Bluebottle

'You're saying he went in undercover, like doing research. Look around, find what goes down, get the hell out of there and write about it.'

I nodded.

'That's one side of the story,' Don said. 'Other is, maybe instead he goes in, likes what he sees, and sticks around. Winds up buying the whole shitload.'

'Possible. He was desperate in other ways too, not just about the book. Kind of person you don't have a lot of trouble thinking he might fall in the odd hole.'

'Amano's missing, the money's missing. Chances are good they're together somewhere.'

'Makes sense. But I keep thinking about die bodhi-sattva.'

'The what?'

'It came up in one of the versions of the manuscript The bodhisattva. Someone who postpones his own salvation in order to help others achieve theirs.'

That's not all I was thinking. I was thinking there was something at the trailer. Two somethings. And I was remembering an old saying. If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.

The first something was no problem. After five or six consecutive naps during the course of which I became vaguely aware of evening setding in again outside my window, borders of one nap blurring into the next, no checkpoints or crossing guards, I called Sam Brown, formerly of SeCure Corps, now consultant and freelancer.

'Mr. Brown, I was wondering if you could explain to me exacdy what this Consulting' is.'

'Well I tell you, it's complicated. But breaking it down to the part a layman like yourself might understand, it has a lot to do with what we professionals call 'billing.' That help?'

'Yessir, I believe that clears it up.'

'How you doin', Lew?'

'Few months dumber and poorer than the last time I saw you.'

'Ain't it the truth? What can I do for you?'

I described the uniform that Wardell, the security guard out at the trailer, had been wearing.

'Stripe up the side of the leg, right? Like on old-time band uniforms.'

'Darker blue, yeah.'

'Has to be Checkmate, with that shoulder patch and those fruity pants. Owner's a chess nut.'

I thought for a moment he said chestnut, and wondered what new slang had started up. 'You know someone there?'

'Lew, I know someone everywhere. I'm assuming you need to find this guy.'

'As soon as possible.'

'Give me his description again… Wavy black hair, shiny. Like Indian hair? Right. Skin grayish white Got it I'll call you back.'

He did, within minutes.

'Boy's name is Wardell Lee Sims. Been with Checkmate a litde over a year, in town a little longer. Used an Alabama driver's license for ID when he applied. With a couple of other agencies before that.'

'Why the change?'

'Knew you were gonna ask, crack detective like yourself. You put in about thirty more years, maybe you'll get to be a consultant.'

'I live for the day.'

'Man needs goals. As for that other, let's just say, it comes to security services, Checkmate ain't exacdy prime rib. More likefrozen hamburger patties, come sixty to the package.'

'He was firedfrom the earlier positions?'

'Officially, no. You call up as a prospective employer and ask 'Is he eligible for rehire?' you get a yes, in compliance with the laws of the land. Perfect attendance. Grooming and general appearance, maintenance of uniform, knowledge of job, performance: all check marks. Everything by the book, right down the line.'

'Good soldier.'

' 'Cept for this one small area. Here, the silent buzzer goes off. Got some kind of authority hangup.'

'Doesn't like it'

'Or maybe he likes it-needs it-a little too much. Lot of times it comes down to the same thing. Maybe he keeps on putting his spoon in the pot and just doesn't like the taste of what he finds. Just a minute, Lew.'

Sam turned away to speak to someone. I made out That takes care of your crisis, right? just before he came back on.

'First job, Sims threw it over, lasted just under three weeks. Second one, his supervisor put him on suspension, supposed to have to be vetted by his supervisor before it became street legal, all academic since Sims never showed up again. Didn't even come in to pick up his check.'

'And with Checkmate?'

'Man still needs to learn his ABCs. Starts off on days, within the month he's into it with another guard, he gets switched to deep nights and that's where he stays. In addition he gets hung so far out on the line he may's well be keeping a lighthouse, never see another human being.'

'And where's this?'

'Damn you're good. Always got the right question. An old factory out on Washington, by the canals. Made canned snacks, whatever those are, and some kind of drink mix, Ovaltine kind of thing, that was big for 'bout a week in the early Sixties. Bellied up a year ago. Only reason they keep a guard is the insurance company tells them they have to, and that's only at night'

He gave me an address and directions.

'I had my friend check the log sheets. Sims be on his third cup of coffee 'long about now. Give the two of you a fine chance to sit down, talk over old times without anyone bothering you.'

'Thanks, Sam.'

'Any time, my man. Most fun I'm likely to have all day.'

I snagged a cab on St Charles and had it drop me at a Piggly Wiggly within walking distance of the factory. Not much else in the area. Two diminutive humpback bridges Huey Long might have left behind. Some caved-in barbecue joints and the like, one or two corner stores still doing business behind thick plywood instead of windows, a service station halfheartedly resurrected as a God's Truth church.

The factory front was an expanse of glass, hundreds of small panes opaque as cataracted eyes set in slabs of aluminum painted off-white. Over years the thick paint had bubbled up and become pocked, looking encrusted and vaguely nautical. Through one of many panes broken out, I peered inside. Far off towards the rear, beside a worktable, chair and low cliff of shelving heavily cobwebbed like something out of Great Expectations, a single light burned. Miss Havisham's dreams, industrial strength.

Around back, all but hidden in banks of electric meters, service panels and zone valves for gas and water, I found a narrow door propped open with a car battery.

Inside, sitting in an ancient desk chair with brass rollers, watching a TV on whose screen faces looked like smudged thumbprints, I found Wardell Sims. His head came around as I entered. His eyes skittered over mine.

'Guess I been waiting for you,' he said. 'Sure I have. Figured they must of took you when they took Ellis. Either that, or you were one of them. And that whatever it was happened to Ellis, if you weren't one of them, it happened to you too. Figured if it didn't, and you weren't, then you'd come looking for me.' Heticked it off as though reciting a syllogism. As though he'd been sitting here working it out in his mind, running it over and over. 'I ain't so dumb as I let on to be.'

Should I tell him that just that pretense was probably the reason he was still alive-the reason Marconi's boys hadn't come to fetch him?

Onscreen, bank robbers fled down busy city streets with police, both uniformed and plainclothes, in pursuit. Guns fired, citizens exploded from their path. Then, inexplicably, like cats and mice in old cartoons, the robbers turned around, pulled guns, and began pursuing the police.

'What the hell are you watching?'

'Cop show.'

'You seen it before?'

'Don't think so.'

'Tou make much sense of it?'