Chapter 40
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Unfortunately, when Jerry turned on the laptop, he knew right away something was wrong. For starters, it took way too long to boot up. Two minutes went by, then three, and the Windows logo flickered a few times but didn’t go away. A full five minutes passed—Jerry’s gaze kept bouncing from the screen to the clock above his desk and back again—and finally the startup image went away, only to be replaced with…nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
No desktop, no icons, no toolbar along the bottom, nothing. “Shit,” he muttered, hitting the spacebar, then the Enter key. Still nada. He tried the three-finger salute, ALT+CTRL+DEL. No dice. Under his breath, he cursed, “Fucking piece of shit.”
Another minute or two went by before he conceded defeat. Picking up the telephone beside him, he dialed the four digit extension to the IT department. A woman answered. “IT. Help you?”
“My computer won’t start,” he said.
“Won’t turn on?” she asked.
Jerry felt his ire rise. “No, it turns on, but after the Windows logo goes away, nothing happens.”
For a moment, she didn’t answer. Then, speaking slowly as if she were talking to a child, she explained, “We’re using Macs now.”
“I have a laptop,” he told her. “It won’t start. Can you—”
“We don’t service personal computers, sir.”
Jerry grit his teeth and counted backwards from five before he dared to say anything else. “This is a company computer. I had it with me over the weekend and now it won’t start.”
“So you’re saying it won’t turn on?” she asked again.
“Did I stutter?” Jerry asked, angry now. “It’s on, but there’s nothing on the screen.”
The woman sounded bored. “Did you try turning on the monitor?”
“It’s a goddamn laptop,” Jerry barked. Before she could answer, he asked, “Just send someone down here already, okay? I don’t have all day to go around in circles with you. Jesus.” Then he slammed down the phone and glared at the MacBook beside his laptop, as if this were all its fault.
He waited. Ten minutes passed, then another five. He picked up the phone to call back—this time he’d insist on talking to a realtechnician, or a supervisor, at least—when he heard a quick rap on his open office door. He turned and stared at the man standing in his doorway.
Man? Boy, more like it. The kid didn’t look old enough to shave, and he was dressed in hipster clothes—skinny jeans, an oversized turtleneck under a tan denim jacket, some sort of scarf thing around his neck, and a large messenger bag slung across his chest. He wore square glasses with dark frames and thick lenses…at least, Jerry thought they had to be thick, because the guy’s eyes looked huge, as if magnified. He had a long, narrow face and a body so thin, he was probably underweight.
Then there was the hair. A mop of disheveled, careless dark hair swirled above his brow, strands blown every which way for a bed-head, windswept look that probably took an hour in front of the mirror with a blow-dryer and a bottle of hairspray to achieve. He looked gawkish and nerdy, and if Jerry were being honest, more than a little cute.
Still, he wasn’t in the mood for cutetoday. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“IT,” the kid explained, tugging off his scarf. “You’re having laptop problems? Why aren’t you using the Mac?”
“Are you old enough to work here?” Jerry asked, skeptical.
The kid’s mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. “Shouldn’t you be retired by now?”
Suddenly, Jerry laughed. He liked this kid’s spunk. “Hey, man, I didn’t mean anything by it. You’re just…damn, you’re young.”
The scarf and messenger bag were tossed on a chair in front of Jerry’s desk, and the denim coat soon followed. “If I said damn, you’re old, would you be offended?” the kid asked. “I don’t have to prove myself to you.”
Jerry held up his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I’m just…God, this whole thing’s so frustrating, you know? This piece of crap worked fine yesterday and now…”
He pushed his chair back from his desk as the kid came around to look at his laptop. Behind his glasses, his eyes lit up, and a real grin appeared on his thin lips. “Looks like you’re infected.”
“Now that’soffensive,” Jerry joked. “All my tests came back negative.”
The kid gave him a wry look. “I mean your laptop has a virus. Another reason you should use the Mac.”
“What?” Jerry shook his head. “I have Norton installed. I can’t get a virus.”
The kid jerked his thumb. “Up. Let me take a look.”
Jerry stood and let the kid take his seat. As he got situated in front of the laptop, Jerry leaned on the back of his chair. After a quiet moment, filled only with the sound of the kid’s fingers flitting on the laptop’s keyboard, Jerry said, “Where are my manners? I’m Jerry, Jerry Bennett. You are…?”
“Quin,” came the terse reply. “Let me work.”
Jerry nodded. “Quin. That’s odd. Is that your first name? Last name? What—”
Quin groaned. “Hello? I’m a little busy here.” He pushed back against the chair, trying to dislodge Jerry. “Can you give me some space?”
Without another word, Jerry backed away. All right, fine. Be that way.He strolled to the other side of his desk and began straightening things—his calendar, his pen holder, his business card tray. The kid’s cute factor was slipping fast. Then, unable to stop himself, he asked, “How long is this going to take?”
Quin made a few final taps on the keyboard, then sat back as the laptop emitted the familiar Windows shutdown chime. The monitor flicked off—Jerry saw the reflection in Quin’s glasses—then the laptop began to reboot. Finally Quin told him, “A particularly nasty virus has locked up the BIOS system. The computer isn’t going to start until it’s removed.”
“I have Norton,” Jerry tried to explain.