Sixteen
The knuckleheads who tore down the West End in the name of urban renewal didn’t know the first thing about renewing the urban. Big politics and big money don’t turn a neighborhood around. The only thing that’s been proven to work is a generation of young people bearing a funny name.
The yuppies renewed my South End neighborhood in the eighties and nineties, wading into the heroin dens and gang-ridden streets, dragging with them builders, painters, high property values, and fern bars. I now lived a block from Walnut Street, whose biggest claim to fame had been getting featured in a book in which an idealistic young couple gave up on the place and fled to Newton.
The yuppies were gone now, the members of that generation being no longer young nor upwardly mobile. They had been replaced by the hipsters, who now took on new neighborhoods, and the hipsters had decided to turn Jamaica Plain into the coolest place on Earth.
After I had gotten Maria home, Bobby called to tell me that he and Special Agent Hunter wanted to talk to me about Runway. He and I now sat in a bookstore-cum-tapas bar named Tres Gatos. The small amalgamation had been nestled inside a Victorian house: restaurant in the front, bookstore in the back. Bobby and I sat at a black bar, drinking beer and eating warmed olives. A black guitar sporting the words Take me to Tres Gatos hung from the wall, while vinyl records and old books decorated the dark wood of a painted fireplace mantle of what must have been the house’s formal dining room.
“What’s with the vinyl records?” Bobby asked.
“I have no idea,” I said. “They’re either before my time or after it.”
Hunter walked through the front door, approached Bobby, and tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re sitting in Ron’s seat.”
“What?”
Hunter pointed at a nameplate attached to the bar in front of the seat. It said Ron MacLean. “It’s his seat. You’ll have to get up if he comes in.”
“I’ll take my chances, Mel.”
“Suit yourself.” Hunter climbed onto the stool next to Bobby, kitty-corner from me. Took an olive, chewed on it, produced a pit, and placed it in a little pit bowl.
The bartender stepped up. “Hey, Mel. The usual?”
“Thanks, Brett.”
“Agent Hunter,” I said.
“Special Agent Hunter,” she said.
“Am I the only person in the world who calls you Special Agent Hunter?”
Hunter fixed me with a gaze. “No. All my suspects call me that.”
“Suspect? Suspected of what?”
“You tell me, Rosetta.”
Bobby said, “Hold on, Mel.”
Hunter said, “You should call me Special Agent Hunter in front of Tucker.”
“I’ll call you Special Agent Hunter when you do something special.”
“You’re disrespecting me in front of a suspect.”
“No,” said Bobby, “you’re disrespecting my friend in front of me.”
I said, “Do you guys need some alone time? I could go look at vinyl.”
“Shut up,” said Bobby.
At least our relationship hadn’t changed.
Bobby continued, “What were you doing in that chat room?”
“I don’t think I’ll answer that,” I said.
“Just a friendly conversation,” said Hunter.
“Talk about disrespect. You think I’m an idiot.”
Bobby raised his hand. “Mel, let me handle this.”
The bartender brought Hunter a glass of white wine. “These guys bothering you?” he asked her.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I said.
He gave me a hipster scowl and turned away. I drained my beer, gnawed a warm olive, and spit the pit into the plate. “Why were you guys spying on me?”
“We were not spying on you.”
“So then why the phone call?”
“We’re working on another case.”
“Seriously? By lurking on the IRC chat? You going to put some kid in jail?”
“We’re not chasing kids, Tucker. We’re retrieving some information.”
“Yeah? What information?”
Hunter broke in, “You’re not going to tell him, are you, Bobby?”
Bobby winced. “I am going to ask for his help.”
“But he’s Rosetta! You know? The Rosetta?”
“Yes, I know.”
“The one we studied in Quantico.”
I ate an olive. “Who says I’m Rosetta?”
“Did you write the Nappy Time Virus?”
“Not that you know,” I said.
“See? He practically admits it. He probably brought down PayPal.”
“Rosetta didn’t bring down PayPal.”
“Cut the Rosetta shit, okay?” said Bobby. “Jesus, I hate nicknames.”
“She started it.”
Bobby slugged his whiskey back.
“Any good?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
I made a twofer motion. The bartender poured us each a Nikka Coffey Grain Whiskey. Bobby got a little more than a shot; I got a little less. Never tweak your bartender.
Hunter asked, “So what has Rosetta brought down?”
“The Tunisian government.”
Hunter said nothing. Bobby spit an olive pit into his hand.
I continued, “Not the whole thing; just the website.”
“That’s espionage.”
“Arrest me.”
Hunter reached for something—handcuffs, gun, wallet?
Bobby said, “Enough.”
“But—”
“Enough, Mel! We’re not arresting Tucker.”
“But—”
“If arresting Tucker were valuable, I would have done it years ago. As it is, he does slightly more good than harm.”
I raised my whiskey. “Here’s to being marginally good.”
Bobby ignored me. “We have bigger fish to fry and you know it,” he said to Hunter.
Hunter crossed her arms, stared at her wine. Almost pouted. I felt bad for her. She was trying to prove herself, and I wasn’t helping.
I pushed the olive dish toward her. “Olive?”
No response.
“In the name of peace.”
Hunter took an olive. “Did you really bring down the Tunisian government’s website?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“It seemed like the thing to do. You know, Arab Spring and all that.”
“How did you do it?”
“Nothing you didn’t study in Quantico.”
We ordered supper. Let the funky ambience of the little restaurant settle over us.
I decided to break the ice. “Is this your happy place?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Hunter said.
“It’s a good one.”
“Thanks.”
“So why were you guys spying on me?”
“We were not spying on you,” Bobby said. “We’re on a case.”
“What kind of case?”
“Runway stole some information.”
“Secret?”
“Confidential.”
“Confidential? Since when do they send the FBI after confidential information?”
“Since now.”
“So why were you watching me?”
“I told you. We were watching Runway.”
“Why?”
“When he stole the information, he left a trail.”
Hunter said, “We’ve traced his IP address.”
“Pretty sloppy of him,” I said.
“Hackers screw up all the time.”
“They’re like other crooks,” said Bobby.
“How so?”
“They’re not as smart as they think they are.”
“Good thing I’m not a crook.”
“And yet … ” said Bobby. Hunter laughed into her hand.
I asked, “So what do you want from me?”
“Just leave Runway alone until we get what we want.”
“I don’t know if I can do that, Bobby.”
“Seriously?”
“He’s really hurt Maria. I just want an apology.”
“How are you going to get that?”
“Threaten to dox him, then video the apology.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“Maybe. Who do you think he is?”
Hunter said, “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
“No,” said Bobby.
“You might as well tell me,” I said. “Confirmation can’t hurt anything.”
“I just said I’m not telling you. You’ll fuck everything up.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Forget it,” said Bobby. “You get him after we do.”
“Fine,” I said. Drank my dram of whiskey. Got up, left the bar.
Next stop, a place I rarely went.