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Hidden Journal: Under Surveillance
NOTICE: The following file is one of an ongoing series, transcriptions
of files decrypted from the hidden journal of Harrison Everett Stone.
For a summary of their provenance see the initial file, D910412.ZEN,
included in the release, "Hidden Journal: First Files."
--Kellis. Copyright 1999
File D9105010.ZEN
<Wednesday, October 30, 1974>
This afternoon Laura stopped me as I would have passed the drink
machines. Voices and the clatter of keyboards issued from offices with
open doors but no one was in sight up or down the hall.
She stepped in front of me and smiled. "Wait a minute, will you?"
I took a breath. "What is it?"
"Jack's cooking out Friday night. We'd like you to come."
"Another teenage bash?"
"No teenagers."
"Who's coming, then?"
"Just you."
"A cookout? Where?"
"Same place. It has a kitchen, even a nice deck on the back."
"Jack and I for a cookout?"
"I'll be there, of course."
"Doesn't Jack have a family?"
"He's separated."
I thought it over. "He wants to talk, does he?"
She grinned archly. "Not just talk. And I'll be the center of
attention."
"I see. Do you really like that, Laura?"
Her eyes glittered. "Three men are best, but Jack just wants to see
you."
"Such rare honesty!"
She shrugged. "Will you come?"
I shook my head. "Not for the food. But I'm interested in what he
has to say. Where are the teenagers?"
"They're around. Thought you weren't interested in such young girls."
"That's <after> I squirt 'em." As I said it I realized it was true.
Harry is a dirtier bastard than he wants to admit.
Her lip curled. "A hard cock has no conscience, eh?"
"So my grandpa told me."
"Do you want them?"
"No. I want to hear what Jack has to say."
"Well, I'll be there. Hopefully I'll be <some> consolation!"
"Oh, you will. But ... you've told me what you prefer. I prefer not
to share my women."
Her eyes flashed. "All women are shared sooner or later, one way or
the other, and so are all men."
She had an interesting point. I told her so, adding, "We can discuss
that Friday."
"Then you'll come?"
"After supper. Eightish?"
She grunted. "Eightish. I'll tell him you don't think he can cook."
I nodded. "I'm afraid of his cooking -- a man who takes such risks as
he enjoys!"
She laughed, reached out brazenly and stroked my dick through my
pants. She repeated, "Then you'll come."
"Yeah. But not here, thank you." I turned away, hearing her laughter
behind me.
<Thursday, October 31, 1974>
I didn't care for the datestamp routine I wrote last spring. It's a
bit long on the spaghetti, normally not an issue with me, but in this case
too hard to follow. So I left early, planning to rewrite at my own
kitchen table, my preferred production site.
Having parked the car, taken my briefcase and started toward the
staircase, I heard a man's voice behind me. "One moment, Mr. Stone."
Two roughnecks had gotten out of a car two spaces over. They wore
jeans and scruffy leather jackets and looked bulkier than I. One was
taller, the other shorter than my five eleven. I turned around to face
them, set the briefcase down behind me, and separated my feet, letting my
arms hang loosely, as the U.S. army had once taught me for hand-to-hand
combat.
They were hurrying toward me, the taller leading. I flexed my wrists,
deciding on the spots to grab his shoulders. He took in my posture and
came to a sudden stop, extending one hand to the side to stop his partner,
holding up the other, palm forward.
He smiled. "Take it easy, Mr. Stone. We just need to talk to you.
You are Mr. Harrison Everett Stone, aren't you?"
"Yes," I admitted without relaxing. "Who are you?"
"I am Bill Garth. This is John Prew. We're D.E.A. agents."
"You look like bums," I declared.
He nodded. "You know about protective coloration?"
"Yeah."
"That's it. We don't normally deal with programmers in coat and tie."
"What's a D.E.A.?"
"Drug Enforcement Administration. Congress just created it last
year."
"A federal agency?"
"That's right. Don't you keep up with the law?"
"Only the part that affects me."
"What we want to find out is whether it affects you. May we follow
you in?"
"Let's see some identification."
They both produced picture badges that looked authentic, the letters
D.E.A. big and red under the photographs. It struck me that anyone who
wanted to impersonate a federal agent would find it easy enough to fake an
ID and a spoon of alphabet soup.
I straightened up. "Let's talk out here."
Another car had pulled into a nearby space. A woman got out. I
recognized her: Mrs. Rider from the apartment above mine, older, her face
tired, several strands of hair loose.
The taller agent -- Garth -- tilted his head toward her inquiringly.
I grunted. "Let her hear."
He shook his head, asking softly as she approached, "About the party
at Martin's place last Sunday week?"
I sniffed. "I don't care."
She drew abreast and smiled at me. "Hello, Mr. Stone."
"Hi," I replied, not looking at her. "Meet the federal government.
Makes you wonder where they spend our taxes, don't they?"
She paused and repeated in surprise, "The 'federal government?'"
"Yeah, the D.E.A., they claim. If I disappear, call the F.B.I., will
you?"
Garth's hand went into his pocket to retrieve the ID card he had
already replaced, but the woman, eyes wide, turned away suddenly and ran
up the steps, high heels clacking in rapid staccato.
Garth looked after her, sighed and let the ID fall back into his
pocket. He asked aggrievedly, "Why'd you want to upset her?"
"I never heard of a 'Drug Enforcement Agency.'"
"<Administration>!" he corrected. "Prew, go calm her down."
The shorter man hurried after the woman. Garth's eyes hardened.
"You'd be advised to let us in, Mr. Stone."
"Not without a warrant."
He regarded me thoughtfully. "Let me explain something. The D.E.A.
is not a <state> agency. We don't care about state laws."
"What state laws?"
"The ones about statutory rape and crimes against nature. Those
actions are not federal crimes."
I stared at him. "Is Jack's place bugged?"
He returned my stare. "What do you think?"
I nodded. "Just like taxes, eh?"
"Taxes?"
"All the information flows in one direction."
He grinned crookedly. "Don't you ever get anything back from the
government, Mr. Stone?"
"Sometimes. A trip to scenic Vietnam, for example."
"For which you volunteered. That and your decorations led us to
believe you understand about supporting your government."
"I was a kid. Sounds like you've done your homework."
"We have. And, by the way, I do have a search warrant for your place --
for drugs. But I don't think you have any. We only want to talk to you."
"Show me the warrant."
"It's in the car."
He turned away. I followed him to the car, a nondescript Chevvy. He
opened a back door. I saw a shotgun lying in the back floorboards, papers
stacked on the seat. He took the one on top and handed it to me. It was
a search warrant for my "person, property and effects to discover the
presence of proscribed psychotropic drugs," signed by what purported to be
a federal judge and dated October 25. Last Friday.
Suddenly I remembered the shoes out of alignment in my closet. I
looked up and handed the warrant back, asking incredulously, "You thought
I might've hidden it in my <shoes>?"
He shook his head. "What I want to know, Mr. Stone, is whether you
are willing to concede our authenticity as federal agents."
Just then the shorter man returned. "Is she pacified?" Garth asked
him.
"I hope so. What's going on?"
"Stone wanted to see our search warrant. What about it, Stone? Are
we authentic?"
"I still hope she calls the F.B.I. What made you think <I> had
anything to do with illegal drugs?"
"You saw enough of Jack Martin to make us wonder."
"You must know I work for him."
"Yes. Also this woman, Laura Emmersol. What do you know about her?"
"Nothing worth repeating."
"Are you certain? How many women do you know well enough for them to
meet you naked at the door?"
"Is that a federal crime?"
"No. But your Miss Emmersol is an interesting case. She graduated
from Northwestern two years ago and came straight to N.S.I. The address
she gave as her residence while a student is invalid. We can't get a line
on her past. We believe she's using an alias."
"Did you ask her?"
"No. She's too thick with Martin.
"But I'm not?"
He cocked an eyebrow. "Well, are you?"
I shook my head. "What do you want of me?"
He studied me. At last he admitted, "We've got enough on those two to
convict them of trafficking, but I'd like to do better. We know Martin
deals large quantities of heroin. What we haven't found is how he gets it
here and who repackages it for him."
"So?"
"So we need an informer."
I stared at him. "You know, I have to work with these people."
He nodded. "You obviously have an in with them, even if you nearly
blew it Sunday week. We know they're about to offer you a job."
"I already have a job."
"They're about to offer you a mountain of money and more girls than
you can handle."
"To do what?"
"That's not clear. Probably to act as a courier. Were you planning a
business trip soon?"
"I might be."
He nodded again. "Has one of them invited you to a cookout at
Martin's place on Friday?"
I grunted. "Do you have N.S.I.'s halls bugged, too?"
"Is that where he extended the invitation?"
I shook my head. "You and your one-way street."
He frowned. "Planting bugs inside New Systems Inc would involve
telling too many people."
"Too many for what?"
He ignored that. "I assume you've been invited. I hope you've
accepted. I want you to attend, listen to what they have to say -- draw
them out as far as you can -- then accept the assignment."
"And report back to you?"
"<After> you make the trip and the pickup."
I thought about it. "Then you'll want me to testify. It's hardly the
way to stay on good terms with coworkers."
"Huh! Once you testify they'll be coworking with the guys who make
license plates." His look became calculating. "Consider this: your
department will need a new manager. We'll put in the good word at N.S.I."
"I hope not."
He studied me a moment longer. His eyes glinted. "We'll contact you
again Saturday morning."
I snorted before turning away toward the steps. "You really know how
to put the damper on a party."
They watched me until I entered my apartment. Parting the window
curtains, I saw them drive away.
It looks bad for Jack, Laura, and some bimbos. Tommy? Maybe.
Perhaps even me. Statutory rape may not be a federal crime, but all
government agents are thick as thieves.
I've written at length in the open diary on my ideas of individual
liberty. The putative reader of that will understand my disgust at the
concept of victimless crimes. Were the dope-dazed teenagers victims last
Sunday-week? In a sense they were, though if they're runaways as Laura
alleges, they've certainly contributed to their own state. I doubt drug
addiction was exactly forced on them, but a needle can be like a dick in
that regard.
The feds may have something on me they can take up with the state, but
they'll never get me to betray a man or woman whose worst crime is to sell
someone what he wants to buy.
I wonder, not for the first time, on the security of this invented
handwriting. One of its obfuscatory factors is a syllabation: a set of
curlicues representing whole common syllables, as the Japanese Hiragana is
supposed to be. I am resolved to add more such curlicues. If I make the
entire scheme a syllabary and carefully leave no key in existence, won't
it then be impenetrable?
In looking it over, I see that at present it contains too many
recognizable long-hand style letters. Clearly I'll have to rewrite what
already exists in the new scheme, good practice to develop speed. Then
burn the old.
Better begun early than late!
I wonder how many distinct syllables exist in English.
<Friday, November 1, 1974>
"You're late," Laura admonished at the door. She was still wearing
the dress I'd seen in the lab this afternoon. Now its buttons were open
in front, exposing her valley-less cleavage. No bra. She was barefooted
and without pantyhose. Probably no panties. Her hair was tangled. She
was slightly flushed and her eyes sparkled in the hall light. I imagined
her cunny dripping with Jack's semen though I neither saw nor smelled the
evidence.
"It's eight fifteen," I countered. "That's eightish."
"All right, Mr. Eightish. Come on in and have a drink."
Again we entered the B door. Bottles, glasses and a bucket of ice
cubes sat on a table. Ashtrays were filled with butts, many red stained,
and the air was smoky, but there was no one else in the room.
"What'll it be," she wondered, lifting a brown bottle, "whisky and
seven, or whisky and mix?"
"I'll pass. Thought this was just you, me and Jack."
"It is."
I gestured at the mess. "Obviously you've had a party. What happened
to it? Jack's food get 'em all?"
She smiled. "They left."
"Jack, too?"
She grinned and shook her head. "He'll be along." She sidled against
me, her arms enclosing mine. "I've missed you."
"Have you?"
Her grin faded. She said pensively, "I missed your shoulder."
"Only that?"
"And your sympathetic ear."
I was only too aware of the highly critical ears that likely were
listening to us now and wondered if they had already bugged my place at
the time of the conversation she meant. Probably not, since that was my
first externally conducted contact with her.
"So an ear can satisfy a woman?" I asked.
Her hand cupped my balls through my britches. She grinned archly.
"I'm not adverse to these parts, either."
"And that's mutual," I declared, patting her fanny. "Where's Jack?"
Her fingers found my dick and stroked it through the cloth. "He's
giving us a few minutes."
"He's not here?"
"Do you care? He won't interrupt us, if that worries you."
"Is he in the back?"
"<Out> back. Cleaning the grill."
"He really did cook out? I'd like to see that!"
I slipped from her arms and passed through the second door in the
room. Briefly I took in a cluttered kitchen with two other doors, one to
the outside. I pushed that open and went out on the deck. Laura was
right behind me.
Jack was scrapping burnt drippings off a grill pan mounted on a
tripod. A bucket of ashes smoldered nearby. It was dark except for a
bulb on the wall above the deck. I had an impression of surrounding
trees.
Jack turned. "You did make it!"
Laura looked from me to him and back, her mouth working. Did she want
to protest that I had not made <her>?
"So Jack Martin is also a cook!" I exclaimed.
He nodded. "And a pretty good one, so everyone says. Of steaks, at
least. I'll give you a hint: the secret is in the sauce."
An open staircase led down to the dark ground. I said, "I'm very
interested in sauce." As I spoke I took his upper arm and urged him
toward the stairs. I added loudly, "Do you make your own?"
His eyebrows rose quizzically, but he allowed me to lead him. As our
feet rattled the steps, I said, loudly again, "What's the matter? Don't
you want Laura to hear your secrets?"
She had started to follow. Now she checked at the top of the stairs
with a calculating expression.
When we were ten feet from the steps, I brought us to a halt. Jack
whispered, "Who're you talking to?"
I looked around at trees, bushes and a dim picket fence. "The
D.E.A.," I answered softly. "Now I'm talking to you."
"'The D.E.A.!'" he repeated.
"You sound surprised!"
"Because I am."
"Well, you shouldn't be. Congress created it last year."
"What is this, Harry? What do you know?"
I tilted my head toward the house. "I know there's a bug in your
apartment, another on your telephone, probably one in your car."
"<How> do you know it?"
"Two agents cornered me at my front door last night, said they had
enough on you and Laura to convict you already."
"And?"
"And that you would offer me a job tonight, probably as a courier.
They want me to accept it, discover your contacts and testify against
you."
"Is that so!" He grinned slowly. "Why are you telling me this,
Harry?"
I frowned. "Not because of friendship. And not because of the trap
you sprang on me last Sunday week. Because of principle. I do not
support the concept of victimless crimes."
He stared at me, finally shaking his head. "I wouldn't trap myself.
The evidence was worse against me than you."
"I know that, but it was still a trap. Those girls -- children --
were high as kites."
He grinned. "They suck better that way. Harry, let me tell you
something. The D.E.A. lied to you. They have no evidence whatsoever
against me or Laura of any federal crime."
"Really? Are you saying you don't deal drugs?"
"I'm saying there's never been one gram of dope in my hands, my house
or my car."
"And Laura?"
"And Laur -- Actually you'll have to ask her. So far as I know she's
never touched it."
"Then how are you 'indirectly' those girls' supplier?"
"I give them the money for it."
I grunted. His word against the cops'. "Well, <were> you going to
offer me a job?"
"I was. I want a program written."
"A what? A <program>?"
"Yeah. And I still might hire you, though I'd sooner the feds didn't
know about it."
"Well, I certainly won't tell them about a <program>! What is it, a
tax angle?"
"That's part of it." He grinned at me watchfully, one eye in shade,
the other glinting in the deck light. "Mostly it's a way for me to keep
track of my philanthropy."
"Your ... philanthropy, as in <charity>?" I chuckled. "Somehow I
never imagined you guilty of that."
"You'd be surprised." He looked back at the house with a frown. "A
lot of my action is illegal," he admitted, "but it's covered. Still the
locals would have to do something if the feds pushed them." He turned to
me and shook his head. "I never guessed they're watching me, but
obviously they are. I'll have to think about this. D'you suppose they've
bugged the office?"
"They said not. They claimed too many others would have to be told.
If you can believe them."
He nodded. "That almost makes sense. Come on."
As I followed him up the steps, he said loudly over his shoulder, "And
keep that recipe under your hat."
"It's too good not to," I answered.
Laura's expression questioned both of us. Jack leaned close to her
ear and whispered something. She looked fearfully around at the dark
trees.
* * * *
I was not home five minutes before the phone rang. When I answered, a
raspy voice announced, "This is Bill Garth."
"Ah. An official call, then."
"Right. Did he hire you?"
"Umm. Have you bugged my place, too?"
"No. What happened when you stepped off the deck?"
"Would that judge of yours tell me if he'd issued a warrant to bug my
place?"
Silence greeted that question. I answered for him, "Probably not, eh?
That would be considered obstruction of justice."
"Do you believe in justice, Mr. Stone?"
"Passionately."
"Then help us put those drug dealers away."
I sighed. "Mr. Garth, I'm going to give you one piece of information,
after which I want a lawyer present whenever we talk. That information is
this: Jack Martin and Laura Emmersol are <not> drug pushers!"
He laughed harshly. "They got to you, did they? Well, let me tell
<you> one thing: it's not worth it, whatever he offered. You'll get a
cell alongside his."
I replied, "Good night, Mr. Garth," and hung up the phone gently.
One thing Jack said tonight stays on my mind: "Ask Laura."
<Sunday, November 3, 1974>
The feds probably know about Doris, since she was at my place the next
week after that party with the teenagers. So this morning I went openly
to the apartment she shares with her sister but tried to speak of nothing
blatantly illegal. Of course we warmed up with our mouths, which is not
completely silent. Though a felonious "crime against nature," I never
heard of a man prosecuted for doing it to a woman or vice-versa.
The sister is a nurse and had the weekend shift today. Otherwise
I'd've stayed away. Doris won't admit it, but I think sis considers me a
bad influence. Not sure but what I agree with her.
Doris was baby-sitting the sister's kid, ten or eleven, called "Bud"
or when being wheedled, "Buddy." The sister is recently divorced, not
that it matters to me. Doris complains that the kid is spoiled but
indulges him herself.
None of that needs to be in the encoded journal. The following does,
however.
She and I were resting from our usual Sunday afternoon exercise when
Bud burst into the bedroom howling, holding his private parts in both
hands.
Doris snatched the sheet over me and jumped out of bed birth naked,
though only for the instant long enough to throw on her housecoat. Then
she pulled the boy's head <inside> the housecoat, between her tits,
demanding to know his problem.
Through the sobbing she got out of him that he'd fallen on a root.
Down came his pants and shorts. His bare ass landed on the bed beside me.
Doris knelt between his legs and massaged his balls. Very gently while
making soothing noises. I raised up to see exactly what she was doing.
As expected, I was not the only thing rising up.
The bawling ceased almost immediately. When Doris continued her
palpitation, I observed obliquely as I could manage, "Many people would
draw the wrong conclusion from your enthusiasm."
She looked up at me. "What? Oh."
I expected her at least to blush. She did release the boy but she
only smiled. "I suppose so. I'm glad none of them is here."
"Kiss me, Aunt Doris," the child beseeched.
She crawled around to his head and bent to kiss his lips, the
housecoat open and trailing from her shoulders.
I said with intended irony, "I don't think that's where he meant."
She cocked her head at me in contemplation before shaking it. I got
the impression she was disagreeing with my statement more as suggestion
than analysis.
She put her hand on the boy's forehead. "How does it feel now,
Buddy?"
"It never hurt <there>!" he retorted. "It'll feel better if you rub
some more."
She grinned at me. "I'm sure it would. But I think it feels all
right now, doesn't it?"
"Well," he admitted grudgingly, "it feels better than it did. I
thought I was going to throw up!"
She nodded sagely. "Yes, a blow there has that effect. You must
learn to protect them better."
"Yes, ma'am." He turned to me. "Did you fall on a root, too?"
I stared at him. "Why do you ask?"
"She was rubbing you there before lunch."
Finally that made her blush. She levitated out of the bed, snatching
the housecoat closed, and cried with eyes alight, "That's enough, young
man! Get your pants on <now> and get to work on your homework."
She added in a quieter voice as he scampered to obey, "If you'd been
doing the homework I assigned, you wouldn't have fallen on that root."
"Yes'm."
When the door had closed behind him I threw off the sheet. "Should I
fall on a root?"
She laughed, shrugged out of the housecoat and bent directly to my
midsection. As she stroked me I returned the favor, asking, "Didn't you
know what effect you'd have on him?"
"You mean his thing rising up, as yours is?"
"Of course that's what I mean."
"I didn't worry about that. I do know that fooling with these things --
and especially <this> thing -- is the best way to soothe any male."
"Do you! And how did you learn that?"
"I first learned it ..."
"Go on."
"When I was Bud's age, I had a little dog. His name was Hairy Boy.
He was very exciteable. He was always anxious for me to get home from
school and would get so excited that he was likely to wet the furniture.
Once I tried holding his little thing to prevent it -- which actually
worked. But what I noticed was how suddenly he got still."
"Is that all you noticed?"
"His inner thing was so <red>! I can still remember how surprised I
was."
"What surprised you so?"
"It was bright red, like candy."
"Did you taste it?"
"Huh! Do you think this is a confessional? As you've often pointed
out, a girl can't talk with her mouth full."
Which is forever true. She swung her tail around to cover my face and
made the truth apply to both of us. End of conversation and just as well,
considering the probable listeners.
Doris gives me few details from her sexual past. I hate to believe a
<dog> taught her to suck dicks!
--
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