"Ah," she said lightly, "the man with the ever-ready shower. And, I suppose, the handcuffs." She held out her wrists. "Take me away, officer. I'm guilty as hell."
I said, "That's no joke, O'Leary. They don't come any guiltier."
She sighed. "1 might have known it was just a beautiful dream. Well, at least I got a bath out of it. Okay, which way is the jail?"
"Is that why you picked that dress, to go to jail in?"
"No, dad, I picked it to stay out of jail in, if I could. But I can see that you're not a bit impressed." She drew a long breath. "That's enough kidding, Mr. Helm. I'm not really in the mood. Why don't you just break down and tell me why you had me brought here."
I said, "You're a mass murderess, O'Leary. You killed five people-count them, five-just like snapping your fingers. Justice demands that you pay the supreme penalty, or spend the rest of your days in prison, regretting your crime."
She looked at me for a moment. Her greenish eyes were hard and bright in her small, freckled face. "And what am I supposed to do now, get on my knees and make with the remorse? Sure, I blew up the damn boat, and told a lot of far-out lies about what had happened out there. It was a stupid thing to do, and I did it for a stupid reason, but I was mad, and I don't think too clearly when I'm mad."
"What were you mad about?"
She said irritably, "You haven't done your homework, Mr. Secret Agent. My husband was killed, remember? They took him away and got him shot over in some crummy jungle or other. Was I supposed to keep loving the country that did that to him, and to me? So when some creep came up with some crazy plan for striking back I said, sure, I'll play. And I did. Like I say, I was mad."
"Are you mad now?"
"Not that mad," she said. "And now I know that I like foreign political creeps even less than the homegrown variety. There's nothing like playing footsie with a bunch of greasy conspirators to give a girl an acute attack of patriotism. But if you want me to say I'm sorry, to hell with you."
"Nobody wants you to say anything," I said. "And I mean that. Your remorse isn't wanted, but neither are your opinions on peace, war, or anything else. Can you keep your trap shut, O'Leary? You're no good to me if you're going to get mad and blow your stack all over again."
She was silent for a little while. Her tongue crept out and moved around her neatly lipsticked mouth, cautiously. "What do you want?" she asked at last.
"I have a new assignment coming up," I said. "For this assignment I need a good-looking, bloodthirsty, conscienceless little bitch who'll slit a man's throat and then kick him in the crotch for bleeding on her shoes."
Her eyes watched me steadily. "Well," she said, "well, I'm not very pretty, Helm."
"You'll do," I said. "You dress up pretty good. I'll pass you on the looks."
"Why… why me?"
I said, "Technically speaking, you did a nice, clean job on that boat. We like our people to be able to handle explosives. And your lies were good. The drunk act you put on for me was passable. For real professionalism, you need some training, but you've got the right attitude already, and that's half the battle. I don't see any black hollows under your eyes. You haven't been losing much sleep over those five innocent people who died because you got mad, have you? Morally, that's terrible, but we're not going to have much truck with morality, O'Leary, where we're going. That is, unless you'd rather go to prison."
She hesitated. After ~. moment, she turned away from me and walked to The door, and opened it. The wind fluttered her fragile dress and stirred her long hair. It was getting dark outside. The surf was beating against the beach just as it had the last time I'd been in Mazatlбn. The offshore islands were black shapes against the dark sea and the darkening sky.
"You don't scare me," Netta said without turning her head. "You know that, don't you? You don't scare me one damn bit. If I take your crummy job, it won't be because of your crummy threats."
"Sure," I said. "What's the answer, or are you going to keep me in suspense?"
But I knew what her answer would be, because I knew what kind of a person she was, a person very much like myself. I saw her start to speak, but the words did not come. Instead she reached back quickly and grabbed my arm and held it, staring out to sea. I saw it now: something odd was happening over the dark shape of the islands. A pulsating green light was moving steadily and silently across the sky from north to south. We watched it until it disappeared over the town across the bay. The girl in front of me turned.
"Did you see it?" she breathed. "Did you see it? Why, it was a real-.-"
I said, "I didn't see anything, O'Leary, and neither did you. There's no such thing as a flying saucer. We've just proved conclusively that it's all a great big hoax, remember?" I grinned. "Besides, do you really have the nerve to tell another UFO story around Mazatalan?"
After a moment, she laughed and drew a long breath. "There's just one question, Matt," she said. "You said we'd have no truck with morality. Just how… just how immoral am I expected to get?"
I shrugged. "Just how immoral do you want to get?" She smiled slowly and took my arm again. "That's all right, then. Just so I have a choice."
We went back inside. I closed and locked the door behind us.
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