Silicon Slummin'...and Just Gettin' By

By Steven M. Moore

Two teams of agents, U.S. and Russian, are also in hot pursuit because of her cyborg friends she left behind in Europe. The PI and Mary Jo match wits against all her pursuers. It's a race to see which one gets to her first. But she also gets help from an unusual source, an autistic boy who's also a computer geek. Together with other friends and Feds Mary Jo doesn't trust very much, they combat the people after Mary Jo.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven M. Moore
• Release date: Jun 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781772420401

Steven M. Moore

If you’re reading this, thank you. Not many people find me...or recognize me as an author of many genre fiction novels. Maybe it’s because my name is too common—I thought once about using a pen name...and probably should have. Maybe it’s because I don’t get many reviews. (It's not hard to write one once you've read one of my books: just say what you like and dislike in a few lines, and why.) I know you have many good books and good authors to choose from, so I’m honored and humbled that you are considering or have read some of mine.You’re here on Smashwords because you love to read. Me too. Okay, maybe you’re here to give someone the gift of an entertaining book—that’s fine too. I love to tell stories, so either way, you’ll be purchasing some exciting fiction, each book unique and full of action and interesting characters, scenes, and themes. Some are national, others international, and some are mixed; some are in the mystery/suspense/thriller category, others sci-fi, and some are mixed-genre. There are new ones and there are evergreen ones, books that are as fresh and current as the day I wrote them. (You should always peruse an author's entire oeuvre. I find many interesting books to read that way.)I started telling stories at an early age, making my own comic books before I started school and writing my first novel the summer I turned thirteen—little of those early efforts remain (did I hear a collective sigh of relief?). I collected what-ifs and plots, character descriptions, possible settings, and snippets of dialogue for years while living in Colombia and different parts of the U.S. (I was born in California and eventually settled on the East Coast after that sojourn in South America). I also saw a bit of the world and experienced other cultures at scientific events and conferences and with travel in general, always mindful of what should be important to every fiction writer—the human condition. Fiction can’t come alive—not even sci-fi—without people (they might be ET people in the case of sci-fi, of course).I started publishing what I'd written in 2006—short stories, novellas, and novels—we’d become empty-nesters and I was still in my old day-job at the time. Now I’m a full-time writer. My wife and I moved from Boston to the NYC area a while back, so both cities can be found in some novels, along with many others in the U.S. and abroad.You can find more information about me at my website: https://stevenmmoore.com. I’m also on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorStevenMMoore; and Twitter @StevenMMoore4.I give away my short fiction; so does my collaborator A. B. Carolan who writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. See my blog categories "Steve's Shorts," "ABC Shorts," and the list of free PDF downloads on my web page "Free Stuff & Contests" at my website (that list includes my free course "Writing Fiction" that will be of interest mainly to writers).I don't give away my novels. All my ebooks are reasonably priced and can be found here at Smashwords, including those I've published with Black Opal Books (The Last Humans) and Penmore Press (Rembrandt's Angel and Son of Thunder). I don't control either prices or sales on those books, so you can thank those traditional publishers for also providing quality entertainment for a reasonable price. That's why you won't find many sales of my books either. They're now reserved for my email newsletter subscribers. (If you want to subscribe, query me using [e-mail].)My mantra has always been the following: If I can entertain at least one reader with each story, that story is a success. But maybe I can do better than that? After all, you found me!Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Book preview

About the first Mary Jo Melendez book, Muddlin’ Through:

Steven M. Moore takes ex-military master at arms Mary Jo Melendez and puts her through the ringer! She is given trial after trial and muddles through, as the title suggests. This was a bit of a change of pace for Moore, who seems to usually write more tightly woven stories, but it had his usual interesting characters, a series of geographically diverse settings and plenty of action. Did I buy it all? Well, I did while I was reading, and what more can you ask?

—S. D. Beallis, in his reader review

A wise woman wishes to be no one’s enemy; a wise woman refuses to be anyone’s victim.

~ Maya Angelou

Chapter One

I offered my hand to the fellow on the floor. Although he had jogging sneakers on, faded blue jeans and T-shirt said cowboy, and the hat squashed under him had once been a cowboy hat. I’m from New Jersey, so I called him a cowboy.

New Mexico is far from the Garden State and even farther from my old haunts as a USN Master-at-Arms. I was still the same old Mary Jo Melendez née María José—not a cowgirl, a bit older, and not any prettier or wiser. I’d drifted from job to job in a random trek across the U.S. trending west, recuperating from stressful events that occurred after I left the Navy. Landing in prison had been the most stressful. I was slowly getting my act together, but some gents just think I look needy.

There were taunts from some other parishioners attending nightly services at the Church of Whiskey Heaven, but he accepted my hand with a bit of good humor. He was at least six inches taller than I am, but that hadn’t mattered. The bigger they are, and so forth. He managed a smile.

I guess I came on a little strong? he said, rubbing his throat.

A bit harder punch and he might be dead from suffocation, his windpipe broken. But I know how to control a punch. As a USN Master-at-Arms, I needed to know that. Now you can write it off as good habit…or just being nice.

No woman wants a drunk pawing over her, I said, picking up his hat and handing it to him. From the corner of my eye, I’d watched to make sure he didn’t try anything funny when I bent over. Wise asses often try a cheap shot. Maybe you should call it a night? I can call the Sheriff to send a deputy to drive you home.

He blanched. No, no, I’m walking.

His baby blues had fear in them. Wrong side of the law? Too bad he was such a prick because he looked good enough to eat. Mary Jo, you’re so horny!

I hadn’t got any in months. Considering I’m not your Sports Illustrated swimsuit model and many men take me for a desperate and easy lay, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. My unruly, curly hair was tucked under a sweat-stained hat, my nose made me look a bit local with some Native American blood, and I was tough-looking for a broad—some men would say boob-challenged, but my faded flannel shirt disguised that (I have them, but they’re real, not silicone).

Can’t say Socorro is a place to find romance—with about nine thousand in population, it was too quiet compared to New Jersey. Ironically, it isn’t as diverse either, with mostly whites (I’m counting Hispanics) and Native Americans, or combos thereof. I’d come for a job, but it lasted all of six weeks. The detective agency didn’t have enough business.

Still on the run, I sensed I was exposed in the sleepy little town (little relative to the tri-state metropolis of my birth), although I fit right in culturally, and it was far enough from troubles I left behind that I didn’t look much over my shoulder. Food was good too. But options for making a living were limited.

I’m in security—all kinds, from bouncer to bodyguard to night watchperson. So far, no security in security—not for me, at least. I was washing dishes during the day and surfing the internet at night, looking for job postings. I’d spotted one in California, though. It was in the local paper too. Sent my application in online. They called my cell and asked me to come for an interview. My bus was leaving in the morning.

I was a bit curious about why this cowboy was afraid of the Sheriff. Decided it wasn’t any of my business unless he did something criminal right in front of me. I’m no vigilante. OK, off you go, honey, and don’t look back. My patience is already worn thin.

Remounted my bar stool, looked around, and saw icy stares. Men! One stud who thinks he’s Romeo gets shot down, and they all think you’re off-limits. Or worse. Men are stupid. I’m single and ready to meet a decent guy, not a jerk, that’s all. Could imagine their thoughts. Can’t dance with her and grab her ass? Then, why is she here? ‘Course, deep down, I knew there weren’t many decent men there in the bar. Not in a town that size. The good family types were all home drinking beer, chomping on nachos, and watching ESPN.

That could be useful to know, what you did there, said the barkeep, a woman. Is it hard to learn? Could save me some money. I have a bouncer, but half the time he doesn’t show up for work.

A single punch isn’t hard to learn, but you have to have the full arsenal, and be able to control it. I studied her.

She was my opposite—vivacious, and with a wasp-like waist and a pair that made you think her blouse buttons wouldn’t survive the night. If natural, she belonged in Hooters (did the town have one?), but maybe she liked a bar between her and ogling males along with full whiskey bottles as ready weapons. I have to live with what I was born with. Men seemed to need liquor to see me as desirable. Damn them! Damn her! She was pleasant enough, but I knew I’d never fill out a blouse that way.

It isn’t something you can learn in one day or even multiple days taking an online course. I’m in security. I know a lot of ways to put someone down, dead or alive, as they say here in the West.

Yeah, seen you in here talking shit with Gabriel.

Gabriel was my ex-boss, an ex-cop who had turned PI. He had taken early retirement from Chicago PD. Couldn’t blame him. He’d lost a leg in a battle when a gang member turned it into hamburger with an AR-17. A functional if old prosthesis kept him mobile. Boring PI work had to be a welcome reprieve from the Windy City’s crime scene.

I don’t think he needs someone with all those Bruce Lee skills, though, she said. His cases are wives trying to get the goods on their husbands, or vice versa—you know, evidence for a divorce case.

I threw back a slug of my Pellegrino with lime and laughed. Yeah, and I’ve had enough of that. This town needs more infidelity. Business is so bad he wanted to pay me by the hour, no benefits. That sucks. I can’t make a living that way.

She studied me back for a moment. Now that I see your face better, aren’t you that woman who was on TV, the one who made national news for exposing some big government conspiracy?

I get that a lot. Look like her, I guess. Checked myself in the mirror behind the bar. I’d shortened my hair, adding some manageability into my unruly curls. With the nose I inherited from my father and the epicanthic folds from my mother, I looked like the typical melting-pot girl Uncle Sam likes to celebrate until it comes to immigration reform. I winked at her. I’m a secret agent, though. I work with James Bond sometimes, when M lets me. Hard times for MI-6 too.

M’s dead.

Only in the movies.

***

Campbell, California is a suburb of San José in Northern California’s grand version of urban/suburban blight where paper-thin construction ages faster than back East because Californians don’t worry about the weather. The town’s in the Silicon Valley, that huge amoeba that has digested little hamlets and burped out every class of hardware and software imaginable.

Geekiness is the common look, unless you’re some other professional who serves the geeks. You’d see a couple of nerdy citizens, the guy dressed in Bermudas, bowling shirt or guayabera, and sandals, the gal in short-shorts, bikini bra and flip-flops, both looking and sounding like New Age hippies. They’d dismount from an expensive foreign car—sometimes even a Porsche, Ferrari, or Corvette (not foreign, but another status symbol—nothing wrong with that, of course, if you have the bucks). Their bling would catch the sun and blind you or put you in epileptic seizure; their ink would put an NBA player to shame. They’d think nothing about entering an upscale sandwich place to order a thirty-dollar lunch, complete with Pinot Noir, followed by expensive caffeinated whatevers at Starbucks. In short, they were Silicon Valley natives out on the town.

Relative to my bottom line: they all drive up prices—it’s the new Yukon gold rush—so I knew I’d soon be living in my rental car if this job didn’t pan out.

Awesomely Cool Video Experiences’ HQ looked a bit like my old employer’s site back in Jersey, although it was more glitzy on the outside and more rundown inside. Gamers are lousy at housekeeping, not that I’m great either, so managers of gamers don’t want to spend a lot of money on big corporate-law-style business furnishings. You might wonder why ACVE needed my expertise—I did—because they made all kinds of computer games. Maybe they needed to wire me to a computer to record me taking down some SOBs so they could improve their action scenes? I knew they did that in some places, but not with security guards.

The similarity to that Jersey building where I’d been railroaded for a bloody snatch-and-run bothered me. Had a right to be paranoid. Didn’t have fond memories of that Jersey job—part of what I was running from. Hoped this one would be better. After meeting a few security people, I thought it might.

We need someone exactly like you, said Marti Alyanna, a Filipina HR lady and last interviewer, because you wouldn’t believe the industrial espionage that goes on in the Valley.

California is a nation within a nation. Bustling, everybody on the run, crazy traffic, and health nuts all over drinking green sludge and energy drinks in addition to Starbucks’ concoctions of brown gold. You feel like you’re in a sprawling urban wilderness where God has thrown Beijing, Manila, Mexico City, and Tokyo together and watched for fun as they mixed and spread out. The whole West Coast is full of Asians and Hispanics. Guess Filipinos are a combo to start with. Where are the white guys? I had no problem with all that, of course, because I’m an Asian-Hispanic mix too. We’re talking the Coast, of course. I imagined the Big Valley was different, but I didn’t know the state that well. Had a lot to learn if I was planning on staying.

I don’t understand, I said to this pretty woman with the perky attitude who looked like she hadn’t graduated from high school yet. Learned later she has three kids. I thought computer nerds hacked each other—you know, break into each other’s computer systems, stealing credit card info and code for new apps? Everything high tech, even crime?

Well, that too, but we have other people who handle IT security. We’ve only had it happen a few times for a new game or a new version of a game, but our competitors have suffered a lot more: people breaking in and stealing code, yes, and hardware—computers, even banks of servers. Many of our games are interactive and require big, dedicated server farms and special software to handle the user load. We want to avoid being victims as much as we can.

I nodded. Bet you’re way ahead of the Pentagon on this.

The curtain came down on the perkiness. Her stony frown wasn’t as nice as her perky smile. I wondered what triggered that reaction. My paranoia flared. Had I said something bad? Were they playing around with Pentagon matches? What kind of duties would I have? Shit, and the job interviews seemed to be going well! Way to go, Mary Jo.

I wouldn’t know about that. None of our work here is classified, although we prefer to keep our code to ourselves, if you know what I mean. Let’s call our stuff ‘company secrets.’ She put the phrase in quotes with her two index fingers. But our security guards also need to be whipped into shape. They’re so last century and way too tolerant.

Tried to see a hidden meaning. You don’t mean to imply I’d be doing coding, right? I can’t even pretend to do that. Painful flashback to my murdered sister, who had been an authentic hacker and proficient in many geeky languages, including C++, Java, and some others I couldn’t remember. I’m computer savvy, but no expert. A white lie, of course.

No, like I said, we need you to modernize our industrial security force. You’ve briefly met Jacob Bell; he’s retiring. He’s the first to admit there’s a problem.

So, who’s the new boss going to be? I might need some backup with the old guard. They’ll always resist a newcomer, especially one who’s making some changes. That’s human nature, not just Navy culture.

She returned to her perky little smile. Private joke? Or weird mood swings? Mary Jo, you’re the new boss. That is, if you want the job.

I frowned. Is she jerking my chains? Job wasn’t advertised that way.

Jacob hadn’t decided to retire yet. Your application, credentials, and interview convinced him you’re the one, though. She glanced at my file. Same opinion from the other interviewers. We’ve interviewed seven other applicants, so we have a small sample of who was available. Jacob’s ex-Navy too, by the way. Ex-Master-at-Arms, as a matter of fact. She glanced at more papers. I won’t say how many years ago—that’s not fair to Jacob. He can tell you if he wants.

Thought a few beats. Can I do it? Why not try? Well, it’s expensive to live here. I hate to talk about salary and benefits, but let’s do that to see if it’s a deal-breaker. I don’t want to be homeless in spite of all this nice weather, and I’ll bet medical doctors around here need to put their kids through Stanford, so they’ll charge plenty if I just come down with a sniffle.

Actually, the weather’s not so nice. We’ve been in a drought for a long time, sometimes with monsoons mixed in. I don’t think you have to worry about expenses, though. The salary’s two-twenty, you have full medical coverage, and a small pension complemented by a 401(k) with the company’s equal matches. It’s our standard package. Full vetting after five years for the pension and those matches to your 401(k).

I’m not sure what you mean by two-twenty. That’s not two-hundred-and-twenty dollars per week, is it?

She laughed. Heavens, no! You’d be homeless trying to live on that here in the Bay Area or Silicon Valley. It’s two-hundred-twenty thousand per year. That’s without bonuses, which everyone’s received every year so far. We receive them when we do well, and we’re doing very well, at least so far.

I’d managed to keep my jaw from dropping. You do know I’ve had some trouble with the U.S. government, right? Wanted that to be out in the open now. Didn’t want to become accustomed to that kind of money and then be fired or laid off.

She glanced at some sheets. Jacob did a full write-up on you. You’re talking about Hazelton? You were exonerated, right?

"But I’m still a persona non grata as far as Uncle Sam is concerned."

We don’t care about that, Mary Jo. Not for this position. Jacob recommends you. That’s all we need…because we trust him.

I nodded. I hoped I could live up to Jacob’s trust.

***

I thought rents in New Jersey were bad, but I managed to find an apartment that satisfied my frugal nature. Frugality in the Golden State takes on a different meaning, of course. I was resigned to paying double for a duplex that looked half as good as the one I had in the Garden State. Bought two cheap pillows, some toilet paper, Cheerios, and milk in a 24/7 drugstore (why are they called drugstores if they sell everything?). Furniture, including a bed, would come later.

Met a little kid with big eyes by the carports. Looked at me from top to bottom with a puzzled expression. "Buenas tardes," he said. He’d been squatting, playing in a puddle. Thought of the drought. Someone has illegally washed his car. The kid held his arms up like a surgeon who’d scrubbed up for surgery, oily slime and muddy water dripping from elbows. Llevo sus paquetes por cincuenta centavos, he added, meaning, I’ll carry your packages for fifty cents.

The kid looked frail, with skinny arms and legs, and the mud wasn’t appealing—didn’t want it on my packages. Proxima vez, mijo, I said, meaning, Next time, kid. I can handle it. Where’s your Mom?

Right here. I turned. Chided myself. I was out of practice. She’d been stealthy, though. How long had she been standing there? Maybe thought I was going to kidnap her kid? I’m Angela Lopez. He has some behavioral problems. Doesn’t realize that mud’s a turn-off. She smiled.

Compared to me, she was thin-boned. Beautiful shoulder-length black hair, expressive brown eyes like her kid, and an enviable rack—she could turn heads anywhere. She was in a nurse’s uniform. Could imagine her making Navy dress-whites look good too—or just about any uniform. A charming, working mom.

The kid looks OK to me—except for the mud. Most kids would be frightened by a stranger. I’m a tough broad who can scare grown men. Aim to, sometimes.

That’s part of his problem. He’s autistic. Smart as a whip but innocent. He doesn’t realize the world’s a dangerous place. She pointed to the bags. There were two. Need help?

No, I’m good. Thanks anyway.

Heard you were moving in. Drop by sometime. I’d love to meet someone famous.

I tensed and raised an eyebrow. Famous? Hardly.

Oh, come on. I saw you on TV. So did my son. He doesn’t talk much, but he said something about you that surprised me.

Hence the scrutiny? Waited. Then: Are you going to tell me? She’d been looking after her son, who had dashed off, leaving a trail of muddy splashes on pinkish pavers.

Oh, sure. He said you were a nice lady, and he’ll look after you. She saw my mouth pop open. Oh, I don’t think he knew you were coming into our lives. How could he? Angela laughed and walked up the path where her son had run.

Chapter Two

So, this is your new workplace, Mary Jo! He had followed her into ACVE’s parking lot, but parked his car on the other side in a space not set aside for visitors.

He was proud of her. She had set out cross country to run away from that mess in New Jersey. She was trying to put her life in order. In the newspaper she trashed in that New Mexico bar, he had seen the circled Want Ad. Quite the nerve, MJ!

She had been beaten down so much that her rebound seemed abnormally high. He smiled. Like silly putty. He had watched her