About six months ago, Jerome had to delete his email address and give him a new one, because everyone in Hodges’s address book had gotten a message saying he was stranded in New York, someone had stolen his wallet with all his credit cards inside, and he needed money to get home. Would the email recipient please send fifty dollars—more if he or she could afford it—to a Mail Boxes Etc. in Tribeca. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I get this mess straightened out,” the message concluded.
Hodges was deeply embarrassed because the begging request had gone out to his ex, his brother in Toledo, and better than four dozen cops he’d worked with over the years. Also his daughter. He had expected his phone—both landline and cell—to ring like crazy for the next forty-eight hours or so, but very few people called, and only Alison seemed actually concerned. This didn’t surprise him. Allie, a Gloomy Gus by nature, has been expecting her father to lose his shit ever since he turned fifty-five.
Hodges had called on Jerome for help, and Jerome explained he had been a victim of phishing.
“Mostly the people who phish your address just want to sell Viagra or knockoff jewelry, but I’ve seen this kind before, too. It happened to my Environmental Studies teacher, and he ended up paying people back almost a thousand bucks. Of course, that was in the old days, before people wised up—”
“Old days meaning exactly when, Jerome?”
Jerome had shrugged. “Two, three years ago. It’s a new world out there, Mr. Hodges. Just be grateful the phisherman didn’t hit you with a virus that ate all your files and apps.”
“I wouldn’t lose much,” Hodges had said. “Mostly I just surf the Web. Although I would miss the computer solitaire. It plays ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’ when I win.”
Jerome had given him his patented I’m-too-polite-to-call-you-dumb look. “What about your tax returns? I helped you do em online last year. You want someone to see what you paid Uncle Sugar? Besides me, I mean?”
Hodges admitted he didn’t.
In that strange (and somehow endearing) pedagogical voice the intelligent young always seem to employ when endeavoring to educate the clueless old, Jerome said, “Your computer isn’t just a new kind of TV set. Get that out of your mind. Every time you turn it on, you’re opening a window into your life. If someone wants to look, that is.”
All this goes through his head as he looks at the blue umbrella and the endlessly falling rain. Other stuff goes through it, too, stuff from his cop-mind, which had been asleep but is now wide awake.
Maybe Mr. Mercedes wants to talk. On the other hand, maybe what he really wants is to look through that window Jerome was talking about.
Instead of clicking on GET STARTED NOW!, Hodges exits the site, grabs his phone, and punches one of the few numbers he has on speed-dial. Jerome’s mother answers, and after some brief and pleasant chitchat, she hands off to young Mr. Chos Fo Hos himself.
Speaking in the most horrible Ebonics dialect he can manage, Hodges says: “Yo, my homie, you keepin dem bitches in line? Dey earnin? You representin?”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Hodges. Yes, everything’s fine.”
“You don’t likes me talkin dis way on yo honkah, brah?”
“Uh . . .”
Jerome is honestly flummoxed, and Hodges takes pity on him. “The lawn looks terrific.”
“Oh. Good. Thanks. Can I do anything else for you?”
“Maybe so. I was wondering if you could come by after school tomorrow. It’s a computer thing.”
“Sure. What’s the problem this time?”
“I’d rather not discuss it on the phone,” Hodges says, “but you might find it interesting. Four o’clock okay?”
“That works.”
“Good. Do me a favor and leave Tyrone Feelgood Deelite at home.”
“Okay, Mr. Hodges, will do.”
“When are you going to lighten up and call me Bill? Mr. Hodges makes me feel like your American History teacher.”
“Maybe when I’m out of high school,” Jerome says, very seriously.
“Just as long as you know you can make the jump any time you want.”
Jerome laughs. The kid has got a great, full laugh. Hearing it always cheers Hodges up.
He sits at the computer desk in his little cubbyhole of an office, drumming his fingers, thinking. It occurs to him that he hardly ever uses this room during the evening. If he wakes at two A.M. and can’t get back to sleep, yes. He’ll come in and play solitaire for an hour or so before returning to bed. But he’s usually in his La-Z-Boy