The name is Rowe. Mac Rowe. Private consultant.

When I got there, I found a nervous-looking gent pacing the hall.

“Mr. Rowe?” he asked. He was scared. Scared like a man facing Dell’s Technical Support—and Symantec’s.

“That’s me.”

“I need your help, Mr. Rowe. I’m in a horrible fix. The mob thinks I stole their money, someone’s trying to blackmail me, and my wife is plotting to kill me.”

I shrugged. “We all have problems.”

“And I…” He paused, as if trying to gain the courage to complete the thought. “…I can’t get Windows to run properly.”

Poor sap. Some guys have horrible luck. I unlocked the door and we entered my office. Feeling sorry for the sucker, I produced a bottle of bourbon, filled two shot glasses, and drank them down.

“My computer hates me. Every time I turn it on, it takes ten to fifteen minutes to boot, then seven minutes to bring up the Start menu and a minute and a half to register a keystroke. Meanwhile, a pop-up keeps telling me that I’m infected with something called W32.Hammet.H@Chandler, although my doctor gave me a clean bill of health.”

I named a price. He gave me his name, Abe Goestly, and his address. I promised I’d get to him the next day, showed him out, and left for some shuteye.

But I found trouble—Pundy and Dolhaus—waiting in my apartment. I’d had run-ins with these two, before—a couple of tough plainclothes techies from Beltway Computers.

“Hello, Mac,” said Pundy. “I understand you’ve agreed to help Abe Goestly. You know that his computer is a Beltway?”

“What’s it to you?” I asked.

This made Dolhaus angry. “You mess with Beltway Computers and you’re ours! We’ll take away your license! We’ll take away your broadband! We’ll take away your two front teeth!”

“Pull your dog off me!” I ordered Pundy. “You’ve got nothing on me and you never will. Now get out of my bathroom or you’ll get a taste of what’s in my coat pocket!”

They got out fast. I reached into my pocket and removed the month-old, half-eaten Snickers bar. Good thing for them they left.

Very Bad Sectors

I paid Goestly a visit the next day bright and early—half past noon. I booted the PC and lit up a Lucky. I was on smoke number three when the booting finished with a pop-up message: “Corleone AntiVirus has detected a W32.Hammet.H@Chandler infection. Click Info for more information. To remove the infection, click An offer you couldn’t refuse.”

I clicked “Info” and waited while Internet Explorer loaded with all the speed of a four-year-old doing calculus. When it was finally up, Corleone Software was telling me it had no information on W32.Hammet.H@Chandler.

I returned to the pop-up and clicked “An offer you couldn’t refuse.” The pop-up disappeared, and a new one came up in it’s place. “Infection removed.” I was feeling pretty proud of myself when I clicked OK, which brought up the first message again. Infinite loopiness.

I needed to visit the worst place in the world—the spot where all the scum congregate—Msconfig. Sure enough, it was crowded with lowlife.

The first one I met was a little weasel named b-tray. “Okay, punk,” I asked, “what are you doing in Goestly’s PC?”

“I don’t have to tell you. A very respected application put me here to, ah, put an icon in the system tray. I’m very important!”

I glanced at the tray. It was lousy with icons. “And what program would that be?”

“LeapYearFix. You load it every February 29^th. You can see why I must always be ready.”

I unchecked b-tray and went on to the next one—a suspicious character called nocmd. “What’s your excuse?” I asked.

This one didn’t answer. “I said, you filthy piece of code, what’s your excuse for loading every time Goestly boots?” Still no response. “Listen, bitbreath, you answer my question or I’m put your .exe file where Ontrack can’t find it.”

“I’m just doing a little private work for my boss,” nocmd finally responded. “Gonna make something of it.”

I decided to be on the safe side and leave that one checked.

The next one had a really suspicious name: CorAV. “Okay, Bud,” I asked, “what are you here for.”

“I’m the real-time component for Corleone AntiVirus. Without me, this PC is defenseless.”

I unchecked that one immediately. That would stop those W32.Hammet.H@Chandler messages.

I rebooted and waited ten minutes as Windows loaded. Something in my gut told me I hadn’t solved all of Goestly’s problems.

Speaking of which, my client walked in as I was contemplating my next move. “So, Mr. Rowe, what do you recommend?”

I contemplated shooting him. It had worked before, and the coppers would probably blame it on his wife. Then I remembered that he hadn’t paid me yet.

“Format the hard drive,” I told him. “Then reinstall Windows and all of your applications. Leave out Corleone; you don’t need antivirus software if you’re willing to reformat every week.

“And pay my bill before the mob gets to you; or your wife.”

It was getting dark as I left the house. Someone nearby was booting Windows. There’s always work for a hardboiled consultant.

© Copyright 2006 by Lincoln Spector