Good Neighbors

by Ed Ahern

I was barely a teenager when I realized I preferred the murky, gelid water under the ice. Our neighbors, many of whom I liked, skated atop it, bundled in insulating lies about success and happy families. While on the surface with them I listened for the echoes of absence and misdirection- a grown child no longer discussed; a job left abruptly because of ‘personal dissatisfaction’; a solo vacation taken in a resort noted for its rehab.

I learned that the first duty of polite conversation was to protect amour propre, and that charity involved disposing of leftover things. Their covenant was to superficially accept every canard, no matter how absurd, and then to privately try to flay the lie from the speaker.

While at university I realized that I could turn these subterfuges into profitable work. Neighbors very often don’t like each other. And will pay quite a lot to learn of another’s indiscretions. I set up a sliding scale, charging nothing if I could find no dirt. I was able almost always to bill the client.

The initial searches were handled by college hackers for pocket money. In about a quarter of the searches there were hints of serious offenses, and I would order deep dives into their lives.

Interestingly bur not surprisingly, most of those who ordered the searches from me kept the information to themselves, satisfied with secretly knowing that their next-door neighbor was the asshole they’d always suspected she was.

And then I met Clara.

My service was on the dark web and anonymous, with clients not knowing who or where I was. But Clara insisted on an in-person meeting, and offered an up-front $5000 and possible ongoing business. Greed overwhelmed caution and I set the meeting.

“Hector Berlioz? It’s an interesting pseudonym. Presumably used because of the Symphonie Fantastique?”

“And Clara Barton because no one should mistake you for a nurse?”

We smiled at each other. She hadn’t bothered to disguise her looks- trim but well-muscled, almost no makeup, short brown hair. We were sitting in a post covid coffee shop, at a well-spaced table. The background noise was new age music and complicated, staccato orders, babel enough to conceal our conversation.

“You must already know, Hector, that you’re a heartless bastard?”

My smile shriveled. “I prefer to think of myself as a truth seeker.”

“Please don’t be offended, your callousness is exactly what we need. Let me explain.”

She sat behind a barely sipped cappuccino. I fingered a double expresso.

“You’re paying me to listen.”

“We’re considering using your service for lead generation.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Any information is provided on a confidential basis. I’m afraid what you suggest is impossible.”

“Let me finish, please. Not many, but some of the people you investigate are pre-conditioned to behaviors that we can use.”

“Behaviors?”

“Crimes, sins, however you prefer to define them. Identifying these people saves us a great deal of energy, pre-qualified sales leads if you like. You cast a net wide and fine for your many clients, yielding much more than we can achieve with limited manpower. We’ll pay well for your catch.”

I hesitated. “How would you use the information?”

“Strictly one to one with the lead, with a binding arrangement. There will be no legal repercussions for you, and we will indemnify you against any possibility of that happening.”

I knew I should turn her down, but agreeing would double my income with no extra cost. “How do you envision it working?”

“We guarantee to never reveal those you’ve identified or we lose an escrow account of five hundred thousand dollars. Which is a lot better than your vindictive customers, who might at any moment tell all. You’ll be paid $5,000 for each verified lead. You must agree that our relationship will run in perpetuity, on penalty of severe consequence.”

“How severe?”

“We would have to silence you.”

I burst into a laugh, which drew brief attention. Her expression however, was solemn. “We insist on even more confidentiality than you do. Silence is-I hesitate to use the word- sacred.”

She quarter-turned her paper cup, staring at the scum of flat foam. “This will be our last in person meeting, it takes too much exposure on my part. The $5000 has already been deposited to your Bitcoin account. Please seriously consider our offer, and if you agree, message me. Adieu, monsieur Berlioz.” She left without shaking hands.

I’d wanted to send an immediate text saying no, but decided to sleep on my decision. A bad idea, because the next morning greed rose with the steam from my coffee. After all, I reasoned, the information she was after was already being given to unfriendly neighbors who could and sometimes did reveal it, so it really wasn’t secret. And the money. Perhaps a quarter million additional annually for doing almost nothing. I texted my yes and sent it.

For over a year I dripped out the information and the money came flushing in, with no fuss at all. And then one morning I noticed a name in the online edition of the New York Times. George Schoonover had been shot dead by police for murdering an activist priest. George, a man prone to destructive depression, was one of the first names I’d given to Clara. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

I put my students to doing name searches on the others I’d compromised. Over three dozen of them were arrested, institutionalized or dead. I’d sunk from the embarrassment business to abetting murder, a place I couldn’t live in. I anguished for several hours, thought through some hard decisions, and then wrote and sent a text.

‘Dear Clara,

I have never asked you how you use the information I have provided. However, the consequences have become evident, and I must terminate our agreement with immediate effect. Please do not attempt to persuade me, I have already fired my employees, shut down my dark web site, and destroyed all files. I can’t, in good conscience, continue to provide this service to you, and ask for your understanding.’

That day held an eerie quiet, like a storm that was still over the horizon. The next day, when I returned to my apartment. Clara was waiting at my door. “We have to talk.”

When I let her in, she spun around while still in the entryway. “You violated your oath.”

“You never told me what was involved. I was okay with providing embarrassing or compromising information- the people involved were either pompous or guilty. It was like playing pranks. But whatever you do goes much too far. You prey on their weaknesses.”

She held up a finger to silence me. “That’s not your concern. Reinstate your service and there will be only a small penalty. If not…”

“You’ll kill me? Please. What would it gain you?”

“You fool. Your current life will become hard prison time while being frequently sodomized, tormented by the neighbors you exposed. Give us back our candidates.”

Clara’s expression was more than anger. It was hate. I was sweating.

“What I did isn’t complicated. Just set up your own service. But I won’t offer advice.”

“We’re… we don’t have the temperament you do, Hector. We need you, but if we lose your services, you’ll lose a great deal more. Last chance before I let things loose.”

Shards of affection for those I knew stuck in my throat and kept me silent.

“Very well. This is the last day you’ll be able to enjoy, and I suggest you do so.” Clara stepped outside my apartment. “Adieu, monsieur.”

“Clara.”

She turned toward me with a look of expectation. “Yes?”

“Go to hell.”

“You’ll already be there.”

THE END

Bio: Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over three hundred stories and poems published so far, and six books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of six review editors.