Fiction 2, Chapters 19 & 20

Chapter 19

"He cannot recognize an honest man,

because he has no pattern of honesty in himself."

Republic, Plato.

Three quarters of a million bucks.

It wouldn't save the world but it could solve a few problems here and there. And I had killed the man who knew where it was buried, or whatever. -Win a little; lose a little-

Morty told me a little more about Salburton, "The T-men had suspected for some time that he was running a cash money laundry, but nobody could figure out how. All they knew was that __after taking control of this particular chain of S&L's__ he had lent his corporate alter egos enormous amounts of money for investments, mostly to take over glorified slum projects and tenements.

Somehow, despite the real estate slump of the late Eighties and a burgeoning recession, his property investments had no trouble repaying their loans. The higher the unemployment rate rose, the higher their paid occupancy rate rose.

It was suspicious, but so far, no audit had caught him with his reserves down. The revenuers had been able to feed specially marked cash to known middlemen suspected of dealing with him. The markings were supposed to be undetectable. So was the cash, unfortunately.

"Dick, they watched it go in the pipeline and disappear." The T-Men had set up dummy depositors __including large payroll accounts__ and monitored them constantly. But there was no doctored cash. They checked out local check-cashing companies and even the convenience stores and armored car outfits. They monitored anybody or anything they could think of that a bank could provide cash to. By the time they caught on to him, he had caught on to them and stopped the operation.

He shook his head, almost in admiration.

"There was no evidence. Uncle Sam destroyed it. All he did was throw the bills into a kind of ball mill __add a little dirt and coffee grounds__ and flip the switch."

An air hose separated the bills from the abrasives when the mill was emptied. Hey Presto! Instant old stuff that easily flunked the government's standards for circulation. All Salburton had to do was group the bills in denominations, wrap and send them to the nearest Federal Reserve Bank; then sit back and wait for the replacement cash or electronic fund transfer.

The Federal Reserve takes all the cash in, and optical scanners and computers determine what should be shredded and what should be rewrapped for general issue. The bad stuff __which is rejected for things like rips and tears__ usually goes straight to the shredder, except for counterfeit. Counterfeit could be detected magnetically somehow.

Salburton just made sure all of the money to be laundered would be too beat-up to survive the machine sorting.

"Uncle Sam was the victim," Morty claimed. "In the last couple of years the Federal Reserve's ability to actually inspect a significant percentage of the cash they get in has been swamped."

"How come?"

"It's these cash machines; ATM's. All of the banks and networks using them, they all want new bills for the machines so they trade in at their Reserve Bank as often as they can."

Either Salburton or one of the middlemen had caught on to the investigation. Even though the aging process destroyed most of the traceability of the marked bills, they apparently decided not to take any chances. The conversion of illegal cash was reduced markedly and then eliminated.

He summed it up. "The Mob just switched to a different outlet; just like you or I might change dry-cleaners." Morty sounded impressed.

Now Salburton needed a new supply of cash; counterfeit didn't matter as long as it was passable, just to keep going. If it was counterfeit, of course, he'd have to probably pay up to ninety cents on the dollar to get it exchanged by someone else. No matter how good it looked or felt, it wouldn't pass a destructive chemical analysis, and possibly not even the normal magnetic scanners.

Still, ninety, maybe eighty percent for really top-quality, is not a bad discount when your total cost of production was about twenty-five cents per sheet; i.e., forty or eighty dollars worth, nominally. That includes hardware and software depreciation. Fifties and hundreds would be even more lucrative, except that there are not many in circulation compared to tens or twenties. Passing large amounts of the larger bills would attract much more attention, unless due care was exercised.

All that talk of cash on the loose and property investments was giving me ideas for a "Big-Store" con.

As far as I know, none of my clan has ever run one. They're too expensive and too complicated for a people who are always on the move. Nevertheless, I was inspired at that moment with a great hustle to hook a greedy, unscrupulous landlord, with lots of unsalable commercial property and undeclared cash. It was a beaut, too. The greedier and more unscrupulous the mark was, the deeper he'd get sucked in.

It might be very rewarding financially; not to mention aesthetically. To an Irishman, unscrupulous landlords and their brother vultures fill very much the same niche in the food chain.

Next year, maybe. I was pretty busy just then.

This could be a good time to elaborate on the facts of life about the penalties, not the economies, of scale.

Just think about a small-time career in counterfeiting. Would you consider making a million dollars in ten years a reasonable return for the risks involved in any criminal career? Perhaps not. No income taxes __of course__ on the net profits, but you'd probably have to move at least two million personally, in order to squeeze out one million after expenses. That's one hundred thousand twenty-dollar bills.

Did you get that?

You'd have to work an eight-hour day, five days a week, fifty weeks a year __passing a bogus twenty dollar bill every twelve minutes for ten years__ without ever getting caught. Not a bad living at one hundred thousand a year, but not a great one. As a life-style, it embraces a fair amount of risk without fending off the smothering boredom of a monotonous occupation.

The only way to go is mass distribution.

Later on, a little research at one of the Federal Reserve Banks established the fact that __at any given time__ there's over $250 billion dollars in currency in use in the good old U.S.A., and about one-quarter of that is destroyed each year with a similar amount being printed.

Just one percent of one percent of the total would be twenty-five million dollars. Passing that much face value in counterfeit is not exactly an inconsequential undertaking, but not necessarily conspicuous if it were spread around the nation's major urban centers. Several times that figure is probably hidden in America's mattresses. Stashed criminal cash reserves have pulled at least an estimated ten times that amount out of circulation.

The bills destroyed by the Federal Reserve __and/or the Treasury__ each year in this country, add up to six billion pieces of paper and weigh fourteen million pounds. No two experts will agree just how much currency is out there, in any case.

Morty and I talked over a few lubricated notions, like planting a viral time-bomb in the Korean computer complex. Halfway down the bottle of Glenfiddich, our discussion turned to things like twenty-five dollar bills and the sudden emergence of twenties with Jimmy Carter's smile on them like a Cheshire Cat.

More to the point, I knew this thirty-nine year old Korean-American systems programmer; one who often repeated his immigrant mother's claim that he had been fathered by a Great Man, a Man of Destiny. His name is MacArthur Park. I swear it is. Personally, I don't believe his story; although he's one hell of a programmer and I was happy to recommend him.

Mac had been killing time making "black boxes" to cheat AT&T, while waiting for the personal computer revolution. Even before it arrived, Mac had gotten started in systems programming early on, writing operating systems for mainframes and mini-computers.

Always in demand, he bounced from job to job like a pogo stick nonetheless.

And before the lad was through, he had a "back door" into almost every system in the Western world. By the time that the IBM Personal Computer arrived on the scene, Mac had protocol emulators written for it that would convince an IBM mainframe or Digital mini that his naked PC was wearing all of the Emperor's New Clothes.

He was the first hacker to defeat the "call-back."

That defense won't respond to anything more than a password entry by an inbound telephone caller. When an approved password is entered, the call is terminated by the computer, which then initiates a call back to the prearranged telephone number listed for that password.

Good, but not good enough to stop Mac.

Being basically honest __at least for a hacker__ Mac works as a consultant to giants of industry, safeguarding their security against other hackers. It's sort of an updated protection racket. He finds it boring and I knew that he'd love the chance to plant a patriotic virus, especially one with a Korean punch line.

You can tell that I admire and even like Mac. Although we're not much alike, we help each other where we can. Half-breeds have to stick together.

It was definitely time to call it a night.

Morty gave me an 800 number, with an extension number and a PIN, personal identification number, to "access" him. I could leave a message or get a message from the device without benefit of human intervention. He would be paged as soon as a message was left for him, or accessed by me.

I never got to use it before everything went to pieces.

"Goodnight, Morty. I'm bushed."

I nodded to him and went out to the truck and got in. It seemed a good idea to sleep it off in the vehicle instead of driving back, so I carefully guided the Suburban down Fulton Beach road a ways and pulled in behind a deserted building. There was still a residue of pain on the lower right side of my back from the day I went up in flames, but the fatigue and the Scotch took care of that.

Just before I dropped off, I thought:

-Tomorrow, I'll check on Katherine with Stretch-.

-Tomorrow, I'll make the banker an offer he can't refuse-.

-Tomorrow, I'll be sober-.

Tomorrow was a bitch.

The thought kept on occurring; frequently, What! What ever possessed me to do that? But I finally did get moving; reluctantly, and my eyeballs and eardrums did stop bleeding; eventually.

After arriving at the cottage, I wrestled the two oxygen cylinders out of the back of the Suburban, and lay them together on the ground at the top of the driveway, with the valves facing away from the road. There was an large sledgehammer in the garage, and I left it lying across the cylinders.

Don't know about lean; definitely mean. -That wasn't back pain in my lower back; it was definitely the right kidney again-

I was really in the mood to get the address that went with the telephone number, and knock off Salburton and Weller before they were reinforced. With any luck, they would overlook or ignore their vulnerability to attack, stemming from the telephone number.

I find that basically irrational people don't understand ruthlessness; they just know about nastiness. Most normals never encounter anything more drastic than meanness in their lives. Too bad a "termination with extreme prejudice" hadn't been sanctioned. If Plan number one didn't work though____

It wasn't Miller time. It was shower, shave, and coffee time, not to mention the rest.

"You look like hell!" Stretch didn't get much chance to be a critic and he was making the most of it.

"Thanks, Stretch, what do I owe you for the diagnosis?" Not my style to be gracious under the circumstances.

"Ah, don't take it personal. I didn't know if you knew."

"I know," I told him. "Believe me, Stretch, I know. Did Weiner leave an address for me?"

"Yeah. Here!" He's not a man of many words.

I gave the slip of paper the once-over. The address was in Ingleside, that's south of Port Aransas. The other side from Rockport, around twenty miles away. Most likely rented and consequently unfortified. There was no shortage of temporarily unsalable houses in Ingleside. I tucked it in my wallet along with the telephone number.

"What's new around here?" Stretch's events are always "new." He's got a perpetual case of "Future Shock."

"Nothing much. No more of them crooks, anyway. And if any more bums come around, I borrowed another shotgun." God help us all, I thought. He went on. "One of the washing machines is down, and old Mrs. Naugatuck went home to die again."

I had to follow that up. "Again?"

"Yeah. Every year since her old man died on her, when she goes home to Connecticut for the summer, she says 'Goodbye'. I mean, her husband, not her father. Anyway, he was a real old man. Well, 'Goodbye'. You know, not 'So long, see you next fall!'; just 'Goodbye,' she's feeling poorly, and she knows that this is the year she joins 'Poor Ernest.' The funny thing is she always leaves the trailer, and pays a hefty deposit on her site for next year to get the discount." For Stretch, it was an incredibly long story.

I commented, "Sad to say, my friend, but one of these summers you're going to have a windfall."

Stretch considered those words briefly and replied, "I hope not. We've got a hard enough time keeping these trees now."

"I suppose. How about your aunt? She call?"

"She called. She's all right," he told me.

"Not still at her apartment, is she?"

"Nah, she's staying at a friend's house." He started to make more coffee, oblivious to the adolescent crush I had on his aunt.

"Far away, I hope." Be still my heart.

He gave my little heart a big jolt. "Nah, Ingleside."

I wasn't really that alarmed, just a little anxious. I mean, Katherine wasn't hiding out just so she could walk down Main Street naked except for an adhesive name tag. Also, the only bad guys who could actually identify her were probably either in a hospital, or hiding in a Houston basement.

It was still a great excuse to see her.

I used the Pontiac and took a roundabout way checking for any "tails" but my scanner was quiet except for occasional police or regular CB traffic. The local climate that day was all drizzle and gusty wind, with lots of fog, so a baggy rain-hat and a shapeless tan raincoat took care of my disguise. A king-size "Columbo."

I would scout the banker after I had seen Katherine, naturally.

In Ingleside, I picked up a local street map from the Circle-K __the geographic, economic and spiritual center of that town__ and looked up her address. Parking out of sight was, by now, second-nature to me and the four-block walk gave me a chance to un-kink a bit. The labors of the past few days __along with sleeping in the truck__ had alienated my skeletal structure, and the Scotch had inspired the drum solo in my right kidney.

-Have to watch the sauce from now on, I guess-

Stretch had been told to call her thirty minutes after I had left. That would help get him off the hook, and give Katherine a courtesy warning too late to leave the house. Also __if she was actually there__ she'd feel too undignified to fake an absence since Stretch would tell me if he had talked to her.

Whether he really wanted to or not.

There wasn't even a chance to knock. She opened the door. I don't know what I had expected; what I got was silence.

And more silence.

We had not gotten closer than six feet since she had opened the door. Katherine had stepped well back then, and walked around me to relock it. It would have been simple to counter that. After all, it was only a pattern and predictable; yet I had too much respect for her feelings to damage them.

"I wanted you to know that the bad guys are actually using Ingleside as their base of operations," I said.

I showed her the address and then gave her most of the less violent parts of the story thus far. It was disgraceful of me, but I admit leaning on my connection with the CIA to impress her. I hoped so, at any rate.

She didn't have to know right then and there that it was sixteen hours old and sealed with Scotch. She didn't have to know my last connection with a CIA man was that I had killed him by bashing in his skull.

Katherine asked, with a little sigh, "Why are you really here?" She really sounded distant.

"Because I'm sorry that I hurt you," I said. And it was true.

"If that was enough, the world would be a better place."

"It was the best of times; it was the worst of times," I quoted, with a rapier wit.

She parried with, "and, believe me, you're no Charles Dickens, Senator!" -Touche!- "But that was two hundred years ago. This is now. There's nothing either one of us can do about the past. We carry all our baggage with us, Richard, as I have reason to know."

-Richard!- Just the sound of my name sent a thrill through me. It was hope.

I told her, "Some baggage you can keep well back in the attic because you don't need it any more. It gets in the way up in front; you trip over it."

"That's logical, Richard. But not persuasive, you're just using words."

"They're thoughts too, Katherine. Think about them. What would you want tomorrow, next month, next year to be like? What do you have to do to get there? If all that's stopping you is attitude, forget why you have it in the first place. Just see it for what it is, and ask yourself if you really like the way it looks."

More silence. Finally, I coughed and she glanced at me, pensively. Keeping eye contact, I tried a smile and then Groucho again.

"Say the magic woid, and we get to take a shower with a boid."

I wasn't really serious. I was too concerned about her for that and Katherine realized it. So it was safe for her to laugh. I still knew that she would hear __in an echo of that laugh__ the shower that splashed on us only a few days before. -How many? I'm losing track; that's dangerous- To sum up: I was shameless in a good cause. It was definitely warming up in that house; too warm for her at the moment.

She asked, "How about a walk on the beach?"

I peered miserably out the window at the cold drizzle, shivered, and lied through my teeth. "Sounds good to me, Ms. Carpenter."

There's this place she picked, just north of the Neuces Bay causeway, that's legally part of Corpus Christi; only a stretch of a few hundred yards, south of the town of Portland.

The Texas State Aquarium is located there, as is the dining room where Katherine and I had eaten brunch so long ago while the sail-boards played. And some shards of glass left over from a three-car accident. -Almost four-

We took her car.

Parking it at a lot near the water, Katherine and I slowly ambled toward the sand, hands in our jacket pockets. Between the misty weather and our rain-gear, there was no danger of being recognized. We plodded along the damp beach, detouring occasionally to avoid the corpse of a Man-of-war or a "cabbage-head." After a decent interval, I took her hand and we were just another couple walking together through the chilly fog.

Eventually she asked, "What would you have done with that gun, Richard? For some reason I have to know?"

"I don't know, Love. Whatever was necessary to save our lives, I guess, if it was possible." -I would have shot her-

"Would you have shot me then?" Her voice was accompanied by a low resonance that seemed to come from inside me, not her.

"You're not serious, are you? Is that self-pity? Anyway, what would you have done in my place?" -I would have hated myself for it, but I would have, yes-

"Dropped the gun, I suppose or collapsed." She shrugged, as if she would never be in that position.

I couldn't just let her shrug us off along with the question. "Don't forget this: I would have been taken alive, to talk. You __on the other hand__ were either a witness to be eliminated or a hostage to be tortured, so I'd give them information I don't even have. Katherine, there's stuff I haven't told you about what they'd do to you or me because I didn't want to scare you off. It was a mistake and I'm sorry." -For many sorry mistakes-

She stopped dead in her tracks and asked me again, "Then, would you have shot me?" Her free hand grabbed mine and she looked into my eyes for the truth.

I gave her the truth; a little bit of it. "If I was a good enough shot to wound you and kill him right away; maybe. But I'm not __and remember__ he had a gun at your head." -To avoid both of us winding up in Jaws' power, I would have killed her on the spot, if I had to-

"I'm not likely to forget any time soon," she said. Then she laughed nervously, still not quite able to let it go. "What about saving me from torture? Would you have killed me to do that?" -May we never, never know-

I mimicked that, but not unkindly. "What about____ What if____ Love, I just bored you to death with all that preaching. Don't you get the point? There's always hope. Don't give up until your heart stops." -I was lying like a rug. Death is always the lesser of at least two evils-

"Ok.. Don't get impatient with me, please. Let's forget it."

We shared a lot on the remainder of our walk, friendly but neutral things that wouldn't interest anyone except us. There was hope in my heart, more than there should have been, I guess. We drove back to her friend's house and I walked her to the door. Sensing the mood, I took her face in my hands and kissed her gently on the lips. It was only for a few seconds.

I said softly, "I hope we can do this again, Katherine."

Her answer was only, "Take care, Richard. Don't get hurt."

I walked away, already hurt.

* * * * * * * * * *

-Soolie's borryglorrying ova karabd shaner istha nijaish munya-

The rain falling from a wounded lover's eyes is the least welcome.

* * * * * * * * * *

J.C. Salburton looked back into his own normally clear blue eyes, now a little bloodshot from insomnia.

While Garth had been driving back down from Houston, the Chairman had fallen asleep in the back seat for about two hours, just enough to ruin his night's sleep. And the sour taste of bile that was in his mouth when he came awake had survived half a bottle of mouthwash already. The only face in the bathroom mirror favored a drunkard's on the morning after, but Salburton knew it had to be his.

It did not help that Garth had been dismissed early on the prior evening __to get the Mercedes serviced__ and Salburton had packed his own personal bag for the return trip, forgetting his toothbrush. Afterward, there was no way that he could have admitted his dependency __and his blunder__ to Garth; so he did without.

Even the nap hadn't disturbed his sleep as much as the disruption to his nightly routine.

"I'm surrounded by idiots. I've got to do everything by myself because the jerks I've got working for me couldn't find their ass with both hands and a map. What am I going to do about Weller, and who is this bum Quirk? Am I the only sane one around here, or what? Jesus! How did I get into this god-damned mess?"

Since none of the answers were forthcoming from his mirror-image, he slapped an astringent aftershave on both cheeks and stepped down from the footstool, pushing it under the sink with his foot.

Then he stomped out to take charge.

Chapter 20

"There are two patterns eternally set before them...

but they do not see them, or perceive...

Theaetetus, Plato

Let's case the joint.

I really didn't want to attack my enemies on their home turf, even temporary turf, or to be noticed for that matter. If a panoply of body armor plus an AK-47 were available __and a large bull-dozer could be found just hanging around with the keys in the ignition__ I wouldn't have been so chicken.

I just drove by, nothing else.

It was a large brick ranch house, with a two-car garage. If it hadn't been for all of the cars, it would have been impossible to pin down their exact location. In Ingleside, the Post Office uses clustered mail boxes, usually at an intersection. Often the boxes are numbered; often the houses are not. The numbers are different, by the way, where they can be found.

Actually, you'd think that nine or ten cars parked in front of that house would be intimidating, wouldn't you. Maybe it was nervous release, but within a few blocks I had to pull over to the side of the road. I was laughing that hard.

It was so lazy, so stupid, and evidence of such miserable management and supervision that I couldn't help being emphatically unimpressed. And it figured that hoods imported from Houston wouldn't car-pool. Each goon would bring his own.

And, within the garage, no doubt, was a Mercedes and a Lincoln "Condinendal."

Why would I laugh? Contempt, again. It was making me overconfident even while fear was eating at my guts. "Nervous laughter" is an accurate way to put it. The odds were good that access to the Mercedes and Lincoln was blocked by cars belonging to "associates" who were dead, disabled or arrested.

I didn't expect to see the Jeep Cherokee there, and I wasn't disappointed. A lot of half-baked ideas went through my head at that point, so I moved on a few blocks, opened the window and leaned out in the rain. Eventually, a cooler head prevailed.

Back at the campground, I let Stretch know that his aunt was all right, and switched over to the Suburban again.

Less than half a mile up the road, I was pulled over by a Rockport cruiser. It didn't come as a surprise, thanks to the scanner. A second squad car pulled a U-turn in front, blocking me. Four front doors opened, three nine mm. Berettas and one .38 Police Special pointed at me, and the Voice Of God issued forth from a bull-horn, "Police! Get out of the vehicle, sir, with your hands empty and raised in the air. Then, ...."

"McNally, how come one of your guys is still using a .38 Special? There has to be some better use for a .41 frame besides that sling-shot."

"Shut up, Quirk," he barked.

"That's as fine a Miranda as I've ever heard and, incidently, I haven't heard one yet."

He gave me a sardonic smile. "You're not under arrest. Not yet! You've just been invited to cooperate with this department in an ongoing investigation."

"Which one?" I asked. "There's a lot of that going around."

He started to answer, then stopped to reconsider.

There were a lot of files almost covering his busy desk, but McNally concentrated instead __for a second or two__ on a dirty coffee mug that had somehow found a bare patch. The vessel was centered exactly on a pattern of interwoven rings that had been etched into the surface by careless time.

He finally looked back up at me, and got down to specifics. "We were alerted, in a five-county bulletin last night, to apprehend a suspected murderer."

"And you're just getting around to it now, Lieutenant?"

"Shut up. What do you have to say about that?" He sounded a little peeved. I don't why.

"Make up your mind, will you, McNally?" I complained. "What time was this?"

He picked up a curly piece of paper and briefly glanced at it before answering. "Around ten. Where were you at that time?"

"Asleep, of course. Did you pick anybody up?"

He frowned at his scummy, almost empty, coffee mug, and debated with himself about how much rope I needed to hang myself. Then he swallowed the dregs like a bitter pill, grimaced, and answered me.

"It's none of your business, Quirk, but there was only one town cruiser working the end of the four-to-twelve shift last night, and he was still at the station when we got the call; so if the fugitive came north, we missed him. Excuse me, we missed you!" -The "you" was dripping with sarcastic emphasis-

"And the Sheriff's deputies?"

"The county cruisers were out of position." -Yeah, taking a dump or something-

Actually, the Rockport cruiser probably stood down after an hour or so. That's why they missed me. They had been looking for a speeding getaway vehicle, and I had still been in Aransas Pass, giving leisurely swimming lessons on the beach with the Suburban stashed out of sight.

-One of these days __before the ozone disappears__ I'll have to go to the beach while the sun shines-

"It was kind of you to think of me. Exactly why did you think of me, McNally?"

"That's still Lieutenant to you, Quirk! Around six this morning, those clowns __my brother officers in Aransas Pass__ finally found a witness willing to talk about a mysterious bearded stranger in an out-of-state truck or station wagon. And I seem to recall that when we shook down your trailer, we listed two Explorer knives in your arsenal. I see from our latest inventory here," he indicated with an appropriate gesture at my weapons spread out on a table top, "that you seem to be one shy."

"You can use my first name, Lieutenant, if you like. That's Mister, with a capital M. The knife could be in my trailer or it might have been stolen in the second break-in; I don't know."

"The second one? Anyway, where were you earlier, Quirk?" he demanded. "We only found out that you were gone when the boy who works at your campground got himself attacked."

"To tell you the truth," I said, "I was keeping away from the camp to avoid anything like that from happening. I knew they were after me and I didn't want anybody else to get hurt."

McNally gave me a searching glance. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him that I wasn't lying about that, at least. But he wanted details on the trailer dealer, and I gave him Stretch as a witness to the forced entry. By that time, he was in a better humor.

"I knew you were very busy, Lieutenant, and not making much progress on my first stolen goods report; you know, the computer." I got back as soon as possible to the more comfortable medium of deception. "So, I didn't want to distract you with another report about the vandalism. I mean, there are school crossings and accidents and parades and all that in a town like Rockport. I used to have four of those Explorers. They're really cheap and you can get them anywhere, so I didn't want to bother you the first time around. Considering you couldn't find the computer, and all."

He was laughing a little before I was finished. I gave him a schoolboy smile when he recovered, and that really set him off again. He got the hiccups, so I let him settle down. Then he took his filthy mug over to the coffee machine in the corner for a refill, and I joined him with a clean styrofoam cup.

"By this morning the bulletin was down-graded," he told me. "Apparently, my brothers in blue down there think that they've got their man."

"Then, why the pair of squad cars, Lieutenant, the guns, the search?"

"Why the arsenal, Mr. Quirk? I don't want my men hurt, even by mistake, just because I want to talk to you."

"That's a good point, Lieutenant. If there's nothing more, then I'll be on my way. I've taken enough of your time."

"Sure, why not? There are still some low-life bums left. Just don't get around to tourists, when you've used all the scum up. We frown on that. By the way, you made a serious mistake."

I wasn't unduly alarmed. "Really?"

He looked down his long nose at me significantly. "You forgot to ask what happened."

"Lieutenant, you'll just have to get it through your head; I'm a man who believes in minding his own business." He rolled his eyes up. "Do you think one of your men could give me a hand out to the truck with my stuff?" I pointed to the collection on the table.

I left while he was in the bathroom, rinsing the fresh coffee stain out of his tie.

Then it was back to the Public Library, and I parked again in an alley nearby. The pay telephones in libraries are always tucked away in a private corner, out of ear- and eye-shot. -Gun-shot, too-

"Lemme talk to Weller."

"Yeah"; silence. -Yeah?- It was amazing how sweet his voice sounded, it really was.

"Weller?"

"Yeah." -What brilliant conversation-

"Gimme Salburton."

"Ok.. Hey, it's for you"

Now I know what they mean by "shit for brains," I thought.

"Yeah"

"This is Quirk."

"Who? Oh, you're ___"

"I'm glad you noticed, Salburton." I stopped talking and thought furiously, Christ, I'm trying to set up a meet with people who want to torture and kill me. Even these guys aren't stupid enough to believe that I'd do that single-handed without a reason. What now?

"What do you want?" he asked.

-Right; what? Wait a minute____ The Spanish Prisoner con, that was it-

I almost forgot my ancient __my righteous__ animosity and mentally thanked the nasty old man who had described it so lovingly. "I'll trade you."

"What?" again. Salburton sounded like a goosed virgin. He didn't have anything and he knew it.

"The paper and ink," I said. "I'll trade you a copy of the software for the paper and ink, Salburton. I'm not greedy; one skid of paper, just the cartons, though, and a couple of carboys of each color toner. You can always get more supplies from the Koreans for a lot less than new software."

He would be a little taken aback by the offer.

The banker would not have considered that the possessor of the software might not have the receipt for the supplies. There had to be a receipt. You don't go on the run hauling skids of paper and drums of toner. On the surface, it had some appeal, for a cockamamie story spun on the spur of the moment. He couldn't be sure yet that the Koreans didn't have his money. He knew that Cary had left with the money. Wouldn't he go back to the Koreans, to start setting up more deliveries? There hadn't been any public announcement of Cary's killing.

Of course, Salburton didn't have the supplies either.

Tiddler, Frizzy, wouldn't have run with just the software; for him it would be useless without the rest. Tiddler couldn't have gotten more just as, presumably, I couldn't. So Salburton didn't have any paper or toner. Which was all right; I didn't have any software either, and I was sure that he could lie almost as well as I could.

He caught up with the conversation. "Wait a minute. How do I know you have the software? What does it look like?"

I was ready for that with some duplicitous ambiguity. "Right now it looks like a bunch of disks and a tape cartridge in a bag. Take your choice."

He thought about it for a second. "Let me get back to you. Where can I get hold of you?"

"I'll just bet you would, money-man," I laughed. "You'll get the location tomorrow or tomorrow night, by phone. Stay available. I've got a truck and a private place to meet. Just you and me and come alone, or I fade. I know what you look like."

I hung up and glanced down at my watch. Four minutes. Not bad; plenty of time left.

There's fairly decent cellular phone service in Rockport, for a town fairly far north of Corpus. Even if he had wise guys in a car stationed up here, though, it still would take a couple of minutes for them to arrive. Reassured, I went into the library proper, and asked for a copy of "Who's Who in Texas."

Sure enough, there he was. Boy, Morty was right. He sure had the face of a prick, with curly hair and a tight, thin-lipped, manic grin. It was a wedge-shaped face and the grin looked like a heart attack. I didn't bother trying to find "Weller." I wasn't about to forget his face nohow.

-Time to go!-

I didn't know if they had Caller-ID service available there, where you can buy a digital readout unit that shows the calling number. The funny part about that was: The fastest way for an ordinary citizen to get a name and address from a phone number is to go to the public library in the area, and ask for cross-listed telephone directories. They usually have them right at the desk, if there are any published for the locale. There's almost always a book listing phone numbers by address, at the very least.

-I might pass them on the way out- Irresponsible? Yes, I am. But, on the other hand, I keep myself amused and don't need much attention from the grown-ups.

Now there was a night and a day to kill.

It didn't seem like a good idea to spend it all in H.E.B., reading magazines; so I picked up three paperbacks, some fruit, a six-pack of Texas Light and few frozen dinners. -I was testing my limits with the six-pack- A stop at the local office supply sufficed to pick up a box of mini-disks and a tape cartridge. It amused me to picture Salburton paying the same attention to detail, dropping in to pick up a ton of packaged paper and a few hundred pounds of toner. At least I'd recognize him now if he did.

After the usual conniptions to shake a tail, it was time to return to Holiday Beach for R&R. And dreams of Katherine.

Odd, when you think of it, though. All this planning to kill someone long before I knew what he looked like, most of it before I had even heard his name.

* * * * * * * * * *

-Mishlietu Culla, an naiajawl rajd jane shtammers, shan an lajd-

Fall asleep, and dream of counterfeit ten dollar bills, of love and of shame.

* * * * * * * * * *

"What do you think about Russell?" The Chairman's question was addressed to the creature, Weller.

"Well, sir, you wouldn't let me really check him out."

"Disclaimers aside, Weller, do you think he's got the tapes and receipts, or is he telling you the truth?" Salburton tried to keep any undue emphasis out of his voice. His plans were his business, especially the one he was now considering.

"He doesn't have them, sir. He would have given them up by now. But, if he hadn't run with them in the first place we wouldn't be sitting here with our thumbs up our____"

"I'm not interested in the past, Weller. And I just might have some uses for my nephew alive that don't concern you. What about Quirk?"

"I don't know, sir. It's either him or the kid, or maybe that woman friend of Roxanne's."

"Right! That narrows it down to just about the whole county, doesn't it. And all we've got is Russell, and he's got nothing, you think. Maybe the man in the trailer does have the software, and the kid does have the receipts; otherwise, there's no reason for the meeting unless he's crazy."

The creature overlooked both the sarcasm and the logic. "Yeah, maybe he is____Sir."

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You are at Fiction 2, Chapters 19 & 20