Spyware

The thought that these women both sought him, no matter for what purpose, suddenly aroused him. He shifted uncomfortably in his swivel chair, and finally was forced to reach past his ample belly and into his dank undergarments to straighten his bent erection. Ah, much better. Once his hand was down there, of course, it lingered. He took a more purposeful hold upon himself and grinned at the two grainy images. He had never been able to get a nude of either of them, not yet, but at least in Sarah’s shot she was in a bikini. His eyes flicked back to Vasquez, and she seemed even more hotly alluring. Her hard, pretty features and serious expression played a wonderful opposite to Sarah’s unaware smile.

As he worked himself harder, his mouth fell open and he grunted. A puff of pressed potato crumbs sprayed his chin and tee-shirt.

There was a scraping sound behind him. Startled, he jumped and craned his neck around, eyes bulging. The sound came from the balcony outside the sliding glass door. He lived on the second floor, which meant that his apartment had been blessed with a tiny balcony as opposed to a postage-stamp fenced-in cement slab. Other tenants kept plants on their balconies, or had barbecues out there, sometimes even lawn chairs to sit on and converse with their neighbors. He never used his for anything. He had long ago used a whole roll of aluminum foil and half a roll of duct tape to block it off forever. The scraping sound had come from out there, on the balcony.

“Ha,” he said aloud. “Fucking cats.” That was it, of course. The whole complex was crawling with cats. Cats were against the rules, of course. But that didn’t stop anyone from having them. Apartment cats soon became masters of jumping up onto balconies, and now one of them was fooling around on his. He felt it was quite unfair for one of the furry bastards to interrupt such an intimate moment for him.

He sighed and turned back to the computer screen, trying to get back into the mood. But another, louder sound came from the balcony. His blood froze and his erection turned to putty in seconds. Someone was forcing the lock on the slider. Someone was breaking in.

***

Ray shoved the tire iron more deeply into the crack between the door and the latch, then levered it over. The soft aluminum doorframe bent and scarred, showing a glint of silvery metal beneath the paint.

The latch popped suddenly. Not hesitating, he threw open the slider and flipped on the big double D-cell halogen flashlight he had in the other hand. In a second, he had transfixed the shocked Nog, who squirmed like a toad in the unfamiliar light. His belly slopped over his open pants and his hand still rested on his half-dead penis. Ray’s first reaction was to snort with amusement, but then the warm, stale smell of the place wrinkled his expression into one of disgust. Finally, only a bare second later, his expression shifted to anger when he saw the image of his smiling wife on the fat pervert’s computer screen.

He stalked into the room. This galvanized Nog into action, he reached for his desk and scrambled about for his cell phone. Plastic CD cases clattered and half-empty snack-bags showered the carpet with peanuts, chips and M &Ms.

“Looking for this, Nog?” asked Ray, lifting up the cell phone from the top of the TV and waggling it in front of the flashlight. He reached back and sent the door gliding shut. He turned back to Nog, replaced the cell phone on the TV and hefted the tire iron.

Nog gave a strangled whoop and heaved himself out of his chair. His cut-offs, still wide open at the fly, were kept from slipping to his chubby knees only by the bulk of his thighs.

“Sit back down,” ordered Ray, slapping the tire iron in his palm meaningfully. “I want to talk to you, Nog.”

Nog sank back down, blinking into the glare of the flashlight. “Vance?” he asked, shading his eyes.

“Dr. Vance to you, boy.”

“You scared the shit out of me, you asshole.”

“And I’m not done yet.”

Nog snorted. “Going to lower another of my grades a notch in the old roll book, eh, teacher-man?”

“We’ve got more to talk about than grades this time Nog, my man.”

Nog reached out and fumbled for the light switch. He rarely used it, but it still worked. The room was dimly illuminated by a 60-watt, dead-bug-coated light bulb.

“So, Vance, are you out to expand upon your recent crime-spree?”

“Listen, you fat fuck,” said Vance, advancing a step. “I know you wrote that virus. You wrote it, you set me up for the scapegoat, then you loosed it on the world. But this isn’t the worst of your crimes.”

Nog tried to look cool, but he shrank several inches into his chair. “It sounds like you’re trying to make me into your scapegoat, Vance. I suppose this image of your wife is getting to you. Well, it’s public property, Vance. It’s lifted right from faculty picnic pictures taken two years ago and posted in a public place.”