Thank You for Smoking

then you and I would have a problem, no matter what I promised the Captain. So, are we reading off the same sheet of music so far?'

'Yes,' Nick said.

'All right, now let's see if we can stay on the ball. After Mrs. Cappozallo, who you'll recall was the third person with lung cancer who was suing us, died from smoke inhalation, I began to think that what we had here was some kind of pattern. So I made my inquiries. Do not ask how I made them, or who I made them to. It's only relevant that it turned out that BR was doing a little networking with his old connections from his vending machine days.'

'Networking?'

'Setting up a squad to take care of these liability cases.'

'A death squad?'

'What happened was, the Captain offered BR a bonus of a quarter million for every case that didn't come to court. Obviously, he didn't mean for BR to kill these people. He was just giving him some financial incentive to work his butt off with the lawyers who were fighting the cases. These cases were driving the industry crazy. Now BR, since he came up through vending machines — which is not Marquis of Queensberry — he decided to deal with it in his way, and before you know it, litigants are croaking of smoke inhalation, from dropping lit cigarettes on themselves in bed.' Gomez shrugged. 'In a way, you gotta hand it to him. It's kind of poetic justice. And as hits go, it's a piece of cake. Just sneak in, drop a lit cigarette on the pillow, and— suit dismissed.'

'Can we prove it?'

'What's to prove? They're dead. The Captain's dead. BR is on top of the world. You're a yuppie dick facing ten to fifteen for a fucking publicity stunt. Who's going to believe you?' Gomez chuckled, 'You're the guy who told the world the President was dead.'

'Thank you for reminding me. Just when I'd forgotten.'

'Use your head, kid. These people who did this are still out there. And they're good. I know they screwed up your case, but they sure as shit didn't screw up with those three litigants. You go telling the FBI about this, two things are going to happen. First, they're going to laugh their asses off. Second, you're going to wake up dead from smoke inhalation.'

'So where does that leave us?'

'I'm okay. You're neck-deep in shit.'

'That's helpful.'

'Okay,' Gomez sniffed, 'here's what I can give you. Name and an address. I know they were both wearing makeup when they snatched you, but you will recognize him. When he's not killing people, he acts.'

'Axe?'

'He's an actor. I guess he can't be that good, or he wouldn't be killing people for a living. It's amateur stuff, light opera, that kind of crap.'

'Peter Lorre,' Nick said.

'Yeah, him.'

'I was kidnapped and tortured and nearly killed by a bad actor?'

'Bad actor, but a good killer. Before he did the three litigants he was — well, you probably don't need to know all that. But take my word for it, when you make your move, don't mess up.'

'My move? What is my move?'

Gomez sat back in his seat and picked at a piece of stuck catfish with a toothpick. 'That's up to you, kid.'

'But I'm just a yuppie dick. What am I supposed to do, challenge him to a debate on hit men on the Donahue show? 'Men who kill other men, and the ones who get away, next, on Donahue'?'

'No.' Gomez smiled enigmatically. 'I'd expect you to be smarter than that.' He slid a piece of paper across the table. There was a name and address printed on it.

'Can you memorize that?'

'Yeah.'

'Then do it.' Gomez took the slip of paper back, held it over the mason jar, — and set it on fire. The ash sizzled onto the ice. 'This will come in useful. 'Team B.' '

'Team B? The Presidential Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board?' Gomez nodded. 'Smart boy. I thought it sounded familiar. BR must have taken the name from that.'

'But what's Team B?'

'Team B,' Gomez said, 'is the code name for his little special operation squad. Here's something else that will be useful: 'Team A.' '

'What's that?'

'Use your head, kid.'

'Will you stop calling me that? I'm not Lauren Bacall and you're not Humphrey Bogart.'

'Team A, obviously, is BR.'

Nick thought. 'I still don't get what I'm supposed to do.'

'Well, Nick, the way things are going for you, you'll figure out something. Necessity is the motherfucker of invention.'

In the car on the mostly quiet drive to the airport, Nick said, 'Why are you doing this?'

Gomez thought. 'I could tell you I was doing it for the Captain. But since I like you, I'm not going to bullshit you. I like my job at the Academy. I believe in cigarettes. I think we're overpopulated. The planet could use a break, you know what I mean? I'm glad we're getting into the Asian markets in a big way. I spent a lot of time working in Asia, Nam, Laos, Cambodia, Indonesia, China, and let me tell you, I'm not losing sleep over the idea of thinning out those hordes. Their food's good, though. I always liked the food.'

'You're in this for population control?'

'Sure, but honestly? I like the hours, too. It's not too demanding. Most of what I do involves finding out stuff about people, and that I can do in my sleep. I like the hours, I like the pension plan, good medical, vacation. I like the whole package. But I do not like BR. And I like him even less now that he's got the chairmanship. And,' he said, 'I do not like this split-tail squeeze that he's just made executive vice president. Now I'm supposed to answer to her, and,' he chuckled, 'I have never answered to a woman before. So I'm anticipating problems, and at this stage of my life, I'm just looking to put in a few more years and take early retirement. And these two are complicating my plans.'

Split-tail? 'Were you in the navy?' Nick asked.

'Do you want to know?'

'No,' Nick said.

28

'I don't see why you can't say who told you about this,' Polly said with an edge to her voice, owing to the headline in the day's Moon.

Naylor, Gun Lobbyist, Liquor Spokeswoman Belonged to Club Called 'The Mod Squad': An Acronym for 'Merchants of Death'

Three Spokesmen of the Yuppocalypse?

BY HEATHER HOLLOWAY MOON CORRESPONDENT

Her boss was not at all thrilled by this deplorable revelation; nor was Stockton Drum, Bobby Jay's boss, who had so far been a brick, even proud that his boy was now down and dirty in the Second Amendment trenches. About the only person who was pleased, though he would not admit it, was Bert, whose restaurant had now been put on the Scandal Tours itinerary, a popular Washington tourist bus whose other stops included the Watergate, the Tidal Basin, and the hotel where the FBI had caught Mayor Barry smoking crack.

'Because,' Nick said, 'I want to live. And the person who told me this made it clear that that would no longer