The proprietor finally spoke over youthful screaming. 'Okay, so I'll pay. Pago, pago... you little son of a bitch.' He pulled a handful of gAu notes out of his cash box and shoved them at the boy. 'Now get out.'
The black kid was out the door before anyone else. Rosas eyed his departure thoughtfully. Tellman went on, plaintively, talking as much to himself as anyone else. 'I don't know. I just don't know. The little bastard has been in here all morning. I swear he had never seen a game board before. But he watched and watched. Diego Martinez had to explain it to him. He started playing. Had barely enough money. And he just got better and better. I never seen anything like it... In fact' — he brightened and looked at Mike — 'in fact, I think I been set up. I betcha the kid is carrying a processor and just pretending to be young and dumb. Hey, Rosas, how about that? I should be protected. There's some sorta con here, especially on that last game. He —
' — really did have a snowball's chance, eh, Telly?' Rosas finished where the proprietor had broken off. 'Yeah, I know. You had a sure win. The odds should have been a thousand to one-not the even money you gave him. But I know symbiotic processing, and there's no way he could do it without some really expensive equipment.' Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Naismith nod agreement. 'Still' — he rubbed his jaw and looked out into the brightness beyond the entrance — 'I'd like to know more about him.'
Naismith followed him out of the tent, while behind them Tellman sputtered. Most of the children were still visible, standing in clumps along the Tinkers' mall.
The mysterious winner was nowhere to be seen. And yet he should have been. The game area opened onto the central lawn which gave a clear view down all the malls. Mike spun around a couple times, puzzled. Naismith caught up with him. 'I think the boy has been about two jumps ahead of us since we started watching him, Mike. Notice how he didn't argue when Tellman gave him the boot. Your uniform must have spooked him.'
'Yeah. Bet he ran like hell the second he got outside.'
'I don't know. I think he's more subtle than that.' Naismith put a finger to his lips and motioned Rosas to follow him around the banners that lined the side of the game shop.
There was not much need for stealth. The shoppers were noisy, and the loading of furniture onto several carts behind the refurbishers' pavilion was accompanied by shouting and laughter.
The early afternoon breeze off Vandenberg set the colored fabric billowing. Double sunlight left nothing to shadow. Still, they almost tripped over the boy curled up under the edge of a tarp. The boy exploded like a bent spring, directly into Mike's arms: If Rosas had been of the older generation, there would have been no contest: Ingrained respect for children and an unwillingness to damage them would have let the kid slip from his grasp. But the undersheriff was willing to play fairly rough, and for a moment there was a wild mass of swinging arms and legs. Mike saw something gleam in the boy's hand, and then pain ripped through his arm.
Rosas fell to his knees as the boy, still clutching the knife, pulled loose and sprinted away. He was vaguely conscious of red spreading through the tan fabric of his left sleeve. He narrowed his eyes against the pain and drew his service stunner.
'No!' Naismith's shout was a reflex born of having grown up with slug guns and later having lived through the first era in history when life was truly sacred.
The kid went down and lay twitching in the grass. Mike holstered his pistol and struggled to his feet, his right hand clutching at the wound. It looked superficial, but it hurt like hell. 'Gall Seymour,' Mike grated at the old man. 'We're going to have to carry that little bastard to the station.'
TWO
The Santa Ynez Police Company was the largest protection service south of San Jose. After all, Santa Ynez was the first town north of Santa Barbara and the Aztlan border. Sheriff Seymour Wentz had three full-time deputies and contracts with eighty percent of the locals. That amounted to almost four thousand customers.
Wentz's office was perched on a good-sized hill overlooking Old 101. From it one could follow the movements of Peace Authority freighters for several kilometers north and south. Right now, no one but Paul Naismith was admiring the view. Miguel Rosas watched gloomily as Seymour spent half an hour on the phone to Santa Barbara, and then even managed to patch through to the ghetto in Pasadena. As Mike expected, no one south of the border could help. The rulers of Aztlan spent their gold trying to prevent 'illegal labor emigration' from Los Angeles but never wasted time tracking the people who made it. The
'Certainly, Sheriff, I recognize the runt. Name is Wili Wachendon.' He spelled it out. The W's sounded like a hybrid of zu with v and
'Look, Mr. Faulk. This child has clearly been mistreated by your people.' He waved over his shoulder at where the kid — Wili — lay in his cell. Unconscious, he looked even more starved and pathetic than he had in motion.
'Ha!' came Faulk's reply over the fiber. 'I notice you have the punk locked up; and I also see your deputy has his arm bandaged.' He pointed at Rosas, who stared back almost sullenly. 'I'll bet little Wili has been practicing his people-carving hobby. Sheriff, Wili Wachendon may have had a hard time someplace; I think he's on the run from the Ndelante Ali. But I never roughed him up. You know how labor contractors work. Maybe it was different in the good old days, but now we are agents, we get ten percent, and our crews can dump on us any time they please. At the wages they get, they're always shifting around, bidding for new contracts, squeezing for money. I have to be damn popular and effective or they would get someone else.
