Forty-Seven

Leaving your phone turned on while attending a hacking convention is like hanging salmon out of your pockets and hiking in grizzly country. The problem is even worse when you throw in all the Internet functionality of a smartphone.

Having Anonymous after me was pretty much as bad as going to a hacker convention. That was why I bought a flip phone, technology so antiquated that I might have been accused of hipster-grade irony. Still, it was the safe bet, because trying to hack a flip phone is like trying to pickpocket the James Michael Curley statue.

My new little burner phone resting in my pocket, I descended the escalator and turned into the Cheesecake Factory. Normally, I avoid restaurant chains. Boston has so many homegrown restaurants that it seems a sin to waste them.

But … cheesecake.

I got seated on a long couch, alone at a table for two. The server arrived: young, short hair, white shirt, and red striped tie.

“I’ll have the Blackout cake. It’s been a long week.”

“Whipped cream?”

“Hell yeah, I’m on a bender. Coffee too.”

While I waited for my cheesecake, I called people to give them my new phone number. Called Mel. Called Bobby. Called Jael. Called Caroline. Nobody answered, I left them all messages and my new number. Called Maria. Got Adriana.

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Tucker.”

“Why do you have a new number?”

“It’s a long story. Could I talk to Maria?”

“You need to come to dinner tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Six thirty.”

“Okay.”

“Be there.”

“Can I talk to Maria?”

“Sure, tonight.” She hung up.

No wonder cousins aren’t allowed to marry.

“Aloysius Tucker.”

I looked up. The potty-mouthed vigilante known as CapnMerica stood before me, apparently trying to look menacing.

“Tucker is fine,” I said. “Preferable, really.”

CapnMerica said, “Aloysius Tucker, I—”

The server arrived. “Excuse me, sir.”

CapnMerica stepped aside. The server deposited my cheesecake.

“Thanks!” I said.

“Would you like anything else?”

I said to CapnMerica, “You want cheesecake?”

He shook his head, made a waving motion. “I’m good.”

The server left.

I forked a piece of cheesecake. “You were saying?”

“Aloysius Tucker, I am makin—”

“Mmmm … this is really good.”

“I’m arresting you, dude.”

“Sure you are.”

“You assaulted Eliza and kidnapped PwnSec.”

“Yeah, I apologized to ‘Eliza.’” I air quoted. “I think we’re good.”

“There’s still abduction.”

“Where’s your videographer?”

“What?”

“No, never mind, I see him.” Earl Clary sat at the bar, pointing an iPhone at us. I called over, “Earl, you want cheesecake?”

Earl looked panicked. Shook his head.

“You should kind of wave the phone back and forth so the audience will know you’re shaking your head.”

Earl frowned but kept recording.

I turned back to CapnMerica. “You sure you don’t want cheesecake, Billy?”

“No, I—wait. You doxed me?”

“Yeah—sorry. You pissed me off.”

“You bastard!”

“I get that a lot. Probably deserve it.”

A server veered around Billy carrying a tray.

“Why don’t you get out of the aisle, Billy? Sit down. Have cheesecake. You look thin.”

Billy sat. “You’re not my mom, dude.”

“I’m sorry. I interrupted you. You were arresting me. What are the charges?”

“You killed Peter, you beat up Eliza—”

“Russell.”

“Um, yeah. Russell. And you kidnapped Earl and the rest of PwnSec.”

“Kidnapped.”

“Yeah!”

“So that’s what they’re saying. That’s their excuse.”

“Tell it to the judge!”

I ate more chocolatey goodness, drank coffee. “So you think I killed someone, beat up Russ—”

“You beat me up too!”

“Sure, okay. And kidnapped people.”

“Yeah!”

“Wouldn’t that all make me a pretty dangerous man?”

“Exactly. That’s exactly what #TuckerGate is all about. Keeping a dangerous man off the streets.”

“Yeah, and Gamergate was about ethics in video-game reporting.”

“It was! It totally was!”

“Let’s not get distracted. So I’m dangerous.”

“Right.”

“Fine. Where is your gun?”

“I don’t have a gun!”

“Really? You mean you followed me, a dangerous fugitive, from my house to the Cheesecake Factory and you didn’t even bring a gun?”

Billy’s face took on the hue of the decadent whipped cream that adorned my cheesecake. Which reminded me to take another bite and drink more coffee.

“You should have brought a gun,” I said.

Billy asked, “Do you have a gun?”

I looked him straight in the eye. “No. I don’t,” I deadpanned.

“My God! You do have a gun!”

I ate cheesecake.

Billy stood, knocking his chair over backwards. Pointed. “Gun! Gun!”

People turned. One woman screamed and ran into the street, shrieking, “Gun!”

“For fuck’s sake, Billy, you’re causing a panic.”

Two cops, a man and a woman, burst in from the street.

Billy pointed at me. “He has a gun!”

The two cops put their hands on their weapons, walked over to Billy and me. Earl continued to record, a flushed This is going to be great! grin spreading over his face.

The woman cop asked, “Sir, do you have a gun?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t have a gun.”

“Would you step outside with us?”

“But I have cheesecake.”

“Step away from the cheesecake.”

The four of us walked out of the Cheesecake Factory into a blustery April wind blowing down Huntington Ave. Earl followed, recording.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you to consent to a search.”

I assumed the position against a column. The male cop patted me down. He said to his partner, “He doesn’t have a gun.”

“He told me he did,” said Billy.

I said, “Actually, shithead—”

“Sir!” the male cop said.

“Sorry. Actually, Billy, I specifically told you that I did not have a gun.”

The woman cop said, “Can I ask how the topic of a gun came up?”

“Billy was planning to kidnap me. He’s carrying handcuffs.”

The cop put out her hand, pointed at it. Billy placed the handcuffs in it.

“It’s not kidnapping,” he said. “I was making a citizen’s arrest.”

“Billy learned about this on the Internet.”

The male cop said, “The Internet! Well, it must be true.”

“You should still arrest him,” Billy said. “He killed a guy.”

The cops looked at me. I shrugged. “Internet.”

“Right,” said the woman. “Okay, Billy, that’s enough vigilantism for today.”

“Can I go?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I went back into the restaurant. They had thrown away my cheesecake.