Internecine by David J. Schow Page A

of.” That didn’t prompt her, so he encouraged, “Go ahead, speak your piece.”
    “Varga wasn’t supposed to contact me again. Now I’m afraid the whole job has been compromised. Zero integrity. So, when Varga called, I had to come see for myself. All I did was play middleman. Middlewoman, I guess.”
    “So Alicia Brandenberg wouldn’t get any on her?”
    Ms. Butcher nodded. “All it was, was . . . somebody threatened her, or was planning to hurt her, and she wanted them taken care of. You know—neutralized.”
    “
She
came up with this plan?” Dandine seemed incredulous.
    “No, no . . . she met with some people . . . I don’t know who they were. Like, advisors.”
    “Staff?”
    “No. Outsiders. I’ve never seen them before.”
    The train glided to a stop and the doors racketed open.
    “I apologize, Ms. Butcher. My intention was to let you go home, stay on this train. But you haven’t talked fast enough or deep enough. Unfortunately, we need to continue our conversation. So we’ll be leaving, together. Remember what I told you about raising a ruckus. My partner’s job, here, is to deal with you exclusively, should anything go astray. Do you understand?”
    She closed her eyes and nodded. “Yes.”
    He winked at me. “Let’s go, Mr. Lamb.”
    We walked off no differently than college buddies, all three of us. Two dicks and a chick. Ordinary citizens glanced and saw a woman enjoying the protection of two male friends. This neck of the woods, females couldn’t be too careful. Lots of rapists and robbers in LA. No street loudmouths or thugs would molest this woman. Not from the way one of her boyfriends was holding her by the biceps, almost possessively.
    We rode three escalators up to street level, and emerged on Sunset Boulevard, with a huge medical complex across the street. There was a sprawling Scientology building a block away, off a side road that had been granted its own stoplight and renamed L. Ron Hubbard Boulevard. That structure, too, had once been a hospital; I knew people who had been born there. (The street was originally called Berendo, and still is, to the north and south, a safe distance from where moneytalked.) By the time we came up out of the earth, Dandine had secured Ms. Butcher’s wallet. Pretty slick; I never saw him dip it. We were alone on the corner, smelling night air, maybe oncoming rain.
    “Ms. Butcher’s actual name seems to be—” Dandine scrutinized her billfold. “Choral Anne Grimes, is that right?” He frowned. “What was it before you changed it to Choral?”
    She shot him a hurt look. “Linda. Big fucking deal.”
    He handed me her mobile. “Take out the battery and throw it away.”
    Over a hundred million cellular devices in use right now contain the essential guts of a GPS system which cannot be activated by the user. That tiny circuit can be turned on, long-distance, and used to track you even when the mobile is turned off. Best of all, people carry their leash with them voluntarily.
    Dandine’s breakdown of Choral’s wallet was professional, not obvious, and swift, with the concentration of a Vegas blackjack dealer practicing a fast shuffle. “A Ralph’s card,” he said, meaning a supermarket discount card. “PETCO. You have a little whiny dog, I bet.”
    “You want to know
his
real name, too?”
    Dandine cracked a half-smile, indulgent, avuncular. “A library card; that’s kind of rare. Video Aces rental card. Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf freebie card—look, you’re one punch away from a free espresso.”
    He was dissecting her via billfold. It’s ridiculously easy for most people you know. I kept mum because I was supposed to be the hang-tough enforcer guy, and yes, I’ll admit that I enjoyed the cheap thrill. As I watched this woman’s existence spill out of her wallet, I was reminded that most people scribble down their PIN numbers and other vital data on other cards in their wallets. Most people kept ancient, smelly photos as some