Half Life (Russell's Attic Book 2) by SL Huang

care of…
    “I’ll find out,” I amended. “But I don’t think it can be anything dangerous, so relax. Thanks, by the way. How much do I owe you?”
    He made an inarticulate sound. “Russell, you got to stop trying to pay me for every little thing. I wanted to find out about this, too. ’Sides, it’s what people do for each other.”
    “Your experience with people is very different to my experience,” I said. “Let me know how much time you spent. I’ll talk to you later.”
    He heaved a sigh. “Good-bye, Russell.”
    I hung up and dialed Checker, running right over him when he tried to greet me. “Plutonium-238. What’s it used for?”
    “Why, good morning to you, too, Cas Russell. Yes, I was awake, thank you for asking. Are we speaking again?”
    “Temporarily.”
    “Couldn’t live without me, huh?”
    I was still mad at him. “Don’t push your luck.”
    He laughed. “Two thirty-eight. So, an ultra-quick Internet search tells me…hmm. Radioisotope thermoelectric generators, which provide electricity for things like space probes and pacemakers, and radioisotope heater units, which provide heat for ridiculously long amounts of time and are also used for things like space probes. Basically, mini-heaters or generators or batteries that will last forever, that’s 238. The half-life is almost eighty-eight years, so it can provide power for a heck of a long time. Though not very much.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “As far as I know, and my quick skimming is supporting this, atomic batteries have about enough juice to power a wristwatch. But they’re way too costly for that. They’re only used for some pretty specific things.”
    I graphed protons and neutrons in my head. As long as the 238 isotope wasn’t anomalous for some reason—“Alpha decay, right?”
    “Right on,” Checker confirmed. “What’s all this about, anyway?”
    “Someone’s looking for it. Hey, can you find out about a group called Ally Eight for me? At least, I think it’s a group. Could be a person.”
    “Spelling?”
    “No idea.”
    “You’re helpful. Are they the ones looking for the plutonium?”
    “Possibly,” I said. “That’s the rumor, at any rate.”
    “Well, let ’em look, as far as I’m concerned. It isn’t actually dangerous. Unless you eat it or something, but drain cleaner’s a lot cheaper. And it seems like it’s kind of impossible to find anyway—I’m still skimming, but nobody’s producing it anymore, not even Russia. Too expensive.”
    Expensive. And difficult to find. This was definitely a job I needed to be doing. “Put together some research for me,” I said to Checker. “I want to know where to find some of this stuff. Hypothetically.”
    “ Hypothetically. Sure,” He drew out the word teasingly. “You’re going to try to find some and then sell it to them for a ridiculous price, aren’t you?”
    “Less talking and more research, or you don’t get your cut.”
    “I get a cut now?” He sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “Is that in addition to my hourly rate?”
    “I’m not sure you’re going to get that,” I shot back. “I’m suffering sorely from a lack of customer satisfaction. And I’m still mad at you.”
    “Then I guess I’m lucky we’re bartering on this one. Hey, I’ll start sticking the plutonium stuff in your folder on my server. Does that work?”
    “Yeah, but I need you to set up security on another computer for me first. I can bring one by.”
    “What! Another one? What’d you do this time?”
    “Someone’s head needed percussive maintenance.”
    “Someone’s head? When did—?”
    “A few weeks ago,” I said. “There was this guy who didn’t want to pay—”
    “Never mind,” he said hastily. “I’ve got an extra laptop with me you can have; I’ll text you the address. Honestly, I don’t even know why I bother… percussive maintenance …”
    “You’re a gem,” I said with no sincerity, and hung up.
    I fingered my phone