going back to Baltimore?"

After a moment, I said, "Good night, bro."

Pete turned back to the bedroom. Over his shoulder, he said, "Good morning."