is serious."
The cops arrived then, two of them on scooters, looking like meter maids. Artand Linda glared at each other for a moment, then forced smiles at the cops, whohad dismounted and shed their helmets. They were young men, in their twenties,and to Art, they looked like kids playing dress up.
"Evening sir, miss," one said. "I'm PC McGivens and this is PC DeMoss. Youcalled emergency services?" McGivens had his comm out and it was pointed atthem, slurping in their identity on police override.
"Yes," Art said. "But it's OK now. They took off. One of them left his walletbehind." He bent and picked it up and made to hand it to PC DeMoss, who wascloser. The cop ignored it.
"Please sir, put that down. We'll gather the evidence."
Art lowered it to the ground, felt himself blushing. His hands were shaking now,whether from embarrassment, triumph or hurt he couldn't say. He held up hisnow-empty palms in a gesture of surrender.
"Step over here, please, sir," PC McGivens said, and led him off a short ways,while PC Blaylock closed on Linda.
"Now, sir," McGivens said, in a businesslike way, "please tell me exactly whathappened."
So Art did, tastefully omitting the meat-parlor where the evening's festivitieshad begun. He started to get into it, to evangelize his fast-thinking braverywith the phone. McGivens obliged him with a little grin.
"Very good. Now, again, please, sir?"
"I'm sorry?" Art said.
"Can you repeat it, please? Procedure."
"Why?"
"Can't really say, sir. It's procedure."
Art thought about arguing, but managed to control the impulse. The man was acop, he was a foreigner -- albeit a thoroughly documented one -- and what wouldit cost? He'd probably left something out anyway.
He retold the story from the top, speaking slowly and clearly. PC McGivens aimedhis comm Artwards, and tapped out the occasional note as Art spoke.
"Thank you sir. Now, once more, please?"
Art blew out an exasperated sigh. His feet hurt, and his bladder was swollenwith drink. "You're joking."
"No sir, I'm afraid not. Procedure."
"But it's stupid! The guys who tried to mug us are long gone, I've given youtheir descriptions, you have their *identification* --" But they didn't, notyet. The wallet still lay where Art had dropped it.
PC McGivens shook his head slowly, as though marveling at the previouslyunsuspected inanity of his daily round. "All very true, sir, but it's procedure.Worked out by some clever lad using statistics. All this, it increases oursuccess rate. 'Sproven."
Here it was. Some busy tribalist provocateur, some compatriot of Fede, hadstirred the oats into Her Majesty's Royal Constabulary. Art snuck a look atLinda, who was no doubt being subjected to the same procedure by PC DeMoss.She'd lost her rigid, angry posture, and was seemingly -- amazingly -- enjoyingherself, chatting up the constable like an old pal.
"How many more times have we got to do this, officer?"
"This is the last time you'll have to repeat it to me."
Art's professional instincts perked up at the weasel words in the sentence. "Toyou? Who else do I need to go over this with?"
The officer shook his head, caught out. "Well, you'll have to repeat it threetimes to PC DeMoss, once he's done with your friend, sir. Procedure."
"How about this," Art says, "how about I record this last statement to you withmy comm, and then I can *play it back* three times for PC DeMoss?"
"Oh, I'm sure that won't do, sir. Not really the spirit of the thing, is it?"
"And what *is* the spirit of the thing? Humiliation? Boredom? An exercise in rawpower?"
PC McGivens lost his faint smile. "I really couldn't say, sir. Now, again if youplease?"
"What if I don't please? I haven't been assaulted. I haven't been robbed. It'snone of my business. What if I walk away right now?"
"Not really allowed, sir. It's expected that everyone in England -- HM'ssubjects *and her guests* -- will assist the police with their inquiries.Required, actually."
Reminded of his precarious immigration status, Art lost his attitude. "Once morefor you, three more times for your partner, and we're done, right? I want to gethome."
"We'll see, sir."
Art recited the facts a third time, and they waited while Linda finished herthird recounting.
He switched over to PC DeMoss, who pointed his comm expectantly. "Is all thisjust to make people reluctant to call the cops? I mean, this whole procedureseems like a hell of a disincentive."
"Just the way we do things, sir," PC DeMoss said without rancor. "Now, let'shave it, if you please?"
From a few yards away, Linda laughed at something PC McGivens said, which justescalated Art's frustration. He spat out the description three times fast. "Now,I need to find a toilet. Are we done yet?"
"'Fraid not, sir. Going to have to come by the Station House to look throughsome photos. There's a toilet there."
"It can't wait that long, officer."
PC DeMoss gave him a reproachful look.
"I'm sorry, all right?" Art said. "I lack the foresight to empty my bladderbefore being accosted in the street. That being said, can we arrive at some kindof solution?" In his head, Art was already writing an angry letter to the*Times*, dripping with sarcasm.
"Just a moment, sir," PC DeMoss said. He conferred briefly with his partner,leaving Art to stare ruefully at their backs and avoid Linda's gaze. When hefinally met it, she gave him a sunny smile. It seemed that she -- at least --wasn't angry any more.
"Come this way, please, sir," PC DeMoss said, striking off for the High Street."There's a pub 'round the corner where you can use the facilities."
9.
It was nearly dawn before they finally made their way out of the police stationand back into the street. After identifying Les from an online rogues' gallery,Art had spent the next six hours sitting on a hard bench, chording desultorilyon his thigh, doing some housekeeping.
This business of being an agent-provocateur was complicated in the extreme,though it had sounded like a good idea when he was living in San Francisco andhating every inch of the city, from the alleged pizza to the fucking! drivers!-- in New York, the theory went, drivers used their horns by way of shouting"Ole!" as in, "Ole! You changed lanes!" "Ole! You cut me off!" "Ole! You'redriving on the sidewalk!" while in San Francisco, a honking horn meant, "I wishyou were dead. Have a nice day. Dude."
And the body language was all screwed up out west. Art believed that your entireunconscious affect was determined by your upbringing. You learned how to stand,how to hold your face in repose, how to gesture, from the adults around youwhile you were growing up. The Pacific Standard Tribe always seemed a littlebovine to him, their facial muscles long conditioned to relax into a kind ofspacey, gullible senescence.
Beauty, too. Your local definition of attractive and ugly was conditioned by thepeople around you at puberty. There was a Pacific "look" that was indefinablyoff. Hard to say what it was, just that when he went out to a bar or got stuckon a crowded train, the girls just didn't seem all that attractive to him.Objectively, he could recognize their prettiness, but it didn't stir him the waythe girls cruising the Chelsea Antiques Market or lounging around Harvard Squarecould.
He'd always felt at a slight angle to reality in California, something that wasreinforced by his continuous efforts in the Tribe, from chatting and gaminguntil the sun rose, dragging his caffeine-deficient ass around to his clients ina kind of fog before going home, catching a nap and hopping back online at 3 or4 when the high-octane NYC early risers were practicing work-avoidance andclattering around with their comms.
Gradually, he penetrated deeper into the Tribe, getting invites into privatechannels, intimate environments where he found himself spilling the most privatedetails of his life. The Tribe stuck together, finding work for each other,offering advice, and it was only a matter of time before someone offered him agig.
That was Fede, who practically invented Tribal agent-provocateurs. He'd beenw
orking for McKinsey, systematically undermining their GMT-based clients withplausibly terrible advice, creating Achilles' heels that their East-coastcompetitors could exploit. The entire European trust-architecture for relaynetworks had been ceded by Virgin/Deutsche Telekom to a scrappy band of AT&TLabs refugees whose New Jersey headquarters hosted all the cellular reputationdata that Euros' comms consulted when they were routing their calls. The Jerseyclients had funneled a nice chunk of the proceeds to Fede's account in the formof rigged winnings from
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