Thank You for Smoking

They cinched the plastic police bands tightly around his wrists behind him and put the black hood over his head.

They were under the river and into New Jersey before they heard him groan and start to shift around — painfully, Nick hoped. They waited another five minutes until they saw him lift up his head to try to take stock of his situation before they activated Phase Two. Satisfied that Peter Lorre was fully conscious, Nick pressed Play and the sound of their altered voices came over the speaker. They'd tested it several times to make sure that it would be audible in the rear of the van, where they had placed him, on the floor, right by the rear doors.

first voice: Slow down, let's not get a speeding ticket.

second voice: That'd be a fucking bummer.

first voice: He still out?

second voice: Yeah, he looks out.

first voice: Well, if he moves, pop him with the.45.

second voice: Hey, this is a rental. I don't wanna spend the rest of the night scrubbing blood out of the back.

first voice: Is that an International House of Pancakes? I could really go for some bacon waffles… second voice: Bacon? You know what that does to your arteries?

first voice: Frank, we gotta die of something.

second voice: I want to be screwed to death. You pass an International House of Pussy, pull over.

first voice: I got one of those cross-country ski machines. Twenty minutes on one of those and you sweat, let me tell you. You know who uses one of those things? Joey Two Stomachs.

second voice: Get out of here.

first voice: No, for real. He went to that Pritikin place, you know, where you eat crabgrass and they charge you ten thousand dollars a day. He's lost something like twenty-five pounds. And by the way, he doesn't want to be called Joey Two Stomachs anymore.

second voice: Fucking psychopath. I could tell you stories.

first voice: That's why I'm not calling him Joey Two Stomachs anymore.

second voice: Sir Joey. Laughter.

first voice: How much further is it?

second voice: Ten miles, about.

first voice: I don't see why we gotta take him all the way out to some abandoned quarry in New Jersey when we could weigh him down and throw him in the fucking wetlands. No one is gonna know.

second voice: I told you why. Because Team A said to take him to the quarry, and this is on his time, okay?

first voice: He's not gonna know.

second voice: What's the fucking problem?

first voice: I'm hungry. Maybe there's a McDonald's…

second voice: We're not pulling into fucking McDonald's, all right?

first voice: We'll do the drive-up.

second voice: What if he comes to and starts moaning?

first voice: I got my gun pointed right at his fucking heart. If he moans, it's going to be his problem, not ours.

second voice: You got it silenced?

first voice: Yes I got it silenced. Will you — Jesus. What am I, a fucking amateur?

second voice: We'll be there before you know.

first voice: Who is Team A, anyway?

second voice: Some guy in Washington.

first voice: Washington? Yeah? Is this one of those government sub-contracts? This guy in the back important?

second voice: Not anymore. Laughter.

first voice: So, who's Team A?

second voice: Some lobbyist.

first voice: Lobbyist? What's that?

second voice: An asshole with an expense account.

first voice: Yeah, well, you want my honest opinion about Washington? They're all assholes. I'm getting sick of this shit. Couple more of these and I'm out. I'm going to start a restaurant.

second voice: You'll poison them to death instead of shooting them?

first voice: No, I'm serious.

second voice: I'll make a reservation. They'd left in a few moments of silence.

first voice: So is that why we're called 'Team C'? Cause he's 'Team A'?

second voice: I guess so. It's a code. People in Washington like codes.

first voice: Team C sounds like my kid's fruit drink. Why couldn't we be the Sons of Thunder?

second voice: Okay, we're the Sons of Thunder. I think the turnoff is somewhere up—

first voice: Look out for the truck!!!

Polly had been practicing bootleg turns all week. With the speedometer at just under forty, she turned the wheel slightly to the left and at the same time stepped down hard on the parking brake, whose locking mechanism had been disabled. The van spun 180 degrees. As it did, Peter Lorre was hurtled back through the rear doors, which had been loosely shut with a piece of duct tape. Out he went onto the deserted country road, landing with a thump.

The next snatch of dialogue was loudly amplified.

first voice: Never mind him! Get the fuck out of here! Move it! Off they sped.

'Did you hear that sound he made when he landed?' Nick said gleefully.

'Sounded squishy,' Bobby Jay said.

'Do you think we killed him?' Polly asked. Nick was looking back through binoculars. Peter Lorre was rolling himself over to the shoulder of the road. 'Nope. Almost a shame.'

'He's going to be sore tomorrow.'

'I need a drink,' Polly said. 'You know what I want?' Nick said. 'What's that?'

'A cigarette.'

New Head of Tobacco Lobby Is Found Dead of Smoke Inhalation at Home of Associate Friends Say Rohrabacher Was 'a Health Nut' and a Non-smoker Jeannette Dantine, ATS Exec VP, Is Sought by Police for Questioning

BY HEATHER HOLLOWAY WASHINGTON SUN STAFF WRITER

Epilogue

Good evening, I'm Larry King. Our guest tonight, Nick Naylor, who has been here before on several occasions, but tonight is not going to tell us that there is no link between smoking and lung cancer. Right?'

'That's right, Larry.'

'This book you've written, Thank You for Smoking. Curious title. What does it mean?'

'It's meant to be ironic, Larry. Though my former employers, the tobacco lobby, for whom I used to lie on shows like this, actually have signs printed that say that.'

'This book you've written is very controversial. It's got a lot of people angry.'

'Yes it has, Larry.'

'Let's run down the list. Jeff Megall, head of the most powerful talent agency in Hollywood. He's called it