"Who you going to sell them to?" says I.
"I offer them to no one till I have clean greens in my hand," says he. Because
Dogwalker is careful. What happened was not because he was not careful.
Every day we walked to the ten places where the envelopes were supposed to come.
We knew they wouldn't be there for a week-- the wheels of government grind exceeding
slow, for good or ill. Every day we checked with Inside Man, whose name and face I
have already given you, much good it will do, since both are no doubt different by
now. He told us every time that all was the same, nothing was changed, and he was
telling the truth, for the fed was most lugubrious and palatial and gave no leaks
that anything was wrong. Even Mr. Hunt himself did not know that aught was amiss in
his little kingdom.
Yet even with no sign that I could name, I was jumpy every morning and sleepless
every night. "You walk like you got to use the toilet," says Walker to me, and it is
verily so. Something is wrong, I say to myself, something is most deeply wrong, but
I cannot find the name for it even though I know and so I say nothing or I lie to
myself and try to invent a reason for my fear. "It's my big chance," says I. "To be
twenty percent of rich."
"Rich," says he, "not just a fifth."
"Then you'll be double rich."
And he just grins at me, being the strong and silent type.
"But then-- why don't you sell nine," says I, "and keep the other green? Then
you'll have the money to pay for it, and the green to go where you want in all the
world."
But he just laughs at me and says, "Silly boy, my dear sweet pinheaded
lightbrained little friend. If someone sees a pimp like me passing a green, he'll
tell a fed, because he'll know there's been a mistake. Greens don't go to boys like
me."
"But you won't be dressed like a pimp," says I, "and you won't stay in pimp
hotels."
"I'm a low-class pimp," he says again, "and so however I dress that day, that's
just the way pimps dress. And whatever hotel I go to, that's a low-class pimp hotel
until I leave."
"Pimping isn't some disease," says I. "It isn't in your gonads and it isn't in
your genes. If your daddy was a Kroc and your mama was an Iacocca, you wouldn't be a
pimp."
"The hell I wouldn't," says he. "I'd just be a high-class pimp, like my mama and
my daddy. Who do you think gets green cards? You can't sell no virgins on the
street."
I thought that he was wrong and I still do. If anybody could go from low to high
in a week, it's Dogwalker. He could be anything and do anything, and that's the
truth. Or almost anything. If he could do anything then his story would have a
different ending. But it was not his fault. Unless you blame pigs because they can't
fly. I was the vertical one, wasn't I? I should have named my suspicions and we
wouldn't have passed those greens.
I held them in my hands, there in his little room, all ten of them when he spilled
them on the bed. To celebrate he jumped up so high he smacked his head on the
ceiling again and again, which made them ceiling tiles dance and flip over and spill
dust all over the room. "I flashed just one, a single one," says he, "and a cool
million was what he said, and then I said what if ten? And he laughs and says fill
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in the check yourself. "
"We should test them," says I.
"We can't test them," he says. "The only way to test it is to use it, and if you
use it then your print and face are in its memory forever and so we could never sell
it."
"Then sell one, and make sure it's clean."
"A package deal," he says. "If I sell one, and they think I got more by I'm
holding out to raise the price, then I may not live to collect for the other nine,
because I might have an accident and lose these little babies. I sell all ten
tonight at once, and then I'm out of the green card business for life."
But more than ever that night I am afraid, he's out selling those greens to those
sweet gentlebodies who are commonly referred to as Organic Crime, and there I am on
his bed, shivering and dreaming because I know that something will go most deeply
wrong but I still don't know what and I still don't know why. I keep telling myself,
You're only afraid because nothing could ever go so right for you, you can't believe
that anything could ever make you rich and safe. I say this stuff so much that I
believe that I believe it, but I don't really, not down deep, and so I shiver again
and finally I cry, because after all my body still believes I'm nine, and
nine-year-olds have tear ducts very easy of access, no password required.
Well he comes in late that night, and I'm asleep he thinks. And so he walks quiet
instead of dancing, but I can hear the dancing in his little sounds, I know he has
the money all safely in the bank, and so when he leans over to make sure if I'm
asleep, I say, "Could I borrow a hundred thou?"
So he slaps me and he laughs and dances and sings, and I try to go along you bet I
do, I know I should be happy, but then at the end he says, "You just can't take it,
can you? You just can't handle it," and then I cry all over again, and he just puts
his arm around me like a movie dad and gives me play punhes on the head and says,
"I'm gonna marry me a wife, I am, maybe even Mama Pimple herself, and we'll adopt
you and have a little Spielberg family in Summerfield, with a riding mower on a real
grass lawn."
"I'm older than you or Mama Pimple," says I, but he just laughs. Laughs and hugs
me until he thinks that I'm all right. Don't go home, he says to me that night, but
home I got to go, because I know I'll cry again, from fear or something anyway, and
I don't want him to think his cure wasn't permanent. "No thanks," says I, but he
just laughs at me. "Stay here and cry all you want to, Goo Boy, but don't go home
tonight. I don't want to be alone tonight, and sure as hell you don't either." And
so I slept between his sheets, like with a brother, him punching and tickling and
pinching and telling dirty jokes about his whores, the most good and natural night I
spent in all my life, with a true friend, which I know you don't believe, snickering
and nickering and ickering your filthy little thoughts, there was no holes plugged
that night because nobody plugged that night because nobody was out to take pleasure
from nobody else, just Dogwalker being happy and wanting me not to be so sad.
And after he was asleep, I wanted so bad to know who it was he sold them to, so I
could call them up and say, "Don't use those greens, cause they aren't clean. I
don't know how, I don't know why, but the feds are onto this, I know they are, and
if you use those cards they'll nail your fingers to your face."
But if I called would they believe me? They were careful too. Why else did it take
a week? They had one of their nothing goons use a card to make sure it had no
squeaks or leaks, and it came up clean. Only then did they give the cards to seven
big boys, with two held in reserve. Even Organic Crime, the All-seeing Eye, passed
those cards same as we did.
>
I think maybe Dogwalker was a little bit vertical too. I think he knew same as me
that something was wrong with this. That's why he kept checking back with the inside
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man, cause he didn't trust how good it was. That's why he didn't spend any of his
share. We'd sit there eating the same old schlock, out of his cut from some leg job
or my piece from a data wipe, and every now and then held say, "Rich man's food sure
tastes good." Or maybe even though he wasn't vertical he still thought maybe I was
right when I thought something was wrong. Whatever he thought, though, it just kept
getting worse and worse for me, until the morning when we went to see the inside man
and the inside man was gone.
Gone clean. Gone like he never existed. His apartment for rent, cleaned out floor
to ceiling. A phone call to the fed, and he was on vacation, which meant they had
him, he wasn't just moved to another house with his newfound wealth. We stood there
in his empty place, his shabby empty hovel that was ten times better than anywhere
we ever lived, and Doggy says to me, real quiet, he says, "What was it? What did I
do wrong? I thought I was like Hunt, I thought I never made a single mistake in this
job, in this one job."
And that was it, right then I knew. Not a week before, not when it would do any
good. Right then I finally knew it all, knew what Hunt had done. Jesse Hunt never
made mistakes. But he was also so paranoid that he haired his bureau to see if the
babysitter stole from him. So even though he would never arcidentally enter the
wrong P-word, he was just the kind who would do it on purpose. "He double-fingered
every time," I says to Dog. "He's so danm careful he does his password wrong the
first time every time, and then comes in on his second finger."
"So one time he comes in on the first try, so what?" He says this because he
doesn't know computers like I do, being half-glass myself.
"The system knew the pattern, that's what. Jesse H. is so precise he never changed
a bit, so when we came in on the first try, that set off alarms. It's my fault, Dog,
I knew how crazy paranoidical he is, I knew that something was wrong, but not till
this minute I didn't know what it was. I should have known it when I got his
password, I should have known, I'm sorry, you never should have gotten me into this,
I'm sorry, you should have listened to me when I told you something was wrong, I
should have known, I'm sorry."
What I done to Doggy that I never meant to do. What I done to him! Anytime, I
could have thought of it, it was all there inside my glassy little head, but no, I
didn't think of it till after it was way too late. And maybe it's because I didn't
want to think of it, maybe it's because I really wanted to be wrong about the green
cards, but however it flew, I did what I do, which is to say I'm not the pontiff in
his fancy chair, by which I mean I can't be smarter than myself.
Right away he called the gentlebens of Ossified Crime to warn them, but I was
already plugged into the library sucking news as fast as I could and so I knew it
wouldn't do no good, cause they got all seven of the big boys and their nitwit
taster, too, locked up good and tight for card fraud.
And what they said on the phone to Dogwalker made things real clear. "We're dead,"
says Doggy.
"Give them time to cool," says I.
"They'll never cool," says he. "There's no chance they'll never forgive this even
if they know the whole truth, because look at the names they gave the cards to, it's
like they got them for their biggest boys on the borderline, the habibs who bribe
presidents of little countries and rake off cash from octopods like Shell and ITT
and every now and then kill somebody and walk away clean. Now they're sitting there
in jail with the whole life story of the organization in their brains, so they don't
care if we meant to do it or not. They're hurting, and the only way they know to
make the hurt go away is to pass it on to somebody else. And that's us. They want to
make us hurt, and hurt real bad, and for a long long time."
I never saw Dog so scared. That's the only reason we went to the feds ourselves.
We didn't ever want to stool, but we needed their protection plan, it was our only
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hope. So we offered to testify how we did it, not even for immunity, just so they'd
change our faces and put us in a safe jail somewhere to work off the sentence and
come out alive, you know? That's all we wanted.
But the feds, they laughed at us. They had the inside guy, see, and he was going
to get immunity for testifying. "We don't need you," they says to us, "and we don't
care if you go to jail or not. It was the big guys we wanted."
"If you let us walk," says Doggy, "then they'll think we set them up."
"Make us laugh," says the feds. "Us work with street poots like you? They know
that we don't stoop so low."
"They bought from us," says Doggy. "If we're big enough for them, we're big enough
for the dongs."
"Do you believe this?" says one fed to his identical junior officer. "These
jollies are begging us to take them into jail. Well listen tight, my jolly boys,
maybe we don't want to add you to the taxpayers' expense account, did you think of
that? Besides, all we'd give you is time, but on the street, those boys will give
you time and a half, and it won't cost us a dime."
So what could we do? Doggy just looks like somebody sucked out six pints, he's so
white. On the way out of the fedhouse, he says, "Now we're going to find out what
it's like to die."
And I says to him, "Walker, they stuck no gun in your mouth yet, they shove no
shiv in your eye. We still breathing, we got legs, so let's walk out of here."
"Walk!" he says. "You walk out of G-boro, glasshead, and you bump into trees."
"So what?" says I. "I can plug in and pull out all the data we want about how to
live in the woods. Lots of empty land out there. Where do you think the marijuana
grows?"
"I'm a city boy," he says. "I'm a city boy." Now we're standing out in front, and
he's looking around. "In the city I got a chance-- I know the city."
"Maybe in New York or Dallas," says I, "but G-boro's just too small, not even half
a million people, you can't lose yourself deep enough here."
"Yeah well," he says, still looking around. "It's none of your business now
anyway, Goo Boy. They aren't blaming you, they're blaming me."
"But it's my fault," says I, "and I'm staying with you to tell them so."
"You think they're going to stop and listen?" says he.
"I'll let them shoot me up with speakeasy so they know I'm telling the truth."
"It's nobody's fault" says he. "And I don't give a twelve-inch poker whose fault
it is anyway. You're clean, but if you stay'with me you'll get all muddy, too. I
don't need you around, and you sure as hell don't need me. Job's over. Done. Get
lost."
But I couldn't do that. The same way he couldn't go on walking dogs, I couldn't
just run off and leave him to eat my mistake. "They know I was your P-word man,"
says
I. "They'll be after me, too."
"Maybe for a while, Goo Boy. But you transfer your twenty percent into Bobby Joe's
Face Shop, so they aren't looking for you to get a refund, and then stay quiet for a
week and they'll forget all about you."
He's right but I don't dare. "I was in for twenty percent of rich," says I. "So
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I'm in for fifty percent of trouble."
All of a sudden he sees what he's looking for. "There they are, Goo Boy, the dorks
they sent to hit me. In that Mercedes." I look but all I see are electrics. Then his
hand is on my back and he gives me a shove that takes me right off the portico and
into the bushes, and by the time I crawl out, Doggy's nowhere in sight. For about a
minute I'm pissed about getting scratched up in the plants, until I realize he was
getting me out of the way, so I wouldn't get shot down or hacked up or lased out,
whatever it is they planned to do to him to get even.
I was safe enough, right? I should've walked away, I should've ducked right out of
the city. I didn't even have to refund the money. I had enough to go clear out of
the country and live the rest of my life where even Occipital Crime couldn't find
me.
And I thought about it. I stayed the night in Mama Pimple's flophouse because I
knew somebody would be watching my own place. All that night I thought about places
I could go. Australia. New Zealand. Or even a foreign place, I could afford a good
vocabulary crystal so picking up a new language would be easy.
But in the morning I couldn't do it. Mama Pimple didn't exactly ask me but she
looked so worried and all I could say was, "He pushed me into the bushes and I don't
know where he is."
And she just nods at me and goes back to fixing breakfast. Her hands are shaking
she's so upset. Because she knows that Dogwalker doesn't stand a chance against
Orphan Crime.
"I'm sorry," says I.
"What can you do?" she says. "When they want you, they get you. If the feds don't
give you a new face, you can't hide."
"What if they didn't want him?" says I.
She laughs at me. "The story's all over the street. The arrests were in the news,
and now everybody knows the big boys are looking for Walker. They want him so bad
the whole street can smell it."
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