South Village (Ash McKenna) by Rob Hart Page B

turns back to the computer, hits some keys, logs off. She gets up from the chair and sticks a pinkie out to me. “Night bacon?”
    We pinkie promise. “Night bacon. We’ll talk later.”
    Alex saunters off and I fall into the nearly-shattered office chair. I don’t lean back too far because I learned that lesson already, the time I went ass-up. There’s something stiff underneath me and I think maybe I sat on something, and then realize it’s The Monkey Wrench Gang . I take it out of my back pocket, consider putting it on the desk, but slide it into one of the filing cabinets. Given that it has some value, my gut tells me this is somehow safer. If I put it anywhere else, someone will just walk off with it, either to return it to the library or read it themselves.
    I’m glad Alex didn’t push me too hard on this deal. Our bacon supply is running low but four strips, I can manage. And this is worth it.
    Trading bacon for favors so I can solve a murder that probably isn’t even really a murder. My life has gotten strange.
    There’s a little scratch, somewhere at the back of me. Something feels missing. Takes me a second to remember what it is: I am still sober. I pull out my hillbilly flask, dose myself with some shitty whiskey. Give it a second to settle. That evens me out.
    On the log-in screen there’s a long list of file folders, each with a name. I click on Pete’s, which actually says “Crusty Pete,” which is a little goofy. A prompt screen comes up for a password. Of course.
    I log onto the general account, the one I use, and click over to my e-mail. See Bombay’s name in the little chat window.
     
    Me: Yo.
    Bombay: What up bro!
    Me: Need some help.
    Bombay: Let me guess. Some illicit shit?
    Me: You know it.
    Bombay: What happened this time?
    Me: Don’t know. Maybe nothing. Just need to know some stuff.
    Bombay: Fine. Details.
    Me: I’m on a shared computer. Need to get into someone’s folder. Password protected.
    Bombay: OS?
    Me: ?
    Bombay: Operating system.
    Me: Windows.
    Bombay: www.teamwatch.com/download
     
    I click on the link, get taken to a download screen. Install the program. A little window pops up with a shiny blue bar that slowly marches to the right.
     
    Bombay: So how are things?
    Me: Okay.
    Bombay: Tibo good?
    Me: Yeah man. He wears this leadership thing well.
    Bombay: How about the hippies? Are you making friends?
    Me: Loads.
    Bombay: I honestly wish I was there. How funny that must be.
    Me: Dude, it’s fine. I’m a chef now.
    Bombay: So you’ve given up on the other work? Wait wait wait no you haven’t, because you’re asking me to do some illicit shit!
    Me: No comment. You been to see my ma lately?
    Bombay: She’s good. Misses you.
    Me: That’s nice. Hold up now.
     
    The blue bar meets the end of the screen and turns from sky to French blue, marking the end of the download. Quicker than I would have expected, but the computer makes a grinding noise from the effort. I go through the steps and a screen pops up with two boxes—one marked ‘address’, one marked ‘password’, both with long strings of numbers.
     
    Bombay: Got some numbers for me?
    Me: 342840, 038113
    Bombay: Okay, don’t touch anything.
     
    The screen flashes and the cursor moves around the screen without me touching it.
     
    Bombay: lol
    Bombay: Holy shit dude.
     
    The mouse clicks on a couple of things until there’s a screen full of numbers for memory and storage and speed.
     
    Bombay: I think this is the first computer ever built.
    Bombay: Okay, what do you need? You can type now.
    Me: Username is Crusty Pete. Need to get in there.
    Bombay: Fucking hippies man!
    Me: Yup.
    Bombay: Sit back, two minutes.
     
    I watch as a black screen pops up full of white text. Typing, typing, and a long string of words spill across the screen. More commands, more words. I should pay attention. This is useful to know.
    Then again, this is why I have a Bombay in my life.
     
    Bombay: Whoever juiced this thing up