The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

MONDAY

We drive Mia to school. Same old same old except we have Sarah Connor accompanying us. She has been summoned to see the school Principal and is appropriately attired in a sober skirt and blouse combo. Her hair even looks washed for once.

John and I wait in the vehicle. On the distant playing fields a group of students can be glimpsed played lacrosse in the wintery sunshine. Snowy watches with his snout pushed up against the glass. It is not hard to discern he would love to be amongst them adding his own peculiar brand of sporting prowess to their game - at least until the ball came his way at which point he would yelp and run full tilt in the opposite direction.

Sarah Connor returns fifteen minutes later.

"How'd it go?" John asks. "Do we need to start looking for another school?"

"Not quite. Mia's grades are standing up well. She was ahead of the curve when she arrived and now it's caught her up slightly. She's still in the top ten percentile in most of her classes."

"Why do I get the feeling that isn't the reason you were called in."

"Apparently her attitude towards certain other students is giving cause for concern."

"Emma Van Buren."

"They shout and argue with each other in the corridors. So far there's always been a teacher nearby to stop it getting physical."

"They'll only be one winner if that happens, especially after those self-defense moves you taught her. How many black or latino students are there at this school anyway?"

"That's not a helpful question to ask, I was told."

"In other words, a token handful at most. They should cut Mia some slack."

"I think they do. This school hasn't expelled a student in ten years."

"No, wouldn't look good on the prospectus."

"I caught some grief for not attending many PTA meetings."

"Many? You've never attended any PTA meetings."

"Which was duly pointed out to me. Parental involvement in school activites is considered a privilege not an chore."

"Didn't you tell them you're too busy trying to save the world?"

A smirk. "Somehow I don't think that would've helped."

"Maybe we should just let Mia bop this Van Buren girl and cut our losses."

-0-

Next we head across town to the vetinary clinic where Snowy is due to have his annual innoculation shots. Since this involves having a sharp hypodermic needle jabbed several times into his hindquarters he is understandably keen to leave as soon as the ordeal is over, until he spots a female terrier seated in the waiting room and is suddenly desperate to stay put. We end up having to drag him out by his leash. Snowy can be a very contrary dog at times.

Back at the safehouse John is the first to notice something amiss.

"Where's my laptop? I left it on the sofa."

"Mine's gone too. I think we've had a break in."

"Oh shit! Wait here."

John races upstairs. He returns soon enough, one look at his stricken face tells me all I need to know.

"It's gone. They stole the clock. The one with the spare chip hidden inside."

Cameron subprime is in the hands of thieves.

-0-

"They obviously came in this way," John says as we investigate further. He points at the broken window in the backdoor. Glass shards litter the floor on the inside, sure signs of a forced entry. "Door was locked but the key was left in the lock. They just broke the glass, reached in and - voila! Open sesame."

"That was clumsy, leaving the key in the lock," Sarah Connor chides.

"I know. It's just such a pain in the butt to have unlock it everytime Snowy needs to do his business in the yard."

"He is a poop machine," I agree.

"You don't think it could've been the agency that's searching for us?"

"Creed? No way. If it was him I think there'd be a dozen special ops soldiers pointing rifles at us about now."

"What about the old man who stole the chip the first time?"

"Ginsberg. Can't see it. He knows what's at stake. Plus nobody knew I hid it in the base of the clock."

"Okay, so it's a fair bet that whoever took it has no idea what they have."

"It might not stay that way for long. If they find the chip and show it to anyone who knows a little bit about computers they'll soon figure out it's something special."

"We could be looking at another Cyberdyne situation. Future tech being exploited here in the present. And we all know where that leads."

-0-

There are police outside in the street. It appears our house is not the only one to have been burgled.

Sarah Connor strolls out to chat to one of the officers. "Four others were broken into," she reports on her return. "At the fifth they tripped a security alarm and fled."

"Police have any suspects?"

"Looks like professionals. Only things taken were highend electrical or anything valuable looking. Items they could fence."

"My clock looks like an antique but it isn't. Ten bucks at a thrift market. They're obviously not experts."

"We can't wait for the cops to handle this. I got the impression this is pretty routine and we're to fill out insurance forms for the loss of any valuables. A run of the mill burglary isn't going to be top priority."

"You're right. If we want that clock back we need to do it ourselves."

"Where do we start? It's an awfully big city."

"I've got an idea."

"Care to share?"

"We're gonna set a thief to catch a thief."

-0-

John and I drive drive downtown to the local courthouse where people arrested for crimes are brought before a judge to be sentenced or freed. We take our seats in the public gallery, which is almost empty. John explains this is because this court sees minor offence that don't require a jury. More sensational crimes are tried elsewhere and attract considerably more media interest.

The first two defendents are found guilty and led away to begin prison terms. The third is a man named Randolph Gitte, known to all and sundry as Randy. He is thirty-four and an habitual sneak thief. On this occasion he strikes lucky. The evidence against him is flimsy and his lawyer astute enough to point this out. After scant deliberation the judge declares him not guilty and allowed to walk free.

"This is our boy,"John whispers. "Let's go."

We wait outside the courthouse until Randy emerges. He chats a moment with his lawyer, the two high-five, then the lawyer gets into a Mercedes and drives off leaving his client to walk past us on the sidewalk. We follow.

"Some slick moves back there, Randy," John says in a loud voice. "Thought you were going down for sure."

Randy turns and grins. "Nah, not me, man. Hired me a shyster and I'm as free as a bird." He flaps his arms birdlike and laughs at his own wit.

"Fancy making some easy money, Randy? Say a thousand bucks."

"Oh yeah? What ya got in mind? I don't do kinky, though I'll bang your girlfriend and let you watch if you like. No photos though. I'm shy."

"I'm sure you are. We want the name of a fence who'd handle stolen stuff in the Santa Monica area."

"You two cops?"

"Do we look like cops?"

"What you look like is a couple of greenhorn college kids trying to act tough."

"Try college kids with a thousand dollars going begging."

John produces the wad of cash from his jacket pocket. Randy licks his lips. "Toss it over. Let me check it's kosher."

John obliges. Randy counts it then turns to leave. "Thanks, suckers. See you around."

I grab his wrist. He tries to break my grip. As if.

"Jeez, you're strong. You on steroids?"

John snatches the money back.

"Hey!"

"The fence, Randy. Then you get the cash."

"Okay. Try Abe Weiss on Sunset."

John glances at me. I shake my head. A lie.

"Try again. And don't blow it this time. I figure a lawyer like that must cost money. And I bet you're just about running on empty."

Randy mulls it over. "This is strictly between us, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Johnny Camino. Runs a secondhand store on Madison. Only it's a front. I've used him myself."

Another glance. This time I nod my head. It's the truth.

The money is tossed back and I release my grip. Randy rubs his wrist and says, "Hope you guys aren't planning any funny business because this guy's connected, know what I mean. Italian style."

"Got it, Randy. Thanks. Be smart and stay out of trouble now."

"Yeah, right!" Randy laughs. "Good one, man."

I don't get the joke.

-0-

The secondhand store on Madison is called Camino's and sells everything from jewelry to furniture. We watch the place from the Suburban parked on the opposite side of the street. John goes over the plan again. "Okay, same deal as before. We offer money for information. Only I'm pretty sure this guy won't go for it so we switch to Plan B. We gotta get that clock back."

I am in full agreement. I do not like the idea of Cameron subprime in the hands of criminal dirtbags, even if she will never be aware of it.

We enter the store. A man looks up from behind a long wooden counter. We are the only customers. "Help you folks?"

He is heavyset and in late middleage, wearing a plaid jacket over a tieless shirt. His dark hair is slicked back from his face and held in place by some type of shiny unguent. He obviously doesn't shampoo and condition three times a day as I do.

"Looking for a Johnny Camino," John replies.

"You've found him. What can I do for a lovely young couple like yourselves? You want an engagement ring? Got a great selection. Solid silver, platinum, you name it. Give you a better price than those jews on Fairfax. Or you setting up home together? Got plenty of highend furniture at knockdown prices."

"We're in the market for some information. There was a series of robberies this morning in Santa Monica. I'm offering a couple of grand for a name and address. I'm not looking to hassle them; we just want what's ours."

"Sorry, pal, you've come to the wrong place. This is a legit business."

"That's not what I heard."

"Then you heard wrong."

All trace of bonhomie is gone. Johnny Camino stares at us like we are something he'd scrape off his shoe.

"Look, you're a well known fence who keeps his ear to the ground. I think you know who I'm talking about. I'm not looking to hassle you or make trouble, but it's very important we find the people who robbed us."

"I think you better leave now, son, or you and the pretty lady are gonna be the ones in trouble."

John sighs. "You all alone here, Johnny?"

"That's Mr Camino. And it's just me and my good pals Smith and Wesson."

A handgun is produced, pointing straight at John. Not on my watch. Two steps take me to the counter and I slap the gun out of his hand. It clatters harmlessly against a far wall.

"Looks like Smith and Wesson just stepped out. Look, this doesn't have to be difficult. A name and address. That's it. I promise you we won't reveal our source."

"Son, you and that bitch just entered a world of pain!"

"Plan B?" I ask John. He nods reluctantly.

I grasp Johnny Camino's jacket lapels and drag him over the counter. He resists though it's hardly a fair contest. I pull a wooden chair out of a furniture display and sit him on it. Nice chair. Pine. Twenty dollars. Bargain.

"Name and address."

"Go to hell!"

"I cannot comply. Destination unknown."

Camino tries to stand up. I push him back down.

"Jeez, you're strong. You on steroids?"

Why does everyone say that?

Up. Down. Up. Down. Enough.

"Stay seated or I will break both your legs."

"She means it too," John says. "Roid rage."

He crosses to the door, locks it and turns the sign so it reads closed. "It's a clock I'm after. About twelves inches high. Antique looking. I just want it back."

"You punks are so dead! I'm Johnny Camino, dammit. I'm a made man."

"I'm Cameron Baum," I retort. "I'm a made woman."

"Literally," John concurs with a grin.

I tear Camino's shirt off. He's a big man but he's out of shape. With me it's a fulltime job. His torso is more blubber than muscle. No matter. All humans however out of shape have sensitive areas called pressure points. If prodded in the correct manner these can administer considerable pain.

I prod.

Johnny Camino screams.

"Name. Address."

"Kiss my ass!"

"Another time." As if!

"C'mon, Johnny, don't make it hard for yourself."

"I will personally put you both in the ground and stomp the dirt down with my own two feet!"

Prod.

Screams.

"Name. Address."

"Go f-"

Prod.

Screams.

"Okay, okay," he gasps finally, the sweat pouring off him. "No more. God, that hurts! The guy you want is Vinny Perez. Inglewood. 43 Jefferson."

"He's telling the truth."

"You're sure it's him?"

"Yeah. He called earlier. Claimed the clock was a valuable heirloom. Wanted too much money so I passed. He's a greedy SOB."

John tosses a roll of banknotes on the floor. "Two grand. Like I said. Could have saved yourself a whole heap of pain if you'd told us in the beginning. Some businessman you are."

"You punks are so dead! You think I'm gonna let you get away with this? I'm gonna hunt you down and-"

"No, you're not, Johnny. And you're not going to call Perez and warn him. Here's why. Show him."

I hoist the chair above my head and drop it. The legs snap off and send Camino sprawling. I loom over him. He cringes away. I allow my red optic lenses to show through my pseudo-irises. The whole shop glows red.

"Holy mother of God! What are you?"

"Someone you never want to meet again."

John says, "We'll let ourselves out."

-0-

Vinny Perez isn't in the phone directory. Or on Facebook.

He is, however, in the archives of the LA Times.

"Convicted for armed robbery with menaces. Sentenced to six years. Served three. Here's his photo."

On the cell phone screen is a young hispanic male with short dark hair staring sullenly out at the camera. I commit his face to my database. I will know him if I see him.

Number 43 Jefferson Street has seen better days. Indeed, it has probably seen better years. It is a single storey delapidated building with an overgrown yard. It seems odd to see a brand new Ferrari sportscar parked outside such a ramshackle dwelling.

"I think it cost more than the house," John agrees. "Talk about advertising what you do for a living."

"Stolen?"

"What d'you think?"

I nod. "Does a bear shit on the Pope?"

"Uh - I think you mean, does a bear shit in the woods."

"Do I? I thought the Pope was involved somehow."

"Anyway, you don't buy those with foodstamps."

As we watch from across the street, two men emerge from the house. Neither are Vinny Perez. They ignore the Ferrari and drive away in a plain Ford sedan.

"Would help if we knew how many are inside."

I switch my optics to infra red. "I detect three heat sources."

"Same room?"

"Yes. Left of the front entrance."

"Okay, we know what Perez looks like. Anyone else we disable if they cause trouble."

"They are common criminals. Why show mercy?"

"Because we're not judge and jury. We're just here for what's ours."

We cross the yard using minimal stealth. I kick in the door and we head for the room with the heat sources.

Vinny Perez is lying on a sofa, barefoot in grey pants and a white vest. Next to him is a blonde woman in shorts and a halter top that barely contains her unfeasibly large boobs. In an armchair nearby is a tall man with thickly mucled arms bulging out of a yellow vest. He rises as we enter. I kick him in the right knee and as he sags forward slap the side of his head. He crashes to the floor and remains there. It really is true, the bigger they are the harder they fall.

"Everyone stay where they are," John orders.

The blonde woman immediately disobeys by leaping on my back and raking her long fingernails down my cheek, exposing my coltan armor. I shrug her off. She rebounds off the wall and lands heavily on her front causing her boobs to explode with a loud pop. Built in airbags? I have never seen that before. How ingenious.

John draws his Glock. "Enough. You Vinny Perez?"

"Who wants to know?"

"The person pointing a gun at your head."

Duh!

"Jesus, what'd she do to Frank and Tina?"

"They'll live."

"What's wrong with her face, man?"

"Metal plate. Motorcycle accident. Yada yada. My turn. You robbed a house in Santa Monica this morning. From one of them you took two laptops and a clock. Where are they?"

"Hey, man, I got no idea what you're talking about. Been here all day just cooling my jets."

"It's always the hard way, isn't it. Your kind never know when they're beat."

I grasp Vinny Perez's wrist and begin to apply pressure.

"Hey, she's hurting me!"

Double duh!

"Give it up, Vinny. We take back what's ours and the rest of the stuff you stole you get to keep. Best deal of your life. We're not even gonna tell the cops."

"Jeez! Stop already! Okay. Wasn't much anyway. The backroom on the left."

"Watch him." John warns before going into the other room. I relax my grip slightly.

"You are one strong chick."

"You have no idea."

"You taking steroids?"

"It seems to be a popular assumption."

"Frank takes steroids. Swallows them like M&M's. They shrink his wiener." A smirk. "I'm thinking you don't have that problem?"

"Not so much."

"I like strong women. They're a turn on."

"Don't you prefer blondes with airbag boobs?"

"Big boobs aren't everything."

He has obviously never watched the Playboy Channel.

"Listen, chiquitta, come and join my crew. We'll forget this ever happened. Call it a job interview. I'll pay you double what that guy's paying."

"No, thank you."

"C'mon, baby, it's a sweet deal. And being part of my crew has fringe benefits."

"Fringe benefits?"

He nods at the crotch of his pants where a small tent has appeared. I use my free hand to press down. Something snaps and Vinny Perez begins to scream.

John appears in the doorway. "Found it. Laptops and the clock." He frowns. "What's the matter with him?"

"He seems to have a broken wiener."

John grins. "I'm not even gonna ask!"

-0-

Ouch!

Randolph Gitte. Aka Randy Git. Little joke for the Brits there.

I see Johnny Camino as looking like Silvio from The Sopranos, who in turn looks like the guitarist in the E Street Band. Does he come seeking revenge? (Camino - not Steve Van Zandt!)

Oh yeah...