by Joe Haldeman
"My name is Bradley," he said. "For today's specials, we—"
"I want the special," Willy Joe interrupted. "We all want the special."
"But we have four—"
"We want the first."
"The grouper?"
"Yeah. What kinda wine goes with that?"
"I would suggest the Bin 24, the—"
"Bring us two bottles of it. Pronto?"
"Yes, sir." He hurried away.
"You was sayin', Greg."
The lawyer paused, staring at Norman. "To be blunt, it's your wife's money we're after. Her inheritance."
"We have a joint account."
"We know that, of course. But your wife seems to have enough on her mind right now. So we thought we'd approach you instead."
"She'd lose her job," Willy Joe said. "Even if she didn't go to jail, for buying off the cops. And you and your boyfriend would get Raiford for sodomy. Separate cells, I think."
"You might live through it," the lawyer said, "but he wouldn't. A fag … a homosexual cop in Raiford."
"They'd use him up real quick," Willy Joe said.
One chance for the offensive. "I don't think you've thought that through, Willy Joe. Qabil has a lot of friends on the force." He saw the man's eyebrows go up and thought, My God, they didn't know his identity. But he pressed on. "And he's a family man, cute kids; everybody likes him. You send him off to certain death in prison—yourself not a man well loved by the police—and what do you think his friends are going to do to you?"
"I got friends in the police, too."
"It just takes one who's not your friend, but is a friend of Qabil's. You may have noticed that the police kill criminals all the time, in the course of their duties. If one of them killed you, he wouldn't go to jail. He'd get a promotion."
"This isn't about Qabil," the lawyer said. "It's about you and your wife. Your wife's job and money."
"Oh, really. You can expose me as a homosexual without naming my partner?"
"This Kabool ain't the only one you done," Willy Joe said.
"Oh? Name another." Norman stared into the little man's face. "Give me one name and I'll write you a check." There were no others, not in this state, this country.
"You're a piece of work," the lawyer said. "You take a false premise and build a considerable edifice of conjecture."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Norman said. "That's your job."
"You can't fuckin' turn this around," Willy Joe said.
Norman stood up. "Why don't you discuss the ramifications of this," he said quietly. "Your life expectancy after you condemn a cop to death." He picked up his bag.
"Sit down," Willy Joe said.
"See you here tomorrow, same time."
"I can have you killed," he said in a harsh whisper, theatrical.
Norman looked at the sallow man. "You, Solo?"
"Nothin' personal." He smiled a genuine smile. "See you soon."
Norman turned to go and almost ran into the wine steward. He snatched one bottle out of the ice bucket. "This one's mine, thanks."
He heard Solo laugh as he walked away. "Balls. You got to admit he got balls."
Southeby
"Norman!" Odd to see his neighbor at a fancy place like this.
"Mr. Mayor." Norman saluted with his left hand and strode toward his bike.
"He looks familiar," his companion, Rose, said.
"Aurora Bell's husband. We're neighbors."
"They let you bring your own bottle to a place like this?"
"I guess." He held the door open for her. Nothing wrong with the mayor having lunch with his university liaison. He didn't know that most of his office knew exactly what their relationship was, and thought he was a fatuous old fool. Some of them had an even lower opinion of her, for being able to stand him.
Southeby stiffened when he saw Willy Joe Capra at a far table, along with that slimeball Gregory Moore and some other gangster type. Capra locked eyes with him and gave a small nod.
"Right this way, Mayor," the maître d' said, and led them back to a table distressingly close to Capra's. Southeby took the chair that would put his back to them.
A waiter came with menus and took their drink order. He asked for lemonade, though he could have used something stronger. She ordered E.T. Lager, a new local brew.
"That any good?"
"Probably not. I just want to see the label." She lowered her voice. "You know those guys?"
"Not to speak to, except the oldest one, Greg Moore. Used to be public defender. Now he works for the little wop, Capra, who's got Mafia connections. The third one, I don't want to know."
He hadn't noticed that she flinched at the word "wop." Blond and blue-eyed, three of her four grandparents had come from Tuscany. "He's the one the petty cash goes to?"
"Jesus, Rosie!" He took a leatherbound notebook out of his jacket pocket and riffled through it.
"Really, I'm curious," she said, just above a whisper.
"Who told you this?"
"You withdraw it for 'office supplies.' That's a lot of staples, Cam."
"Okay. It's a kind of insurance. For the building, not for me."
"What?" The waiter brought the lemonade and beer. The label was a movie poster from the twentieth century, a goofy-looking alien with a glowing fingertip. He poured the beer. It was pale green, and probably glowed in the dark.
The waiter left. "You didn't work here four or five years ago. We used to get trashed all the time—graffiti, broken windows. Gang stuff."
She nodded. "So they could get their jail time."
"Verdad. A new gang member would confess and get his week in jail. Rite of passage. But it was costing the city a fortune, and the cops were powerless. You catch one in the act, hell, that's what he wants.
"So Capra moves in. The gangs stay away from any building that has his mark."
"Or else … what?"
"That's another thing I don't want to know. A few days after Capra started marking buildings, the leaders of three gangs disappeared overnight. Never came back, good riddance."
"He killed them for vandalism?"
"Had them killed, probably. And probably not 'for' anything, except to show what he could do if they didn't cooperate."
She stared at him in silence for a moment. There was a heated argument going on sotto voce at the gangsters' table. She shook her head. "God. This town."
"This town is peaches and cream, honey, compared to—"
The waiter had returned. "May I … are you ready to order? Ma'am?" His voice was a little loud and nervous as he glanced at the other table.
"Jimmy!" Willy Joe shouted. "Cancel them specials. We gotta leave."
"As you wish, sir," the waiter said. The three of them shuffled out from behind the table, and left in a little procession: Willy Joe striding in the lead, the pale hoodlum following, and then the lawyer.
Gregory Moore
He stopped to shake the mayor's hand. "Cam. Long time no see."
"We seem to travel in different circles now," he said.
"It's all circles, isn't it? 'What goes around comes around,' my dad used to say."
"Your father was a good lawyer."
"So are you, Cam. Señorita?" She nodded at him with a curious smile, and he followed Solo out the door.
"You're pals with the mayor?" Solo said, opening the car door.
"Not exactly 'pals.' Remind me to wash this hand."
"He's a asshole," Willy Joe said, getting in, "but he's our asshole."
The doors slid shut and the air conditioner's roar abated. Solo, behind the wheel, pushed a button. "Address for Norman Bell."
"This is lunacy," Moore said. "Isn't one murder a day enough?
"He can't fuck with me that way!"
The car told Solo the address. "Go there." It pulled away from the curb, hesitated, and slipped into the traffic.
"Plenty of people saw us together. Saw him leave."
"Shut up, okay? Just gonna check the fuckin' thing out."
"Just promise me you won't—"
"I don't promise you or nobody a fuckin' thing," he said quietly. "But Solo ain't gonna kill him. Just rough him up a little. Put the fear o' God into him."
"Jesus. Listen to yourself."
Solo turned around to face them. "Boss, I don't think he's the kind of guy you just push around…"
"That's right, you don't think! You don't think! You just do what I tell you."
"What do you mean, Solo?"
"I mean beggin' your pardon, Boss, but God knows I met all kinds a tough guys and phony tough guys, inside and outside. He's not phony, and he's pissed. I think he'd just as soon kill any one of us as look at us."
"You've got a fuckin' gun. How's he gonna kill you?"
"You buy that shit about the trumpet oil?" Solo put a finger beside his nose. "Hoppes No. 9, I've smelled it all my life. He's got a gun, all right."
"So he's got a gun. He's a faggot professor twice as old as you."
"Push the info button for me, Solo," Moore said. He did. "Public records, military. Norman Bell."
"I'll need a service number," the car said, "or current residence."
"Gainesville, Florida."
"Norman Bell volunteered for the draft during Desert Wind, in September 2031. For his service in the 101st Airborne Division, he was awarded the Silver Star with two clusters and the Purple Heart."
"Silver Star," Solo said. "Two clusters. Some faggot."
"So? So you afraid of him?"
Solo didn't move. "I'll do what you want."
"I want."
Moore kept an eye on the road. There was a bike lane. But Bell probably would take a less direct route, avoiding traffic.
"He probably has a burglar alarm. House full of musical instruments."
"Solo can take care of a burglar alarm."
"Yeah, or run like hell."
Moore shook his head. "You ought to wait until he's home, if you have to do this. Knock on his door and push your way in."
"Excuse me, Mr. Lawyer. We already gone over this in the restaurant."
"It's an unnecessary—"
"I don't got a replay button. You clear on that?"
This could get them all into trouble. Too many people in that restaurant saw the four of them together. "It's going to be an interesting trial. Calling the mayor as a witness."
"Shut the fuck up. The mayor's fuckin' ours. Besides, he came in after the professor left."
"This is going too fast."
"Sometimes you gotta live fast. We got a chance for perfect timing here. Get them both, get the money, get the fuck out."
After they dropped Solo off, he was going to go confront Aurora Bell. In theory, by the time she called home, her husband would be sufficiently intimidated. They would empty their bank accounts into Willy Joe's coffers.
Again in theory, the Bells couldn't call the police. This Qabil Rabin was still on the force, Willy Joe had said. But what if the jealous wife was not exactly fond of her husband's boyfriend. Or her husband, for that matter. This whole thing could blow up in their faces.
The car turned right and went uphill for a couple of blocks, through a quiet residential neighborhood. Then left and right and they pulled up in front of the Bells' house, a large rambler with conservative but well-maintained landscaping. There was nobody in sight.
"No burglar-alarm signs," Willy Joe said. "People who got 'em advertise it."
"Yeah; like me," Moore said. "Someone stole my sign."
"Move it," Willy Joe said. Solo opened the door and got out.
Solo
He stood for a moment with his hand on the door. "Call you tonight, Boss, or come by?"
"Call." He shut the door and the car glided away.
Solo stood for a moment, feeling exposed and perhaps betrayed. What the hell was Willy Joe's game this time? A test? A sacrifice play?
You couldn't just walk out on him, crazy and vindictive fucker. Solo fought the reasonable impulse to call a cab and go straight to the airport, sighed, and turned on his heel. Shit or get off the pot.
He went up the walk briskly, checking his watch for the sake of unseen neighbors. The place was a perfect design for breaking in; a small atrium hid the front door from the street.
The atrium was cool and smelled of jasmine. He went straight to the door and rang the bell, getting his story ready in case there was a servant or a robot.
No answer. He looked around carefully for security cameras. If there was one, it was pretty well hidden.
The double lock was a Horton magnetic dead bolt and a plain Kayser underneath. He took out a plastic case of tools and threaded a probe into the Horton and pushed a button. It sometimes got the combination right away; sometimes it took a few minutes. With two mechanical picks, he unlocked the Kayser in seconds. Then the Horton gave a solid snap. He pushed the door open.
He stepped into the anteroom and eased the door shut. Books, paper books, from floor to ceiling! This might work after all; these people had real money.
The Horton lock snapped and he looked back at it—hell, it was a keypad on this side. He'd have to find another way out.
He took one step and a voice in every room said, "Hello? Who's here?"
Shit. The place did have a system. "Professor Bell," he said, and the system answered "okay"—but of course it was already calling the police.
Quickest way out. He ran into the kitchen. The door to the garage was also a keypad. There was a glass door and a stained-glass window looking out into the atrium. He picked up a heavy bar stool and swung it against the glass door; it bounced back, nearly dislocating his shoulder. He threw it into the stained glass, which crashed in a glittering rainbow shower, and jumped through the hole into the atrium. He rushed to the walk, paused to smooth his jacket and his tie, and started striding toward town, casually but fast.
Hope the dispatcher's not too swift.
Rabin
"Units seven, nine, and twelve. I have a 217 at 5412 NW Fourteenth Avenue. Who wants to pick it up?"
Allah, Rabin thought, that's Norm's house. What's going on?
"Take it?" his partner said. "That's like eight blocks."
"Wait and see if there's a closer pickup." Seconds ticked by, and no other unit responded.
"Come on, Qabil. We could use some laughs."
"Sure. Let's take it." Two-seventeen was B&E, usually no big deal. Except when the house being broken into belongs to your fellow sodomite. Sweet Allah!
"Unit nine on the way," his partner said, and switched to manual. The car surged into the middle of the street, and traffic parted in front of them like the Red Sea for Moses. Qabil checked to make sure his pistol was on "stun." He was tempted to accidentally switch the dart selector to "lethal." Whatever this guy might say was unlikely to advance his career.
He allowed himself one long moment of reflection. That had been a turning point in his life—as large as being a soldier; larger than the POW camp. He went straight after the wife caught him with "Normal Norman," at least straight enough to collect his own wife and kids. Love is love, though, and lust, lust, and a man can't help being what he is.
"Perp shot," the radio said, and the monitor showed a picture of a well-dressed man swinging a bar stool at a glass door. The image ratcheted forward and rotated, to give them a full-face portrait of the man.
"We have an ID," the radio said. "Suspect did six months Raiford in fifty-two, accessory to extortion. Two juvies, B and E and A and B. He has a Georgia license to carry a concealed weapon, supposedly in three states. Dolomé Patroukis, street name Solo. Consider him armed and dangerous."
"Well, hello," his partner said. The suspect was loping down the sidewalk toward them, on the other side of the street, hands in pockets. No other pedestrians in sight. "Guy can't even afford a car."
He turned on the lights and pulled over to the curb, traffic weaving, and bumped up onto the sidewalk. The man crouched as if to run, and then stood up with his hands over his head.
"I'll take it." His partner got out and walked toward the man while Rabin unclipped the detector from the visor, then opened the door and stood behind it, peering through the detector tube.
"David!" he said. "Left armpit!" He and David both had their stunners out in an instant.
Solo stood on his toes, reaching high. "Hey! Hey! I got a ticket! I'm a private investigator!"
"Yeah, sure." David reached into the man's jacket and pulled out a light automatic. "You got a Georgia ticket outta some cereal box. You got the right to remain silent anything you say may be held against you this encounter is being recorded and encrypted and will be acceptable as evidence against you."
"I don't say nothing until I talk to my lawyer. Not meaning to be disrespectful."
"Like I say," David said, "everything you say is evidence. Everything you don't say, too."
"You can call your lawyer from the station," Rabin said. "First we're going back to the place you were trying to rob."
"Hey, I didn't take nothing."
David took him by the shoulder and steered him toward the car. "Keep talking. You were a Jehovah's Witness, or what?"
"I got lost, I was confused. Went to this house to ask directions, and then this voice starts up."
He pushed him down into the backseat. "Put your wrists on the armrests, please." He did. "Close." The armrests handcuffed him. "So then you had to break your way out."
"Man, it locked me in! What would you do?"
"Oh, I'd probably call nine-one-one. But then I'm a cop. I have the number memorized." He eased the door shut and went around to the driver's seat.
Rabin had just finished calling it in. He turned around and studied Solo for a moment. "So whose house was it? What were you after?"
"I don't know. Like I say, just wanted directions."
"Bullshit. We have you on a previous B and E."
"What, bacon and eggs?" Rabin just smiled as the car bumped over the curb and eased into traffic. "Look, I was just a kid. The judge said that was goin' to be erased."
"Probably on the condition of good behavior. Assault and battery isn't such good behavior."
"That was juvenile, too! You never got into a fight?"
"No, as a matter of fact. Not until the war."