Hardware Read Online Free Page B

keep a client list on file. No more address mix-ups—”
    â€œHow about me?” I said. “Can your friend do something for me?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m looking to get on-line.”
    â€œNo,” Sam said immediately.
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘no’?”
    He pressed his lips together. “Let me think about it.”
    â€œWhat’s to think about, Sam? Your friend deals in stolen merchandise?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen why?”
    â€œLet me get back to you.”
    â€œWhen?” I said. “Seriously, Sam, who’s your friend?”
    â€œNobody you know.”
    â€œSam, come on.”
    â€œReally, Carlotta, he’s not somebody who can help you.”
    â€œYou don’t even know what I want, Sam.”
    â€œCarlotta, you don’t want to do business with this guy.”
    â€œBut I do?” Gloria said, her eyes narrowing.
    Sam said, “How do I get into this shit? Why do you need a computer, Carlotta?”
    â€œBusiness,” I said. “Same as you. Maybe I could explain it better to your friend.”
    â€œDammit,” he muttered under his breath.
    I sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, swinging my foot, waiting.
    â€œOkay,” he said finally. “When do you want to go?”
    â€œNow would be nice.”
    â€œThe guy sleeps in,” Sam said.
    â€œTomorrow, then,” I said. “I’m free tomorrow.”
    â€œTomorrow night?” he asked. “That way, maybe we could—”
    â€œDaytime,” I said.
    â€œYou’re busy Saturday night?”
    â€œMaybe,” I said.
    â€œDaytime,” he agreed angrily. And pivoted on the heel of one expensive loafer, and walked out.
    Gloria sent two cabs to opposite sides of the city, glaring at me all the while.
    â€œCarlotta,” she scolded, “how come you’re always making him so goddamn mad?”
    â€œI don’t know, Gloria. Why don’t you ever ask how come he makes me so goddamn mad?”
    Or why he doesn’t invite me out to breakfast? Or back to his place for a quickie?
    â€œCan somebody help me with this fan belt?” came a pitiful bleat from the grease pit.
    â€œSure,” I said. “I’m in the mood.”
    Half an hour later I was back in the bathroom, using liquid Borax in an attempt to scour the oil and grit off my hands without removing skin. I’d located four hidden microphones without half trying.
    Like mice and cockroaches, there’s never just one.

FOUR
    Saturday mornings, 8 A . M .—rain, shine, snow, sleet—I can be found at the Cambridge YWCA, playing killer volleyball for the Y-Birds on the old wooden gym floor.
    Fourth game of the match, we were up eleven-ten on the Boston Y. Boston-Cambridge is a traditional rivalry, always taken seriously. The first two games, both close, had split evenly: one apiece. We’d stolen the third so easily I suspected our opponents were playing possum, taking a breather, preparing to mangle us.
    So far, so good.
    We took possession after a long volley when one of their setters mis-hit and sent the ball spinning out of bounds.
    Rotate.
    Loretta, who is far from my best friend on the team, leaned close as I bounced the ball on the service line. “‘The score stood two to four,’” she recited, hand over heart, “‘with but one inning left to play—’”
    â€œShut up,” I said firmly. I know I’m not the world’s best server. Rarely an ace from me. Whenever I go for broke, I skim it low and whack the net.
    Movement in the bleachers caught my eye. The ball cleared the net with two inches to spare. A short woman with a raggedy blond ponytail called for it and squatted into a terrific dig. Their middle blocker had half a foot on ours. No contest at the net. No point. Their ball.
    Damn.
    Net is where I live. I’m an outside hitter. Next rotation I could do what I do best: jump