filling contracts for Radial Matrix.”
She watched him light up a little at the irony of that.
“This is what’s called negotiating a termination,” he said.
He laughed, eyes not leaving her face. She judged him the kind of man deeply pleased by the appreciation of others. He would be a studier of faces, eager to gauge people’s reactions to things he said. Robust men were always like this.
“It’s real work,” he said. “Doesn’t involve secret transmitters, hot mikes, all the rest. Like for instance”—she watched his face shade with amusement—“I can let you hear dialogue and other noises pertaining to last night’s amorous activities.”
“Involving whom?”
“You and the Senator, of course.”
“Never happened. Sorry to disappoint.”
“It doesn’t necessarily have to happen,” Mudger said. “All we need’s your voice and his, which we have. The rest is purely technical.”
“You make it happen.”
“Sure.”
“In this case has it already happened or is it pending?”
“I don’t know. Lomax would know.”
“Being the Senator’s man, Lomax might push the wrong button. Scramble the voices beyond recognition. Or erase the tapes.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“You’ve got me thinking I’ve done something wrong.”
Mudger seemed to grow serious. He sat sideways in his chair, left arm extended, resting on the table, his right arm hanging over the back of the chair.
“When technology reaches a certain level, people begin to feel like criminals,” he said. “Someone is after you, the computers maybe, the machine-police. You can’t escape investigation. The facts about you and your whole existence have been collected or are being collected. Banks, insurance companies, credit organizations, tax examiners, passport offices, reporting services, police agencies, intelligence gatherers. It’s a little like what I was saying before. Devices make us pliant. If
they
issue a print-out saying we’re guilty, then we’re guilty. But it goes even deeper, doesn’t it? It’s the presence alone, the very fact, the superabundance of technology, that makes us feel we’re committing crimes. Just the fact that these things exist at this widespread level. The processing machines, the scanners, the sorters. That’s enough to make us feel like criminals. What enormous weight. What complex programs. And there’s no one to explain it to us.”
That night Mudger stood behind the bar in his living room, mixing himself a drink. He put his glass down on the red folder, the Dorish Report. Lomax sat near the French doors, looking at a magazine. The doors were open, revealing a small Buddhist shrine in the garden beyond the patio.
“Been meaning to ask.”
“What’s that, Earl?”
“Why was the subject carrying a gun?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s over there in Percival’s office, reading, isn’t he? Or hanging around some art gallery. I’d like for you to tell me why he’s carrying a gun.”
“Earl, he shouldn’t have been.”
“Is he some kind of cowboy? What is he, a junior G-man? Because I thought we trained people better than that.”
“It was contrary to procedure.”
Mudger was sitting at the bar, his back to Lomax.
“This business with guns. He’s, what, some kind of sportsman? Shoots fucking bear with a handgun?”
“He was on the Lower East Side. Maybe he thought it was dangerous.”
“He was right, it turned out.”
They both laughed.
“Who’d you press into service?” Lomax said.
“I called Talerico. He’s in Canada these days. We’ve done things for each other before. Always worked out. Tal said he’d see what he could do.”
“That’s what he did?”
“He got some guy from Buffalo. His old jurisdiction. Supposed to be a weapons expert. Famous for midnight raids on National Guard armories.”
“Who?”
“Augie the Mouse.”
They both laughed.
“So Augie goes in there wailing,” Mudger said. “He’s got his
She watched him light up a little at the irony of that.
“This is what’s called negotiating a termination,” he said.
He laughed, eyes not leaving her face. She judged him the kind of man deeply pleased by the appreciation of others. He would be a studier of faces, eager to gauge people’s reactions to things he said. Robust men were always like this.
“It’s real work,” he said. “Doesn’t involve secret transmitters, hot mikes, all the rest. Like for instance”—she watched his face shade with amusement—“I can let you hear dialogue and other noises pertaining to last night’s amorous activities.”
“Involving whom?”
“You and the Senator, of course.”
“Never happened. Sorry to disappoint.”
“It doesn’t necessarily have to happen,” Mudger said. “All we need’s your voice and his, which we have. The rest is purely technical.”
“You make it happen.”
“Sure.”
“In this case has it already happened or is it pending?”
“I don’t know. Lomax would know.”
“Being the Senator’s man, Lomax might push the wrong button. Scramble the voices beyond recognition. Or erase the tapes.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“You’ve got me thinking I’ve done something wrong.”
Mudger seemed to grow serious. He sat sideways in his chair, left arm extended, resting on the table, his right arm hanging over the back of the chair.
“When technology reaches a certain level, people begin to feel like criminals,” he said. “Someone is after you, the computers maybe, the machine-police. You can’t escape investigation. The facts about you and your whole existence have been collected or are being collected. Banks, insurance companies, credit organizations, tax examiners, passport offices, reporting services, police agencies, intelligence gatherers. It’s a little like what I was saying before. Devices make us pliant. If
they
issue a print-out saying we’re guilty, then we’re guilty. But it goes even deeper, doesn’t it? It’s the presence alone, the very fact, the superabundance of technology, that makes us feel we’re committing crimes. Just the fact that these things exist at this widespread level. The processing machines, the scanners, the sorters. That’s enough to make us feel like criminals. What enormous weight. What complex programs. And there’s no one to explain it to us.”
That night Mudger stood behind the bar in his living room, mixing himself a drink. He put his glass down on the red folder, the Dorish Report. Lomax sat near the French doors, looking at a magazine. The doors were open, revealing a small Buddhist shrine in the garden beyond the patio.
“Been meaning to ask.”
“What’s that, Earl?”
“Why was the subject carrying a gun?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s over there in Percival’s office, reading, isn’t he? Or hanging around some art gallery. I’d like for you to tell me why he’s carrying a gun.”
“Earl, he shouldn’t have been.”
“Is he some kind of cowboy? What is he, a junior G-man? Because I thought we trained people better than that.”
“It was contrary to procedure.”
Mudger was sitting at the bar, his back to Lomax.
“This business with guns. He’s, what, some kind of sportsman? Shoots fucking bear with a handgun?”
“He was on the Lower East Side. Maybe he thought it was dangerous.”
“He was right, it turned out.”
They both laughed.
“Who’d you press into service?” Lomax said.
“I called Talerico. He’s in Canada these days. We’ve done things for each other before. Always worked out. Tal said he’d see what he could do.”
“That’s what he did?”
“He got some guy from Buffalo. His old jurisdiction. Supposed to be a weapons expert. Famous for midnight raids on National Guard armories.”
“Who?”
“Augie the Mouse.”
They both laughed.
“So Augie goes in there wailing,” Mudger said. “He’s got his
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