Dianne could figure it out all right. What Big Lu had constructed here was something one might see in an old Boris Karloff flick. There was nothing sophisticated about it; it was straight out of the Middle Ages.
It was a rack.
“You see,” Big Lu confided, “here’s how it is. There’s people on the Net who like photography. And they download it from wherever they find it. It’s what you might call a marketable item. How it works is, you put out a free sample. If it’s quality stuff, there’s some who’ll pay good money for it. Delivery can be made via snail mail, which is to say our friendly post office, or electronically over the Net. It’s done all the time, sweetie. It’s big business.”
The fullness of what Big Lu was implying was just beginning to sink in.
“My God, you don’t mean you brought me down here to...”
“I think we’re on the same wavelength, sweetie.”
“But what you’re suggesting is... I mean, what you’re intending is... But that’s sick! It’s not normal!”
“Absolutely right. But it’s profitable, sweetie. And one has to keep body and soul together, doesn’t one?” Big Lu beamed at her. Just a regular gal trying to eke out a living.
Dianne felt her strength drain away, her knees begin to fold. She saw Big Lu watching her through the links, smiling and smiling...
They did make the trip in less than an hour, Mrs. Aird driving like a madwoman, Evelyn saying, “Careful there,” and “Easy does it,” and pumping an imaginary brake pedal every minute with her foot. They made such good time they arrived only moments behind Dianne’s Internet friend Timothy, who was just climbing out of a low-slung sports car in front of the shop as they pulled up. Evelyn looked him up and down.
He had one of those youthful faces women love, fashionable clothing, and neatly groomed hair. After a hesitant greeting, Evelyn felt it necessary to explain that Dianne was much younger than her or Mrs. Aird. This out of the way, they turned to the computer store. It was a small brickfront single-story pinched between a fried chicken take-out and a toy and novelty shop. Computer-generated electric signs in the windows announced bargains in seven-segment letters: CASH BACK FOR OLD RAM! — NEW AND USED CD-ROMS! — ON-RAMP TO THE INFO HIGHWAY — COME IN FOR A TEST DRIVE!
“Well,” said Mrs. Aird, “now what? Do we go in there and hammer somebody?” Timothy glanced at her with raised eyebrows. “It’s brutal,” Mrs. Aird explained, “but we may have to do it.”
“I’ll go in alone,” Evelyn announced. “I’ll ask some questions and try to get us some answers.”
“You could also,” Mrs. Aird continued, “threaten to break someone’s legs.”
“Don’t mind her,” Evelyn told Timothy. “She’s what you might call proactive.” She looked at the novelty shop. “She’s right, though. I may need a good argument. I wonder...”
“What do you wonder?” Timothy asked.
“Oh, just something my nephew mentioned to me...”
Entering the computer shop, instead of the jangle of a bell or an electronic beep Evelyn heard a Darth Vaderlike voice announce in reverberant tones, “I sense a new disturbance in the Force, admiral...”
The place was well-stocked with computer gear, though most of it was surplus and outdated, even Evelyn could see that. Heaps of grubby old computers and keyboards, shelves lined with grimy monitors. And boxes under the display tables bulged with thick gray cables and loose circuit boards. She was wondering if the place had been cleaned once since the business opened when a pudgy man with a widow’s peak and a humorless frown shuffled into the room.
He sized her up doubtfully. “You got a grandson, lady?” And before she could respond, he added, “I order new, or sell secondhand. I can build a setup out of new or used parts or a combination of both, depends how you want to go.”
Evelyn moved closer. He didn’t look like a kidnapper. Still, you never could tell...
“I want to go,” she said, “in the direction a friend of mine went a day or so ago. I want to go exactly in her direction. In short, I want to find her.” She took Dianne’s photo from her pocket. “Her name is Dianne Freely. She did some business here, as I understand it.”
The guy glanced at the photo with reluctance. “I don’t know nothing about missing persons. But I get a fair walk-in trade. Could be she stopped by here once.”
“I’m telling you,” Evelyn insisted, her voice hard and level, “she did business here. She shipped you used equipment for some so-called charity. You should have a record of it.” The man shook his head, not taking his eyes off of her. Evelyn said, “You do keep records here, don’t you?”
“Look, lady—”
“No, you look. It isn’t just me. I can call in the police if you like and have them root through your files. Or, if you prefer it, I got a friend outside just itching to come in here and hammer somebody.”
The proprietor still made no move to cooperate.
Evelyn sighed and reached into her pocket. In the shop next door she had purchased a magnet, the biggest one they had, almost cartoonlike in size and appearance. It was a fire-engine red horseshoe that weighed two pounds if it weighed an ounce, and when she held it out over the counter, to the shopkeeper’s horror and her own surprise, a mass of screws and metal plates leaped into the air and stuck to it.
“Physics 301,” Evelyn said. “Magnetism.”
“Ye-e-es...” The shopkeeper breathed shallowly.
“And as magnets go, this here one’s pretty powerful.” As if on cue, the magnet practically tore itself from Evelyn’s grasp, leaping to the metal frame of the glass display case with a loud whack! With difficulty she pried it loose. “You realize,” she said, “what a magnet can do in a place like this?”
The shopkeeper was starting to crack, perspiration beading on his high, polished cranium. Maybe he believed she was a criminally insane person, a wild-woman capable of anything. Evelyn brandished the magnet threateningly, moving it toward a batch of CD-ROM’s. The shopkeeper gave a feeble grin. “It won’t harm CD’s.”
“It will if I whack them with it!”
The grin dissipated. “Okay, you win. I’ll try and help you. But you have to agree to keep it a secret.” He glanced at the door and then leaned towards her. “There’s this — this person comes in from time to time, right?”
“Name?”
“Calls himself Timothy.”
“Description?”
“Well, to start with, he... But I’m not really sure he’s a... Strike that. You want to know what he looks like? Big. Real big. And always wearing these black clothes, like Johnny Cash, right?”
Evelyn frowned. It wasn’t the Timothy waiting outside with Mrs. Aird, that was for sure.
The shopkeeper threw in some background. “He asked me if I would take delivery of used computer parts for him.”
“Used parts from where?”
“He didn’t tell me that.”
“And you went along with it?”
“Why not? He said we’d share the stuff. He takes the best items, and I get the junk, but hey! — junk’s my stock in trade. Hobbyists, people who tinker, they love junk. They can’t get enough of it. And if I sell anything, I keep the proceeds.”
“Well,” Evelyn said, “so much for the poor and underprivileged.” She hardened her tone. She wanted an address. The man consulted a notebook computer and jotted one down for her.
“Now remember,” he cautioned, “this is strictly between you and me. I don’t want that character getting on my case.”
“Don’t get your mouse in a knot,” Evelyn told him. “My word is my bond.” Taking the slip from him, she added, “One other thing. This better be on the level. If not, I’m going to actually use this magnet. Not on your merchandise but on you! In unpleasant ways that you never thought possible!”