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“I have reason to believe that,” Step said.
By then, they were heading west on the 10, toward Ocean Park, and Wesley and Sharon were feeling more confident about their destination being somewhere other than a ditch.
Step asked more questions about Charlie and Paul, and about Ordinary People, and who might be associated with the group. Wesley and Sharon were aware of Ordinary People, as was the FBI. They gave Step some names, including those of Loren Barron, William Orleans, and Michele Obermath.
With the Barron name, Step decided that their information was at least somewhat reliable. He’d never heard of William Orleans or Michele Obermath, but the surnames were unusual enough that they could probably be found. He made notes in an alligator-leather-covered notepad the size of a checkbook.
“What’d they do to you?” Wesley asked.
“They’re fuckin’ with me and I don’t know why,” Step said. “They stole part of a shipment of computer chips I had stored in a warehouse. One of those psycho chicks, probably this Charlie, shot one of my men and when the cops and FBI showed up, they let them go.”
“That’s what we really don’t get,” Sharon said. “They’re criminals, but nobody seems to care. Or they’ve got influence somewhere.”
Step nodded and bobbed his head: “Yes. A mystery. I really don’t like mysteries. They tend to bite you when you’re not looking.”
The ride from MDC to Ocean Park took fifteen minutes and Step dropped them a block from their apartment. At the curb, Step leaned toward Sharon with a thin fold of cash, and said, “Fivehundred dollars. For lunch. And give me your phone numbers. I could use a couple like you. Computer people. Be a lot safer than what you used to do, more... invisible. Good money, too, and we will get you legal help for your current problems.”
They gave him phone numbers and he wrote them in the elegant notepad.
Sharon said, “I know you’re a lot bigger than we are, but can I give you something to think about?”
“Sure,” Step said, giving her his number-three smile.
“You’re selling one chip at a time. You might manage to get hold of a lot of chips, but each one is a separate sale. That’s because you’re selling hardware. And you have to find and pay the people who... acquire... the chips for you and organize trucks and ships and airplanes and warehouses, and you have to hide from the cops and pay bribes and legal fees and so on, and then you have to find customers and collect your money. Overall, after acquiring and shipping and paying employees and lawyers, how much do you keep? What’s your personal margin? Ten percent? Fifteen?”
“That’s not too far off,” Step admitted. “Of course, there’s no taxes.”
“But you’re risking prison,” Sharon said.
Step nodded: “True.”
“The thing about software is that it’s usually written by one person or a small team. You pay them once,” Sharon said. “When it’s done, you can ship the software anywhere in the world.Fromanywhere in the world. Anonymously. For free. If it’s the right piece of software, you can sell it over and over and over. You can sell it a hundred times, or a thousand, without lifting a finger or doing any more work. No other employees to deal with. And it’s very serious stuff. The U.S. government and the Israelis fucked upan entire top-secret Iranian nuclear processing plant with a virus called Stuxnet.”
“Huh. And you know about this sales concept because...”
“Because it’s done all the time in other businesses,” Wesley said. “Stephen King writes one book and the publishing company, not him, prints and sells a million copies. But Stephen King only does that one thing—writes one book.”
“So?”
“Wes and I have some ideas for a computer security company that would be able to isolate and destroy the most vicious kinds of viruses and malware,” Sharon said. “Do that one thing: destroy them quickly and cleanly and get paidverywell for doing it. Aboveboard. Good tax-paying citizens. We would like to find a... sophisticated... venture capitalist to finance the start-up. We think we could launch for as little as a million dollars.”
“Why would anybody hire you in particular?” Step asked. “As opposed to some big security company?”
“Because we’d be so quick and efficient. We’d spot the virus first, we’d spot all the infected businesses—there could be dozens of them, or even hundreds—and one program would kill them. We’d be out there while everybody else is still sucking on their thumbs,” Sharon said. “We couldn’t be quicker or more efficient with the fix than if we’d created the viruses ourselves, if we’d done that one thing.”
She smiled.
“Ah. Nowthatis something to consider,” Step said. His eyebrows went up, creating a bank of wrinkles across his forehead.
“If you think you could get serious about it, we’ve written a detailed prospectus, entirely encrypted, of course. I’m sure you’d find it interesting.”
“I will call you when the current problem is dealt with,” Step promised.
As they were getting out of the car, Sharon said, “Haven’t seen a nice little notepad like that in a while. Alligator hide. Everything goes in cell phones now.”
Step said, “Yeah, well... You ever try to chew up and swallow an iPhone?”
On the way backto the Flats, Step’s phone dinged with an incoming message. The message, from Victoria, was simple enough: “V+3.” By the time it came in, she would have erased the outgoing message from her phone.
