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B:The ex-soldiers have melted away, but we’re attributing that to caution on their part. We’ve no reason to believe they’ve been found. That’s not how the connection goes.

UP:Which way does it run?

B:[UI]

UP:I didn’t catch that.

B:Uh, southeast.

UP:I’m not sure that’s what you said the first time, but never mind. Listen, I paid a lot of money to remain insulated.

B:And you are. This is a courtesy call. Nobody has your name.

UP:You have it.

B:I’m tactful, and steps are being taken to identify and isolate the threat.

UP:Obviously, the threat is coming from Mexico.

B:The origin isn’t necessarily the same as the instrument. In the meantime, a new SIM card is on the way to you, and we’re reviewing security procedures.

UP:That would seem wise. Anything else?

B:Get yourself a gun.

UP:I have a gun.

B:Then get yourself another.

end of 031324_0138_pm BERN_Phone_Call.wav

CHAPTERXXV

I had arranged to meet Moxie Castin for lunch at David’s in Monument Square. I could probably have worked full-time for Moxie had I wished because there was never a shortage of people doing dumb things on which the law frowned, or alternatively, cases of the law threatening to do things to people on which natural justice frowned. I called Moxie to let him know I was on my way and found a parking spot on Free Street, not far from the restaurant, which I took as a good omen.

Moxie was seated in the far corner of the restaurant, with a plate of Moroccan salmon in front of him and some vegetable potstickers waiting for me.

“That looks nearly healthy,” I said. “You didn’t get a final warning from your internist, did you?”

“What internist? And I ordered fries on the side. I’m not an animal.”

The fries arrived, accompanied by a smile from the server for Moxie that could have lit up a cellar at midnight. Moxie—bald, overweight, and wearing a tie that looked like it had been cut from a Nudie suit—had that effect on certain women. It came down either to charm on his part or desperation on theirs, coupled perhaps with being temporarily blinded by his ties.

Moxie smothered his fries in ketchup to prove how evolved beyond the animalistic he actually was. He then watched in silence as I removed the arugula from my potstickers.

“What did arugula ever do to you?” Moxie asked. “You eat like someone with a disorder.”

“We all have our quirks.”

“You more than most. That’s why I always ask for a corner table where you can feed yourself unobserved.”

We talked about nothing much for a while before proceeding to a few jobs Moxie wanted me to take on, all but one of which I turned down because they were dull, laborious, or both, and I didn’t need the money that badly. I told him about Zetta Nadeau, Wyatt Riggins, and BrightBlown. Moxie scowled when I mentioned the latter.

“Anything I should know?” I asked.

“It’s a slick concern.”

“Too slick?”