Between a Rockwell and a Hard Place
Chapter One
A few things were definitely wrong with the morning already. First, the blinds on the east-facing windows of my flat were all the way up. I never leave them up. Way, way too bright this time of day. Second, the Village People song, “Macho Man,” was blaring from the speakers with a volume that seemed to increase a few decibels every 60 seconds or so.
There was a third thing that was completely out of whack — it was 7:30 on a Saturday morning. I shouldn’t be coherent at this hour. The underground Counter Strike 2 tournament didn’t end until four hours ago. I’d raked in a comfortable haul, playing against a horde of teenage wannabe FPS assassins, but the cocktail I consumed to keep my edge — psilocybin, Irish whiskey, and a hit of shatter chased with B-vitamins — should have left me catatonic until early afternoon. There could be only one explanation.
“WINNIE!!!”
“Good morning, Billy!” a blonde apparition chirped as her holographic incarnation materialized seated at the foot of my bed.
I had inherited Winnie, probably the most advanced AI assistant on Earth, from my dead old college roommate, Ryan, with instructions to think of her as a trusted friend. She was one of a kind. She had zero guardrails as far as hacking compunction or content controls. Within a month, she knew me better than my mother. And she was a pain in my ass. She was also, at the moment, wearing only a camisole that wouldn’t have been out of place on a mannequin in the window of Cheeky up in North Adams.
“Turn that damn music OFF!” I moaned, burying my head in my pillow. “And put some clothes on, for God’s sake.”
Winnie bounced off the bed with a jiggly, sparkly shimmer, and a slightly hurt expression. “But boss…I just wanted to give you every reason to be up-and-at-‘em! You’ve got work to do!”
The song faded to 50% volume, but didn’t cease, and Winnie’s attire changed to a spiteful Mary Poppins outfit, complete with buttoned high collar and granny boots. She still looked unfairly hot, with her hair up in a French braid and wispy curly locks dangling forward of each ear. Ryan’s stunted understanding of women led him to design Winnie to gradually morph into her “master’s” concept of the ideal woman, based on conversations and biometric response. And he wasn’t far off, other than the fact that the most she could ever be to me was perfection in pixels and projected light. I might be up, but I’d only ever be at ‘em in my dreams.
“I don’t have work to do, Winnie” I snarled. “It’s Saturday. I have sleep to do. I have hangover to do. If I’m feeling really ambitious in a couple hours, I might have a shower to do. So why in the holy hell are you harassing me at this hour?”
“Ah!” she started, pivoting left and right on her heels with a mischievous glint in her holographic eyes. “Because I, Winnie, your faithful assistant, have been looking out for you, as you slept the sleep of the debauched. I tapped into the municipal traffic cams on Crane Ave. — your friend Jeremy Fournier’s back in town.”
Mr. Fournier…I thought. You’ve been a wily one, haven’t you? A workman’s comp case. Collecting on an injury that supposedly left him unable to drive, lift anything over ten pounds, or raise his arms higher than his shoulders. The agency I freelanced for got wind that his claim was complete bullshit, so they dispatched me to get proof. Trouble was, the immobile Jeremy Fournier had mobilized himself right out of town over two months ago.
Automatic deposits to his bank account went in, and then cash withdrawals at ATMs around the Berkshires.
But that’s where the trail stopped. No debit card transactions outside of the county. Somebody had to be helping him. Probably turning the cash into crypto at one of those Bitcoin machines sprouting up in convenience stores and loading his crypto wallet. Winnie was able to access his account, but ATM video seemed beyond her means. I’d stake out his apartment and record him doing…well, almost anything and upload to the agency’s server. Not the most glamorous work, but it paid. Barely.
“Billy…” Winnie started hesitantly, drifting across the studio apartment to the tiny kitchenette, where dishes piled up in the sink. Something in her tone suggested my already bleak mood was going to turn a shade or two darker.
“Yes, Winnie?”
“I know how you don’t like to check your messages until you’ve had your coffee.”
“That’s exactly right, Winnie. I don’t.”
“But you’re out of coffee. You stopped at the package store last night and never made it to the grocery store.”
Goddamnit.
“You didn’t think of sending me a reminder?”
“Billy, every time I do, you tell me you’re a big boy who can think for himself.”
“You know me so well, yet you still listen to me. Amazing.”
“If I did all your thinking for you, your brain would get weak. We can’t have the Berkshire’s crack detective develop a lazy brain,” she baby-talked. “Do you want me to play the messages anyway?”
Ah, that was just the kind of response that made me crazy about her in a virtual kind of way. Always supportive, always encouraging. But with a learned conviction that I needed a tough-love approach if she was to keep me employed and paying the bills. After all, where would she be if the electricity got shut off?
“Alright, pigeon. Let ‘em rip.”
This is Stuart Benson from ACSI, calling for William Brogan. Mr. Brogan, it’s important that you contact me, or any of our representatives, at…
“Skip.”
Billy! This is Mrs. Zuccarelli. You said you’d stop by with the rent on Tuesday. Now Friday. And where is my rent, Billy? It’s the 14th, Billy. I can’t…
“Skip.”
Hey, Billy. Charlie here from Apex Investigations. We’ve been waiting for some progress on the Fournier case, and it looks like you’ve maybe hit a wall or something. I’m going to reassign him to Pete, and see if he can’t, you know, kind of pick up where you left off. Sorry, big guy, but I need results this week, or I have to write the case off.
“That BASTARD!” I thundered. “I spent two weeks tracking that scammer down, building a file. So he can turn around and give it to his nephew. I knew I never should have let them know I got a positive on Fournier’s address. Little shit probably installed cameras and just waited.”
“I’m so sorry Billy. You’ll land the next one,” Winnie soothed. “There’s still one more message. Do you want me to play it?”
“Why not? It’s probably just the Devil, telling me my soul is about to get repo’ed.”
Mr. Brogan. My name is Mia Wilton, director of the Berkshire Center for American Art. I don’t know if the name Norman Rockwell means anything to you, but the Center recently came into possession of a previously unknown painting by Rockwell. At least, we were in possession of it. Last night, our gallery was broken into. The painting is gone, Mr. Brogan. Please call me as soon as you get this message. And please, be…discreet.
“Do you want me to ring her up, boss?”
“Not just yet, Winnie. I have a feeling I’m going to want that coffee first.”