“It might be nothing,” Midge said, “but my Crypto stats turned up something odd. I was hoping you could shed some light.”
“What ya got?” He took another sip.
“I’ve got a report saying TRANSLTR’s been running the same file for eighteen hours and hasn’t cracked it.”
Jabba sprayed Dr Pepper all over his calzone. “You what?”
“Any ideas?”
He dabbed at his calzone with a napkin. “What report is this?”
“Production report. Basic cost analysis stuff.” Midge quickly explained what she and Brinkerhoff had found.
“Have you called Strathmore?”
“Yes. He said everything’s fine in Crypto. Said TRANSLTR’s running full speed ahead. Said our data’s wrong.”
Jabba furrowed his bulbous forehead. “So what’s the problem? Your report glitched.” Midge did not respond. Jabba caught her drift. He frowned. “You don’t think your report glitched?”
“Correct.”
“So you think Strathmore’s lying?”
“It’s not that,” Midge said diplomatically, knowing she was on fragile ground. “It’s just that my stats have never been wrong in the past. I thought I’d get a second opinion.”
“Well,” Jabba said, “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but your data’s fried.”
“You think so?”
“I’d bet my job on it.” Jabba took a big bite of soggy calzone and spoke with his mouth full. “Longest a file has ever lasted inside TRANSLTR is three hours. That includes diagnostics, boundary probes, everything. Only thing that could lock it down for eighteen hours would have to be viral. Nothing else could do it.”
“Viral?”
“Yeah, some kind of redundant cycle. Something that got into the processors, created a loop, and basically gummed up the works.”
“Well,” she ventured, “Strathmore’s been in Crypto for about thirty‑six hours straight. Any chance he’s fighting a virus?”
Jabba laughed. “Strathmore’s been in there for thirty‑six hours? Poor bastard. His wife probably said he can’t come home. I hear she’s bagging his ass.”
Midge thought a moment. She’d heard that too. She wondered if maybe she was being paranoid.
“Midge.” Jabba wheezed and took another long drink. “If Strathmore’s toy had a virus, he would have called me. Strathmore’s sharp, but he doesn’t know shit about viruses. TRANSLTR’s all he’s got. First sign of trouble, he would have pressed the panic button‑and around here, that means me.” Jabba sucked in a long strand of mozzarella. “Besides, there’s no way in hell TRANSLTR has a virus. Gauntlet’s the best set of package filters I’ve ever written. Nothing gets through.”
After a long silence, Midge sighed. “Any other thoughts?”
“Yup. Your data’s fried.”
“You already said that.”
“Exactly.”
She frowned. “You haven’t caught wind of anything? Anything at all?”
Jabba laughed harshly. “Midge . . . listen up. Skipjack sucked. Strathmore blew it. But move on‑it’s over.” There was a long silence on the line, and Jabba realized he’d gone too far. “Sorry, Midge. I know you took heat over that whole mess. Strathmore was wrong. I know how you feel about him.”
“This has nothing to do with Skipjack,” she said firmly.
Yeah, sure, Jabba thought. “Listen, Midge, I don’t have feelings for Strathmore one way or another. I mean, the guy’s a cryptographer. They’re basically all self‑centered assholes. They need their data yesterday. Every damn file is the one that could save the world.”
“So what are you saying?”
Jabba sighed. “I’m saying Strathmore’s a psycho like the rest of them. But I’m also saying he loves TRANSLTR more than his own goddamn wife. If there were a problem, he would have called me.”
Midge was quiet a long time. Finally she let out a reluctant sigh. “So you’re saying my data’s fried?”
Jabba chuckled. “Is there an echo in here?”
She laughed.
“Look, Midge. Drop me a work order. I’ll be up on Monday to double‑check your machine. In the meantime, get the hell out of here. It’s Saturday night. Go get yourself laid or something.”
She sighed. “I’m trying, Jabba. Believe me, I’m trying.”
CHAPTER 52
Club Embrujo‑"Warlock” in English‑was situated in the suburbs at the end of the number 27 bus line. Looking more like a fortification than a dance club, it was surrounded on all sides by high stucco walls into which were embedded shards of shattered beer bottles‑a crude security system preventing anyone from entering illegally without leaving behind a good portion of flesh.
During the ride, Becker had resolved himself to the fact that he’d failed. It was time to call Strathmore with the bad news‑the search was hopeless. He had done the best he could; now it was time to go home.
But now, gazing out at the mob of patrons pushing their way through the club’s entrance, Becker was not so sure his conscience would allow him to give up the search. He was staring at the biggest crowd of punks he’d ever seen; there were coiffures of red, white, and blue everywhere.
Becker sighed, weighing his options. He scanned the crowd and shrugged. Where else would she be on a Saturday night? Cursing his good fortune, Becker climbed off the bus.
The access to Club Embrujo was a narrow stone corridor. As Becker entered he immediately felt himself caught up in the inward surge of eager patrons.
“Outta my way, faggot!” A human pincushion pawed past him, giving Becker an elbow in the side.
“Nice tie.” Someone gave Becker’s necktie a hard yank.
“Wanna fuck?” A teenage girl stared up at him looking like something out of Dawn of the Dead.
The darkness of the corridor spilled out into a huge cement chamber that reeked of alcohol and body odor. The scene was surreal‑a deep mountain grotto in which hundreds of bodies moved as one. They surged up and down, hands pressed firmly to their sides, heads bobbing like lifeless bulbs on top of rigid spines. Crazed souls took running dives off a stage and landed on a sea of human limbs. Bodies were passed back and forth like human beach balls. Overhead, the pulsating strobes gave the whole thing the look of an old, silent movie.
On the far wall, speakers the size of minivans shook so deeply that not even the most dedicated dancers could get closer than thirty feet from the pounding woofers.
Becker plugged his ears and searched the crowd. Everywhere he looked was another red, white, and blue head. The bodies were packed so closely together that he couldn’t see what they were wearing. He saw no hint of a British flag anywhere. It was obvious he’d never be able to enter the crowd without getting trampled. Someone nearby started vomiting.
Lovely. Becker groaned. He moved off down a spray‑painted hallway.
The hall turned into a narrow mirrored tunnel, which opened to an outdoor patio scattered with tables and chairs. The patio was crowded with punk rockers, but to Becker it was like the gateway to Shangri‑La‑the summer sky opened up above him and the music faded away.
Ignoring the curious stares, Becker walked out into the crowd. He loosened his tie and collapsed into a chair at the nearest unoccupied table. It seemed like a lifetime since Strathmore’s early‑morning call.
After clearing the empty beer bottles from his table, Becker laid his head in his hands. Just for a few minutes, he thought.
* * *
Five miles away, the man in wire‑rim glasses sat in the back of a Fiat taxi as it raced headlong down a country road.
“Embrujo,” he grunted, reminding the driver of their destination.
The driver nodded, eyeing his curious new fare in the rearview mirror. “Embrujo,” he grumbled to himself. “Weirder crowd every night.”