Silksuit Barty and the Bridge into Cyberspace

The rain felt like cool grease on my skin. It trickled down the neck of my jacket and traced snakes down my back. I was about four steps from giving up when I looked down a dirty brown alley and saw the sign. Even though it was neon, I almost missed it, coated in dust and oily drizzle, and flickering a bit, it could have been a patch of almost spent coals, thrown from a window and suspended eight feet from the ground in the shape of an inverted arrow.

Pushing open the dingy door, I expected patchouli, vanilla, a hint of exotic herbs, what I got was the smell of bacon, almost as thick and fatty as the rain outside. It took 5 long seconds for my mouth to break the membrane of fat and take a breath. What did meet my preconceived notions was the dim light inside, the beaded curtain veiling the door connecting to this tiny room, the gaudy gypsy uniform on the fortuneteller.

"Madam Maxine?" my voice was a bit scratchy from the coating of pork fat my throat had just developed. Again my Hollywood induced assumptions were proven wrong. She wasn't a crooked old crone with a theatrical lump on one side of her hooked nose. As a matter of fact, she was attractive. Olive skin, dark eyes; Italian Gypsy Princess attractive.

Her voice sounded about ten years older than she looked, "Please, have a seat." I did, put my laptop case between my feet and waited. Maxine turned her back to me and finished her BLT. Finally she turned and produced a satin drawstring bag, exactly the same color as the neon sign out front, dusty overcoat and all. Of course, she took from it a crystal ball. She set the tangerine-sized ball in the center of the table and it didn't roll, it seemed anchored to the spot. Although I was a bit self-conscious of the bloody bandaged stump where my pinky used to be, I put my hands outside of hers, it seemed the thing to do.

She bent down and looked into the ball. I expected eye squinting, heavy breathing, lots of drama, but Lady Maxine got right to business. "Who is this mafioso I see? Silk suits, bad hair cut, scary eyes?"

Barty Castaletti was Mr. Silk Suit she was referring to. Two months ago, Barty had retained me to build a website for his business, actually a front for his organized crime dynasty. He’d seemed nice enough at first. I agreed to build his site (lawnmower parts and equipment sales, can you believe it?) Completely Flash, dynamically database driven content. He wanted the works, and was willing to pay. I was so excited I told myself it was legit. I knew better.

“He took your pinky.” Maxine stated it rather than asked. “What happened? Didn’t he tell you not to look at the link? Not very professional, snooping into the client’s business.” I was a bit perturbed at her for pointing out the obvious, and giving me crap for it like my mom, but she was pretty. I held my tongue.

This password-protected “business portal”, no doubt laundry lists of people to whack and such, would be accessed wherever a certain color green was used. See the green, click that area, find your “To Whack” list. I was to link but never look, even at the password gateway. But it’s never that simple. I built that little bridge in cyberspace, and what is more inviting than a bridge uncrossed?

“You looked. You hacked into the site and saw what was there. Again, my friend not very professional.” I didn’t feel like bringing up the fact that it wasn’t very professional for Maxine to be listening in on my inner monologue.

“Wait a minute,” I hate how my voice sounds when I’m sheepishly defending myself, “I didn’t hack. It was a joke. I put in silksuit as a user name, barty as the password, and got in. Who uses their nickname as a user name and password? It’s ridiculous.”

“Prisons are full of people who have perfect justification for their crimes, my friend,” crooned Maxine. I didn’t want her to call me her friend any more. “But then, you already paid your debt to society.” She looked pointedly at my stump. “Let’s see if we can get this worked out.”

I cringed waiting for her to say “my friend” again, but she didn’t. She reached under the table and grabbed my laptop case, then proceeded to take it out and set it up in front of the crystal ball. She produced a cable from under the table and had us up and browsing in about a minute and a half. Were-here.com. I’d seen it before, but when Maxine logged on, she had about twice as many discussion forums under the as I’d ever had. She scrolled down to one entitled “Designing for mafioso” and entered it. She started a new thread, “Help, I messed up a Flash site for Barty Castaletti. He took my pinky, might take more.” Immediately we got a response:

“You looked at the link, didn’t you? Bad idea.” And then:

“I had a Flash designer friend who looked at the link. All we found was his pinky, lucky.” And finally:

“Tony is right. You’re lucky, kid. I just asked for some simple privacy. The reason you’re still around is that I like you, and you do good work. I will be using your services again. Meanwhile, your check’s in the mail, and mind your business, my friend.” The username below the message was silksuitbarty. I wasn’t really surprised, just relieved.

Maxine shut down the laptop and returned it to the case. “I will be using your services again, my friend,” I said, feeling like a big shot mobster myself. I handed her a crisp 100 like it was easy, and walked out. The rain had stopped, and I was contentedly humming Sinatra.