Everything but the Squeal

else to do, let's look for numerical sequences.”

There weren't any. The numbers were the same at the top of every record. They all read: (186–486).

“That's real productive,” I said. “Let's look at the other numbers.”

We did. We flipped from record to record. Some numbers seemed to have a logical sequence and some didn't. One thing did change: the words after the period following the number three. I wrote them down as we paged through the records, and then we all sat and looked at the page I'd written on.

‘Turkey,” Jessica read. “Inthe. Straw. Hollered. Begged. Hotwater.” She looked at both of us and shrugged.

‘They're code words,” Morris said. “If this is a bulletin board, which I think it is, these are the words people use to access the board. All the users have secret words. Without them, they can't get into the data base.”

“What's a bulletin board?” Jessica said.

“It's just a data base that people reach by telephone. See all the phone numbers? You use the modem in your computer to dial a number and then you've got to give a code to get to the information. If you use the wrong code, the bulletin board disconnects. There are dating services that work like that,” Morris said, blushing becomingly. “The people who called this board probably typed in these names, and that was their code.”

“Look at the other disks,” I said, getting up.

Morris dealt disks into the slots like an old Vegas hand playing a new form of computer poker. Each of the other disks contained six records, just like the first. The same six words, or combinations of words, came after number three on each disk.

“They're duplicates,” I said, feeling disappointed.

“Turkey in the Straw,” Morris said suddenly, looking at the page. “That's a kind of folk song, some kind of hillbilly music.”

“Yeah?” I said, grasping literally at straws. “How does it go?”

“Mom,” Morris bellowed. I quailed nervously, and Jessica retreated a step. “She'll know,” Morris said in explanation. “She and my dad are into hayseed music. They're old-fashioned liberals.”

“Poor you,” Jessica said with the new conservatism of the American teenager.

Elise Gurstein came to the door. “More coffee?” she asked.

“Sing, Mom,” Morris commanded. ” Turkey in the Straw.’ ”

“Morris,” Elise Gurstein said, looking flustered. “Surely you jest. It's nine-fifteen. I can barely talk at this hour.”

“Then get Dad.”

“He's asleep. They shot until three last night. Morris’ father is in television,” she said to me.

“You get the part, then,” Morris said mercilessly. ” Turkey in the Straw.’ You and Dad know all those chestnuts.”

“This is more than a trifle embarrassing,” Elise Gurstein said to me. “Especially since I don't know the words.”

“Just ‘deedle, deedle,’ ” Morris said. “This could be important.”

“It had better be,” said his mother. “Okay, but all of you have to turn your backs.” We did, and I heard her draw a deep breath. “Ohhh,” she sang in a pure soprano, “De deedle deedle deedle and de deedle deedle de. And de deedle deedle deedle, deedle de de de.”

“Again,” Morris commanded.

“I know the words,” Jessica said, cutting Elise off in mid-deedle. “My dad used to sing it sometimes when he was carrying Luke and me around on his back.” She looked down at the pad. “Oh, Jesus,” she said.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

“They're here, sort of,” she said. Then she sang: Oh, the little chickie hollered And the little chickie begged, And they poured hot water Up and down his leg.

“That's pretty morbid,” Elise Gurstein said reprovingly. Words like those weren't in the Liberals' Children's Songbook.

“It's a children's song,” Jessica said. “Or that's what Daddy says.”

“Hot water,” I said. Something connected in my mind, with the force of a bolt lock being shot home. I heard the gush of water echoing on a tape cassette, almost drowning out Aimee Sorrell’s screams.

“They've left out Chickie,” Jessica observed, scanning the words I'd written.

“Is the concert finished?” Elise Gurstein asked. “Can I go back upstairs now?”

“I guess so,” I said. She left.

“So that's it,” Morris said. “Maybe they're all folk singers. Maybe this is a folk singers' bulletin board. They all get together on Saturday nights and clog-dance.”

“They're not anything that dull,” I said. “Look, we've got one sequence already. The words occur in the song in the same order as the records. One is ‘Turkey,’ two is ‘Inthe,’ and so forth. Let's look for other sequences, numbers, this time.”

“There aren't any,” Jessica said. “We already did that.”

“Not on a single disk, there aren't. But what about if we look from disk to disk?”

“Wait,” Morris said. “I'll load them onto the hard disk and then we can look at them all without having to change disks all the time.” He did some magic at the keyboard, and two minutes later we were able to page from disk to disk as well as from record to record.

“Look at the numbers at the top,” I said, “the ones we were looking at before.”

After five minutes we'd found the progression.

The disk I'd labeled one had in parentheses the numbers (186–486). There were similar numbers in parentheses on each of the records on the disk. The disk I'd numbered two identified all the records on it as spanning (586–986). three began with (1086-187). Morris hadn't copied them to the hard disk in numerical order, so it took a little longer than it would have otherwise.

“They're dates,” I said conjecturally. “One-eighty-six means January 1986. Look at them all. They're a continuous record. Disk one ends with April 1986, and disk two begins with May 1986. They're not duplicates, they're some sort of chronological record. ’ ’

We all looked at the screen.

“Yes,” Morris said, rubbing his chin with an oddly middle-aged gesture. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Jessica demanded, sounding like her old self.

“Then some of the numbers following the orders and the special orders are dates too,” Morris said. “Just put a slash in between the first or second number and the last two. Look, all the numbers to the right are sequential top to bottom. Special order A lasted from April 22 to April 27. Special order B goes from May 17 to May 22, and special order C is May 23 to May 29. I think you're right.”

“It's Simeon's job to be right,” Jessica said.

“Why no years in those fields?” I asked, thinking out loud.

“Because the year is at the top,” Morris said in the patient tone of one who had to break the news to a half- wit. “This disk covers January 1988 to October 1988.”

“Wooey,” Jessica said, staring at the screen.

“There's another sequence,” Morris announced to the room at large, paging through the records and the disks. “Look: 1200 orders of fingers, 2800 orders of parts: 4,000 orders of paper. So fingers and parts equal paper. See? The amount of paper equals the number of parts and fingers added together.”

“Son of a bitch,” I said, moderating my awe at Morris’ expertise. Addition had never been a comfortable subject. “Can you print this one out?”

“Sure,” Morris said confidently, “no prob.”

“Before you do, type in the dates.”

Humming to himself, Morris typed for a few minutes, then hit a couple of keys, and said, “Here it comes.”

Something behind me panted and then whirred. I turned to see a laser printer. After a moment it stuck out a tongue of white paper at us.

“This is really neat,” Jessica said, grabbing the sheet. She put it on the desk and we all gathered around it. Now it looked like this: