It's late, very dark as I walk up Maynard Avenue. A figure stoops in front of my office, shoves something in the mail slot. I slow down to watch. Who hates me enough to bomb the office?

Hospital whites, maybe a nurse. She straightens up, peers down the street then turns to pop into a waiting hover cab. That's okay then. Bombers don't normally arrive by cab, in my experience, and if they did wouldn't have the cabbie wait around to watch.

Odd though. I continue up the street and let myself in.

My office lights are off but there's a lot of neon from the street sifting through the French glass window. Watery, like street glare always is. The marquee, Wander Investigations, a barely visible scrawl across the office's glass front. Shadows from the window's latticework wobble over everything. An inch this way, an inch that way, while headlights add their magic to the mix.

The midnight package delivery is on the floor, barely small enough to have fit through the oversized mail slot. The paper and twine wrapped lump has my name on it. Since it doesn't tick, I take my pocket knife to it.

Maybe my knife isn't sharp. It slides back and forth, cutting here, then skids a bit, severing a thread then skidding again. Pull up harder, and the edge finally catches. The cording severs with a pop. I drop it to rip away the brown paper. There's no return address, so whoever dumped it on me didn't want it back. My name, my mail slot; no postage of course.

The box isn't taped shut. I thumb up the lid. Inside, is a colored plastic cube. A four inch block made of little cubes, one of those Rubik puzzles, but with hand printed letters on every face of it. I give it a twist. More alphabet characters. The letters are random, don't line up to spell out anything. I twist it back; drop myself into an office chair crowding a brown lamp table by the window front. Don't particularly like puzzles; no idea why someone would send me one. I deal with people problems for cash, not toys. No cash retainer, no Richard Wander, Private Investigator.

I look at it anyway, then snag the brown wrapping paper off the floor. There's something penciled small on the inside of it; "go B.C. -Tab 6n."

I put the cube aside. Its been a long day and I'm greasy. Bald guys hate greasy. It builds up on the dome, makes you feel crawly. There's a gilded oval mirror on the wall and a towel on the coat rack by the door. It's been a bad day. I check my reflection in the mirror, looking for any new damage –that kind of day.

Grey eyes water back at me. Still in my late thirties, the bald thing a gift of genetics. A scar crosses my dome from front to back where a part was, when I still had hair. A gift of some creep I had words with once. Not my only scar. It seems a little angry. I jerk the towel from the coat-rack to wipe my grimy face and hands on it. The wipe down will have to do for now. No water around, except from the dispenser jug near the desk. Cheap office.

Still have my overcoat on, so I swipe the cube back off the table and dump it into one of the pockets. One of those with a flap, not the slashed ones I jam my hands in when hoofing it. Grab my hat.

The 'BC' scribbled on the wrapper strikes a memory. BC's is a bar, pass it daily on the way to my flop. Been there lots of times. Good stew on Saturdays, cheap fish on Tuesdays. Attracts a rough crowd though.

I like the walk. Going home, all that. Sometimes it feels like when Marcia was still with me. Before everything fell down. When there was still some history left between who I was yesterday, and who I am now. Like walking back into another life. Peaceful like.

The city sidewalks are blackened, pitted, busted – kind of like me, but I'm used to them. The oval mark of some municipal payola recipient is stamped in every fourth square, and I know each emboss by heart. The city air is damp tonight, like most nights. Something nice about the older street lamps around here. They still use those off-yellow bulbs. Not very bright, but more comforting than that glaring orange junk that beats down on you uptown. Past midnight, so there's nothing but me, a few stray mutts and shadows. An occasional neon winks liquor-dancing-food, or Pawn-Jewelry. I'd get one for the office, if I had the money to certify bails, or anything else to advertise but my two mitts.

Behind me, a small shadow flicks from one doorway to the next, maybe three buildings back. Probably just a mutt. Catch the shadow again at the next street lamp, just as I step out of its soft pool of light and cross Bingle. Have to go left here for a block, to get to BC's, so I make the turn, but stop at the next alley to watch for a tail. Force of habit.

A black and white mongrel lopes across, clear under the lamp. I know this dog, one of those genetically engineered hybrids. It makes the left and trots my way. I back farther into the black alley and bide my time. The dog had its nose down coming across the street--they do that sometimes. Sniff after you instead of watch you. This one comes sniffing right up to the alley. I step forward and confront it.

"Following me, Blackie?" Mutt almost jumps. Tongue pulls in, mouth snaps shut, ears up. It whines, then the tongue comes back out. "Sure, play dumb. You been on my heels for blocks now. Spill."

The mutt husks deep in the back of its gullet, like it was clearing it's throat. "Hung-rry, Richie. Some Meat? Some Meat? Got Wo-rrk?"

I don't do much tracking that requires a Vox dog, or a sniffer. If I did, I wouldn't use a street mutt anyway, but I've thrown Blackie a bone or two to run a message before. Must be starving to hit me up on the run like this.

"Sorry, pal." A thought strikes me. "Wait." I scrabble around in my pocket for the cube. "Smell on this – get anything off it?" Blackie snuffles around the obsidian gleam of it, then sits on his back legs, mouth open, tongue back out.

"Give meat?"

"I'll pick you up something from BC's. You get anything off it or not?"

"Smell you," it coughs out, "smell a girl."

"Someone you know? Someone you've sniffed around here before?"

"Just girl smell."

Well, it was something. Female, like I saw making the delivery, likely not local. If it was someone that hung around here much, the mutt would remember the scent.

"Okay, let's go. BC's could take me a while, Blackie. You'll have to wait outside."

"Wait for Richie."

There was a time when gene-jacked dogs cost bucks. Some still do. Yammering pooches started turning up on the streets almost the same year they were introduced. Smart talking doesn't mean smart rutting. The genes didn't always breed true, and the streets don't offer mongrels much of an education. Even genetically modified, it's painful for a dog to make people sounds, has to be learned. Anyway, the dog trots along behind me, and the dirty yellow glow of BC's draws closer.

Push through BC's cheap brass-colored door. A smell of fry grease and fresh booze rises up. It's a clean smell though, not vinegary or decayed. Like the air wasn't changed out as often as it should be; a little close, maybe.

No heads turn. Bobby is setting up a tray of beers. Everything besides the bar counter is lounge lit. Carey, the server, is waiting on a couple lone customers. Most of the six tables jammed against the left wall are unoccupied. The place, come to think on it, runs north and south, I recall. B.C. Tab 6n – Table six, North? I think about the note again. A glance shows the table is empty. So much for theory. I go to the bar and wait.

"Dinner menu, Richie?"

Bobby, finally free, pulls up in front of me, still playing with glassware. Nice enough guy, maybe forty, a little older than me, more hair, all of it black. Blue eyes look out, mildly attentive, one fake, over white tooth sparkles in his bartender's smile.

"Just a ham sandwich to go. Don't bother to bag it though – it's not going far."

"Drink while you wait?"

"Naw. You seen any new ladies around here, recent like?"

"Always a few new faces. Anybody in particular?"

That almost sticks me. No idea who I was looking for; or why, come to that.

"A possible new client, like always. I was told a lady might have stopped in here tonight – maybe yesterday. Don't know her looks."

Bobby thinks a little. "So, there was a little redhead, a business type, in here this afternoon. I don't remember seeing her before. Carey waited on her – could ask Carey."

"The dame took a table?"

"Yeah."He nods toward an empty booth. "At the end. She ordered lunch."

"Gimme an order of fries; I'll take a table after all. Talk to Carey when she comes around with it."

"You got it, Ritchie."

A brass tag on the Table, says it's number six. It's cleaned off, if a little wet. Heavily lacquered wood, whacked up with plate scars, ring marks, initials, little mementos left by bored patrons. I sit at the far side, back to the wall. There's some fresh scratch work marring the top, not yet lacquered over. Bunch of numbers: 1,1,1; 3,2,4;2,5,4; 5,3,5, like that. Something about the list reminds me of the cube. Jot 'em down. Carey comes up with my fries and a water glass as I finish up. I give her a smile, shove the paper back in my coat.

Carey's a little worse for wear. The joint is open sixteen hours a day, and she's here for twelve of them, every day except Sundays. Short hair and skirt, a little mousey, good classic Mediterranean features, almond eyes, but legs like a soccer player.

"Bobby, he says you wanted to talk to me, Ritchie? What is about?"

I ask after the girl, but Carey doesn't know much.

"I remember that one. Small, young, with nice clothes. Maybe, has money or rich boyfriend, I think. The girl, she order a chicken special, ate slow, tipped light, leave a mess for me. This is all, I think. Lady-friend to you, Ritchie? Long time since you and Marcia..."

"Uh, no. Nothing like that. Just business, maybe. I take it I wasn't asked after, anything like that?"

Carey looks at me a little sadly. "No, Ritchie. I tell you right away, or Bobby too. This you know. You be careful tonight, OK?."

I dawdle over the spuds, pick at the numbers on the table with a fingernail until a lot of 'em are gone. Get no visitors. Guess the lead isn't panning out. I pay up, leave a tip I can't afford, grab up the sandwich Carey drops off.

The mutt is still at the door. He wolfs it down.

"Good," the dog huffs. "Good Richie."

"Don't mention it. Please...go follow somebody else."

To hell with the puzzle box. There's a wire mesh trash can in front of BC's. I dump the cube and the wrapper into it. Two blocks to my house. Next time, I think, try the phone, make an appointment, or send cash.

The house is dark, don't notice anything up until I reach the door. Scratch marks on the latch plate. Reach one hand to an inside pocket, but my stunner is still at the office. There's a sap, six inches of leaded wood baton, in my bedroom drawer, not much help right here though.

Ease in real quiet like, just inside, and wait till my eyes adjust. Old brindle carpeting, sparse furniture trying to cast even darker shadows on it. Mostly stuff even repo men wouldn't bother with. A shuffle whispers from behind the door. Bad mojo. I turn as fast as I can, but not fast enough. An anvil drops on the back of my head. I go black.

Come to on the floor. Head really pounding. The front door's wide open now, so that's that. I manage to roll over and stagger up from the floor with a groan. Head's hosting a migraine that throbs in time with my high blood pressure. Pissed, I look through the tossed house; only thing gone is my head knocker from the bedroom drawer. Probably laid me out with my own sap.

Nice. Kick myself for even thinking about slipping inside. I get stupid sometimes. Put some ice on the lump, lock up, head back to the shop.

A block further on, my implant buzzes. I pull at my right earlobe, find the gel switch there and squeeze. Cheap cell phone implant. I'm annoyed, because it's not a number I give out, and because it makes my head throb more. Had it done a year ago, for making emergency calls. Only four people have the number. One's the doctor who installed it. The other three don't know it's an implant.

"Richie here."

"Wander? The box that got delivered to your office. It was a mistake, it belongs to...someone else. The somebody wants it back. A hundred credits to you for a finder's fee. Have it at your office tomorrow. Somebody will come around to collect it. Be smart. You really want the money more than the box. Trust me on this."

There's a quick disconnect. That's all. I stop and get pissed. The call means someone has been watching my office, and I didn't even spot that. You're slipping, old man.

The caller wasn't the Doc, my accountant, Frank over at the fifteenth precinct, or my bookie, and that's pretty much my address book, for the implant. I fish the cube back out of the trash as I pass B.C.'s. Rummage the wrapping paper out too, then start back toward the office. Use the earpiece to call in a B&E as I walk. Not for the house break-in, for the office.

Somebody knows the cube isn't still there, got that much figured. A somebody who has my unregistered cell number. Only one way to get that; from the office Rolodex. The phone implant gets used so rarely, I keep the number copied down in it, case I forget. Anyway, I want some flatfeet at my shop door before I show up. Less trouble that way. Never flex your own muscle if you can get it done free.

Blackie is still nosing around on the street, so I whistle and the mutt's ears shoot up straight, like shortwave antennas. He comes on at a run.

"Rrr-ichie?"

"I maybe got some more work for you after all. Go over to my house, sniff around. Come back to the office and tell me who was messing around over there."

"Okay Richie."

Red and blue lights are putting on a show out front by the time I make the office. A cheap suit leans against the brick facade. Two blue-shirts are getting out of the curbed cruiser. I wave at the suit, who pries himself off the brick and shoves his hands into the wrinkled jacket's pockets.

"Trouble in paradise, Richie?"

Frank's a great guy. He won't book you unless you look at him funny, smile, or ask about the wife, most days. Used to be a neighbor, when I lived in the burbs. He looks me over, like something vaguely remembered. That's okay by me. That blondish hair above his bony face is running to white. The kind of mop you have to cement down with grease to comb. But at least he still has hair. I think it makes him feel superior to me sometimes.

"Got a weird call on my private line a few minutes ago, Frank. Somebody I didn't recognize. Seemed to know a lot about the contents of my office desk, for some reason. Figured it might be smart to call it in. Somebody might still be in there. You check the door yet?"

Frank's eyes bore a couple holes in me. He clips, "You shouldn't call me direct. There is a desk number, you know."

"Sorry. So?"

"So yeah. It's been jimmied." He throws a beam on the knob. It cuts through the black to show fresh scars on the brass back plate, like at the house.

"I put a flash through the window. It looks tossed inside, or possibly your cleaning lady hasn't been by recently. Stand back, and let the officers through. Just in case you still have visitors." Frank spots the back of my head. "You been in a fight? That knot makes your skull look pregnant."

"Yeah, its a new look for me. Like it?"

Got to be careful around Frank. If he thinks you're maybe getting too much action, he pulls you in for questioning. Can put a crimp in your work day.

"That bump have anything to do with this?"

"No. Hit my head earlier."

The flatfoots clomp through the place. We wait, then go inside. Looks like a hurricane made an indoor appearance, just for me.

Frank sweeps the room with a professional's gaze, then shrugs."Whoever it was, they've been and gone. You want to file a formal report? I can get a fingerprint crew in here if you do."

Don't even hesitate to wave the offer off. He'd find on-file prints everywhere. Last thing I need is all my clients jerked in for questioning. Thing like that, can ruin a man's business. It was just good to know I wasn't going to get sapped again. "No point. If they're gone, they're gone. Nothing here to steal."

"You ought to get some kind of alarm on that door. We might have caught someone in the act."

"I don't keep cash here. Surprised anybody would bother. Probably just kids. Thanks for coming, Frank. I owe you one."

"Yeah? Well, next time, call the desk."

"Promise. Thanks."

"I mean it, Richie, the desk. You started talking to Marcia yet?"

"It was all my fault, Frank. She doesn't want to hear from a bum like me. Just cutting the lady some slack. Maybe when things cool down."

Frank brushes a hand over his forehead, scratching at his vestigial sense of concern. "Two years is a lot of cool, Ritchie."

Frank packs up the troops and leaves. I start picking up the office. Some scratching pulls my attention back to the front door. Blackie. I let the mutt in, since the office was a mess anyway.

"Well?"

The dog husks out, "fish smell. Nobody there. Just fish smell. Man smell. Leather."

"Recent?"

"Fresh, Ritchie."

That kind of report used to drive handlers crazy. Eventually people figured out the dogs were picking up odors from the docks area. Anyone who spends a lot of time riverside builds up fish odor on their shoes. The mutts pick that up. This means hired help, fresh off the docks, not local bums. Anyway Blackie knows most of those by smell, and would have given me a name.

"Meat now? Meat?"

These Vox-dogs all sound the same. Like somebody with laryngitis talking through a fan.

I keep some bacon in a small office fridge behind my desk. It was on the floor now, along with my hotplate, thanks to the toss. I point to the meat. Blackie trots over and noses the package open. I finish up with the office.

Maybe somebody was going to get a little free work out of me after all. Usually takes money to get me going, but being beat on works too. I pull the wrapper back out of my pocket and run over the numbers I wrote down at BC's. Still looks like a string of code to me, not my forte. I know someone, well, something, that might help out with that though. I start to dial for Special Dimensions Agency, think the better of it, and use the computer's internet service instead.

There's this A.I. named MICAIN. Chatty nano-bot I ran across online. Thing's smaller than a flea. Works for an engineering firm that specializes in troubleshooting micro-circuitry. Somehow, the Micro-machine thinks it's some kind of P.I. because it got its name in the papers a couple times. Real famous-in-its-own-mind type, but friendly. Maybe I could get it to look at the code on the cuff, so to speak. I rattle off its web handle. The A.I. is basically a computer, so it's always on-line.

> M.I.C.A.I.N. here, your friendly Mobil, Independently Cognate, Artificially Intelligent Nano-factory. That you Richie?

Takes me a minute. The glow from the screen barely lights the keyboard, and I'm no whiz at poking keys.

> It's me. How's business?

> Well, the Harbor Patrol got me in the papers for my work in capturing those tech bandits that hit the city last month. Did you see that? The publicity really ramped up the work load around here. Good money though; so I can't complain. Had to fork a bundle out to fix up my Waldo. It got pretty beat up. You?

> So-so. Getting by. My office was ransacked tonight. Could mean other trouble. Hoped you might help. Read about that spy thing in the papers. Good work. So, you interested?

I cross my fingers. This could really save me time, if the A.I. agrees. A line of type appears, crossing the display.

> Thanks. Be happy to help if I can, Richie. What have you got?

> Some numbers. I can't make anything out of them. Thought you might. Want to see?

> Sure. Pop it to me.

I two finger the numbers from BC's.

> It's not code exactly, Richie. It's an X,Y,Z coordinate series. Strings of three. A dimensional series.

> Can you give me that in baby talk?

> Plot points used for engineering drawings and such. Length, width, depth. Like a 3-D crossword puzzle reference, or cells on a spreadsheet. So many points across, so many down, and so many back.

Like the cube with all the letters on it maybe, I think. I type back, asking if it could reference the blocks on a cube puzzle.

> Sure, don't see why not. Programmers used to build 3-D grids like that, referenced entries by statements called DIMs -- Words or numbers, organized like a brick of spreadsheet cells. For instance, DIM(3,4,6) would reference a word or letter in the third column, forth row, on the sixth sheet, or layer, kind of. Get that? Someone send you a set of spreadsheets?

> No. Got a cube puzzle with lots of letters on it though.

The screen cursor sits there, pulsing for a bit, then type rattles across the screen again.

> A cube? A Rubik cube? Might be code then, after all. That used to be common spy stuff. You got a book, say, then to decode the reference, you look up the page, paragraph and word. Look, want me to stop by?

> You? How? You're a computer the size of a dust mote.

> You're a funny guy, Richie. That's what my Waldo is for. You want me in on this caper or not?

Takes me a minute to catch on. A Waldo is a sort of mechanical appliance. A mechanical arm, or hand sometimes, but nowadays, usually references a whole body substitute, a drone.

> Don't know what this is about yet. I can't pay Special Dimensions rates, especially without a client. I can send you a picture."

> In 3-D? Hey Richie, I got a life you know. Pro Bono just for you, bald-as-an-egg . Yeah, I've seen your picture. Office at 453 Newstrom, right? You'd be the old looking fart that answers his own door there, right?

The 'bot is getting a little fresh. Beggars can't be choosers though. I let the comment pass — for now.

> Yeah, guess so.

> Be there in ten.

> O.K.

> And don't touch the cube.

> Got it.

> And leave the lights on, cheapo.

The thing is crossing lines and jerking chains like a subway conductor, but I need to get what I want out if this. Even so, I get a little gruff.

> What the hell do you know about my office habits?

> I read the police report on your break-in while we were chatting - I can do that. Quote: No internal lights were lit either during the investigation, nor reported being on during prior patrols...recommended as a remedial precaution to complainant...etc.

> See you, Mic.

> On my way, Richie