Internecine by David J. Schow Page A

me up for worse things coming. “So . . . where is NORCO on the food chain?”
    Dandine filled his glass with Rolling Rock and drank half in one swallow. “Ever wonder what happened to the jobs the Impossible Missions Force turned
down?
” He chuckled at his own gag. “That’s NORCO .”
    “What does that stand for?”
    “I have no idea.” He destroyed most of his turkey burger with therelish of good hunger. (My mom used to tell people that
hunger is the best seasoning;
at least, that’s what I tell people.
Amusing personal maxims
build client trust.) “Rather, you might say that whatever they
say
it stands for; it probably stands for something else entirely.”
    I sipped my milkshake. It was pretty good. I watched our server gallivant from customer to customer. Her whole manner was probably a front, too. It worked, what can I say?
    “So . . .” I tried to gather thoughts in air, like invisible sand. “Somebody, somewhere, needs to erase somebody else named Alicia Brandenberg. Somebody, somewhere else, pays you to do it on a kind of work-for-hire basis. A whole bunch of other somebodies fuck up the plan, and I’m stuck with a dead body in my apartment, and . . . crap, I can’t believe this is happening.”
    “Because we’re not on the same page yet,” said Dandine, finishing off his beer and refusing a second. “Here’s how I see it: Miss Alicia and I are supposed to dance, one quickie, done deal. But the plan leaks, and moves are made to counteract it. Now the shooter is supposed to blow up, sparing Miss Alicia in the process, and making the whole setup look like an abortion—a failed attempt on Miss Alicia. I was supposed to be the patsy, the fall guy. Then you came along. You’re the most valuable thing I could ask for in a situation like this: A totally random factor with no knowledge and no experience.”
    “Gee, thanks, now I
really
feel insignificant.”
    “No, thanks to you I have a better chance of doping this out.”
    The dregs of my shake tasted dead and flat; tacky, too sweet. “Couldn’t I have just handed the case over to some TopGuy, or the Chief or something? Apologize and forget about it?”
    Dandine was nailing me with that look of pity, again.
    “Sure, you could have—that’s why I removed the option. Then you
could have
wound up with a gang of mystery doctors, who
could have
jabbed a syringe full of Freon into your brain, selectively erasing your memory centers until you forgot what they wished. Along the way, you
could have
forgotten how to stand up, or not shit yourself, or keep from drooling.” He worked his incisors with a toothpick and I saw a thin line of blood from his gums. “You don’t grasp how this inevitability works in the world. Your comparative guilt or innocence is no longer afactor. After all, you chose to open the box. Past that, you’re a wart, and it’s easier to just
X
you out.”
    You think your entire existence can’t evaporate in an instant? Think again. At the very least, I had to acknowledge my low status in the food chain.
    “Listen to me,” he said. “One thing; if ever you do find yourself explaining this to an important looking functionary in an overpriced suit, and he smiles and tells you it’s all just a ‘misunderstanding’ . . . brace yourself for a bullet to the head.”
    Our waitress caught the tail of Dandine’s last line and arched an eyebrow. She scooped up the check and the money Dandine had laid out, a total pro, still too cute to live. I automatically reached for my billfold and Dandine made a face.
    “Nah, I got it. This is rough enough on you, I bet.”
    I had to say it, “Your treat?”
    “We might as well spread around some of this currency before we have to toss or burn the rest of it. Before they nail the serial numbers or tip to the tracking ink.”
    (This was just after the Treasury had changed the look of the $20 bill . . . again. First it had become what I called “big head money,” with amplified,