Internecine
David J. Schow
Language: English
Pages: 352
ISBN: 0312571364
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
renewing your acquaintance. He has always suspected there was more to you than meets the eye, Mr. . . . Lamb.” Tiburón winked. “There. See how easy it is to be someone else? Now, before we begin, the Mole Man has a request of you. Not daunting. More of a social thing.” “Name it,” I said. “The Mole Man would enjoy it very much if you were to schedule some time, in the future, say, when you are not so preoccupied, and engage in some investigation into the ins and outs of the finer red wines,
“Oh . . . shit. You’re kidding, right?” Dandine waited for Zetts’s synapses to fire. “You’re not kidding,” said Zetts. “Aw, geez . . . fuck me, huh?” “Tell me they haven’t bought you,” said Dandine. “Whether you remain whole enough to smoke that bag of stinkweed in your glove compartment rather depends on your answer—dude.” “Oh, no, waitaminute, no, no, no, no—it ain’t like that at all.” Now he was making eye contact, earnestly. “Totally no. I work for you. I so do not work for anyone else.
people disappear off the face of the planet every year, so say the stats. Earth swallowed ’em. Aliens got ’em. Killed in some trackless jungle. Mugged and left for dead under some bridge and never identified. Changed their names, edited their pasts, shucked their baggage, and became new people . . . sort of the way you did, while in college. Or they got assassinated, by contract. In America, if you know the right contacts, you can arrange to have nearly anyone murdered for a ridiculously low
not true, or inventing things equally untrue that satiated their need for common drama. Their tactics were transparent and infantile, and I danced around them easily, because when I lie, I do it by choice, and I am much better at lying than they are. You and I both know the difference between the pikers and professionals, when it comes to lying. The amateurs are lame and awkward (and thus reap a surfeit of the drama they crave) while the pros are somehow admirable in their audacity. They don’t
like a Beretta.” “It is,” said Dandine, lifting it. “The M93R, built as an antiterrorist sidearm, basically a bodyguard gun for rich Italians who kept getting kidnapped in the eighties. This thing—” he swiveled the hinged metal piece until it locked into position “—is a handle, to stabilize the gun while you fire three-shot bursts, on full auto. Dumb idea.” “You mean like a machine gun?” “Just like a machine gun. Twenty-round mag. Otherwise it’s your basic nine-mil, except without the internal