4
"You don't need a man of my not inconsiderable talents for something like this," Russell Tuit said as he positioned the paper on the glass. "You could teach yourself in less than an hour."
He'd adopted a put-upon look, but Jack knew he got off on anything with a whiff of scam or illegality. He'd done some soft time for bank hacking and one of the conditions of his parole was a ten-year ban from the Internet. Russ had found ways around it—like helping the guy next door set up a wi-fi network in his apartment last month and making sure the signal was strong enough to penetrate the wall they shared—but he swore his hacking days were over. He did not want to go back inside.
"But I don't have one of those thingamajigs, Russ."
"This thingamajig is called a scanner."
Jack knew that, but he liked to pull Russ's chain.
"Right. Don't have a scannamajig. Don't even have a printer."
He shook his head. "How anyone can have a computer and not a printer is beyond me. I mean, what if you need to print out something like Mapquest directions?"
Russ was not the stereotypical mouse potato—no taped glasses or pocket protector—but he tended to get so wrapped up in his keyboarding that he'd forget to bathe. The fact that he lived over a Second Avenue Tex-Mex restaurant was sometimes a good thing.
"Not much of a traveler, Russ. And if I need directions to anywhere I can write them down."
"I suppose I'd be crazy to ask if you've got Photoshop."
"Certifiable. I mean, I've heard of it—a lady friend of mine who's into art has been using it—but I can't see myself ever buying it."
Gia had started toying with computer art before the accident. She probably could have done this for him but he didn't want her involved. The less she knew the better.
Russ smiled, showing yellow teeth. "Buying software… what a concept. 1 guess you do need me, Jack."
He closed the cover and moved to one of the three computers in the room. A few key taps and a glow began to move along the scanner's edge. A barrage of taps and then Russ motioned Jack toward the monitor.
"Okay. There it is. What do you want to do with it?"
Leaning over him he realized that Russ had been procrastinating in regard to his next shower. No biggie. Couldn't hold a candle to a rakosh.
On the screen he saw an image of the lab report he'd taken from Levy, showing Bolton's positive paternity test with Dawn. He pointed to the screen.
"See that logo? Can you copy that onto a blank sheet to make it look like stationery?"
Mouse-click-mouse-click-tap-tap.
"There you go."
Jack blinked. "That's all it takes? I can type a letter on that?"
"I'll save it as a file and you can write dozens of letters from the…" He squinted at the screen. "Creighton Institute."
Jack wasn't crazy about Russ connecting him to Creighton, but the guy wasn't a conniver. And the truth was, Russ having Creighton's logo on his computer was a greater liability to him than to Jack.
"Do it."
Mouse-click-tap.
"Done."
"All right. Back to the lab report." He touched the screen. "See those code numbers? Can you substitute names for them?"
Russ looked up at him. "You're kidding, right?"
"I didn't think I was."
"You weren't kidding." He shook his head as he turned back to the screen. "You really do need me, Jack. At least until you join the twenty-first century."
"I'm not some sort of Luddite. I own a computer, I use it, I enjoy it, but it's not a way of life." He was sure he hadn't tapped one percent of its potential, but getting into it took time—hours before the monitor or reading manuals that he didn't care to surrender. "I've got other things to do. I mean, why should I spend my time learning this Photoshop thing when I can pay you to do it for me? You're better at it than I'll ever be, so it's worth the money."
"Never looked at it that way," Russ said as he moused and clicked. "You're right, man. Save that computer of yours just for e-mail. I can always use the money." He started tapping on the keys. "Okay. We got rid of the numbers, now we've got to match the font and the text size and we're in business. What names we using here?"
Jack grabbed a pen and pad from the desk and jotted down Dawn Pickering and Jerry Bethlehem.
"Make sure Dawn goes in the second spot—she can't very well be anyone's father."
Russ spoke as he typed. "You never know, Jack. You never know. So, you running a number on this Bethlehem guy?"
"Better you don't know. And even better you forget you ever heard these names."
"Gotcha. Okay. There you are: Some girl's found her daddy—or vicey-versey. I'll print this out along with the stationery. How many copies you want?"
Jack thought about that. He needed only one letter, but a number of copies.
"How about I type it right here, and then you print it out."
"Sure thing." Russ rose and gestured toward the keyboard. "Be my guest."
As Jack seated himself he pulled a slip of paper from a pocket and handed it to Russ.
"While I'm doing this, why don't you make yourself useful and look up the next of kin of these folks."
"Don't want me to see what you're writing, right?"
"Right."
"No problem." He looked at the names on the slip and whistled. "This might take a while."
Jack looked up at him. "Then you might want to get right to it. Besides, you're blocking my light."
As Russ wandered away, Jack began to type. He had a two-finger style—slow, but it got the job done…