An Enemy of the State

by Wilson, F. Paul

  “I heard you had the real thing for sale,” the guy says.

  I shake my head. “Now where would you hear a thing like that?”

  “New York.”

  “New York? The only connection I have with New York is furnishing some antique dealers with a few pieces now and then. How'd you hear about me in New York?”

  “Sam Gelbstein.”

  I nod. Sam's a good customer. Good friend, too. He helped spread the word for me when I was leggin’ lipids into the city. “How you know Sam?”

  “My uncle furnished most of his house with furniture he bought there.”

  I still act suspicious—it's part of the dance—but I know if Sam sent him, he's all right. One little thing bothers me, though.

  “How come you don't look for your butter and eggs in the city? I hear they're real easy to get there.”

  “Yeah,” he says and twists his mouth. “They're also spoiled now and again and there's no arguing with the types that supply it. No money-back guarantees with those guys.”

  I see his point. “And you figure this is closer to the source.”

  He nods.

  “One more question,” I say. “I don't deal in the stuff, of course”—still dancing—“but I'm curious how a young guy like you got a taste for contraband like eggs and butter.”

  “Europe,” he says. “I went to school in Brussels and it's all still legal over there. Just can't get used to these damned substitutes.”

  It all fit, so I go into the back and lift up the floor door. I keep a cooler down there and from it pull a dozen eggs and a half-kilo slab of butter. His eyes widen as I put them on the counter in front of him.

  “Is this the real thing?” he asks. “No games?”

  I pull out an English muffin, split it with my thumbs, and drop the halves into a toaster I keep under the counter. I know that once he tastes this butter I'll have another steady customer. People will eat ersatz eggs and polyunsaturated margarine if they think it's good for them, but they want to know the real thing's available. Take that away from them and suddenly you've got them going to great lengths to get what they used to pass up without a second thought.

  “The real thing,” I tell him. “There's even a little salt added to the butter for flavor.”

  “Great!” He smiles, then puts both hands into his pockets and pulls out a gun with his right and a shield with his left. “James Callahan, Public Health Service, Enforcement Division,” he says. “You're under arrest, Mr. Gurney.”

  He's not smiling anymore.

  I don't change my expression or say anything. Just stand there and look bored. But inside I feel like someone's wrapped a length of heavy chain around my gut and hooked it up to a high speed winch.

  Looking at the gun—a snub-nosed .32—I start to grin.

  “What's so funny?” he asks, nervous and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's his first bust.

  “A public health guy with a gun!” I'm laughing now. “Don't that seem funny to you?”

  His face remains stern. “Not in the least. Now step around the counter. After you're cuffed we're going to take a ride to the Federal Building.”

  I don't budge. I glance over to the corner and see a deserted checkerboard. Gabe's gone—skittered out as soon as he saw the gun. Mr Public Health follows my eyes.

  “Where's the red-headed guy?”

  “Gone for help,” I tell him.

  He glances quickly over his shoulder out the door, then back at me. “Let's not do anything foolish here. I wasn't crazy enough to come out here alone.”

  But I can tell by the way his eyes bounce all over the room and by the way he licks his lips that, yes, he was crazy enough to come out here alone.

  I don't say anything, so he fills in the empty space. “You've got nothing to worry about, Mr. Gurney,” he says. “You'll get off with a first offender's suspended sentence and a short probation.”

  I don't tell him that's exactly what worries me. I'm waiting for a sound: the click of the toaster as it spits out the English muffin. It comes and I grab the two halves and put them on the counter.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, watching me like I'm going to pull a gun on him any minute.

  “You gotta taste it,” I tell him. “I mean, how're you gonna be sure it ain't oleo unless you taste it?”

  “Never mind that.” He wiggles the .32 at me. “You're just stalling. Get around here.”

  But I ignore him. I open a corner of the slab of butter and dig out a hunk with my knife. Then I smear it on one half of the muffin and press the two halves together. All the time I'm talking.

  “How come you're out here messin’ with me? I'm smalltime. The biggies are in the city.”

  “Yeah.” He nods slowly. He can't believe I'm buttering a muffin while he holds a gun on me. “And they've also bought everyone who's for sale. Can't get a conviction there if you bring in the ‘leggers smeared with butter and eggs in their mouths.”

  “So you pick on me.”

  He nods again. “Someone who buys from Gelbstein let slip that he used to connect with a guy from out here who used to do lipidlegging into the city. Wasn't hard to track you down.” He shrugs, almost apologizing. “I need some arrests to my credit and I have to take 'em where I can find 'em.”

  I don't reply just yet. At least I know why he came alone: He didn't want anyone a little higher up to steal credit for the bust. And I also know that Sam Gelbstein didn't put the yell on me, which is a relief. But I've got more important concerns at the moment.

  I press my palm down on top of the muffin until the melted butter oozes out the sides and onto the counter, then I peel the halves apart and push them toward him.

  “Here. Eat.”

  He looks at the muffin all yellow and drippy, then at me, then back to the muffin. The aroma hangs over the counter in an invisible cloud and I'd be getting hungry myself if I didn't have so much riding on this little move.

  I'm not worried about going to jail for this. Never was. I know all about suspended sentences and that. What I am worried about is being marked as a 'legger. Because that means the giraffes will be watching me and snooping into my affairs all the time. I'm not the kind who takes well to being watched. I've devoted a lot of effort to keeping a low profile and living between the lines—“living in the interstices,” Gabe calls it. A bust could ruin my whole way of life.

  So I've got to be right about this guy's poison.

  He can't take his eyes off the muffins. I can tell by the way he stares that he's a good-citizen type whose mother obeyed all the Lipid Laws as soon as they were passed, and who never thought to break them once he became a big boy.

  I nudge him. “Go ahead.”

  He puts the shield on the counter and his left hand reaches out real careful, like he's afraid the muffins will bite him. Finally, he grabs the nearest one, holds it under his nose, sniffs it, then takes a bite. A little butter drips from the right corner of his mouth, but it's his eyes I'm watching. They're not seeing me or anything else in the store…they're sixteen years away and he's ten years old again and his mother just fixed him breakfast. His eyes are sort of shiny and wet around the rims as he swallows. Then he shakes himself and looks at me. But he doesn't say a word.

  I put the butter and eggs in a bag and push it toward him.

  “Here. On the house. Gabe will be back any minute with the troops so if you leave now we can avoid any problems.”

  He lowers the gun but still hesitates.

  “Catch those bad guys in the city,” I tell him. “But when you need the real thing for yourself, and you need it fresh, ride out here and I'll see you're taken care of.”

  He shoves the rest of the muffin half into his mouth and chews furiously as he pockets his shield and gun and slaps his hat back on his head.

  “You gotta deal,” he says around the mouthful, then lifts the bag with his left hand, grabs the other half muffin with his right, and hurries out into the wet.

  I follow him to the door wh
ere I see Gabe and a couple of the boys from the mill coming up the road with shotguns cradled in their arms. I wave them off and tell them thanks anyway. Then I watch the guy drive off.

  I guess I can't tell a Fed when I see one, but I can name anybody's poison. Anybody's.

  I glance down at the pile of newspapers I leave on the outside bench. Around the rock that holds it down I can see where some committee of giraffes has announced that it will recommend the banning of Bugs Bunny cartoons from theaters and the airwaves. The creature, they say, shows a complete disregard for authority and is not fit viewing for children.

  Well, I've been expecting that and dubbed up a few minidisks of some of Bugs’ finest moments. Don't want the kids around here to grow up without the Wabbit.

  I also hear talk about a coming federal campaign against being overweight. Bad health risk, they say. Rumor has it they're going to outlaw clothes over a certain size. That's just rumor, of course…still, I'll bet there's an angle in there for me.

  Ah, the giraffes. For every one of me there's a hundred of them.

  But I'm worth a thousand giraffes.