Upgunned by David J. Schow Page A

underestimate the outrage factor of the conventional.”
    â€œOkay, so figure five each for the backup men, ten for Cognac, about”—I ran rough estimates in my head—“about fifteen for sequestering—to pluck him out of his shell, steal some hours from his day. Gear is maybe another … five. Not counting a workable escape contingency if a tire blows somewhere.”
    â€œYou pay those costs out of your end. That’s why I bumped the extra fifty thousand.”
    It was fair enough. Past the setup it was maybe six hours active work.
    *   *   *
    Cognac and I met, as was our tradition, in one of those hot-sheet motels that are gradually disappearing from Sunset Boulevard. The dingy, perfunctory rooms that rented by the hour, their linens stinking of too much bleach, appealed to some basic need I had for sleaze. Los Angeles itself underwent a daunting cycle of self-renewal—like chronic plastic surgery for the whole city. The current phase was gradually pushing the low-rent, no-name lodges eastward again.
    We had sweaty, athletic, impersonal sex and then I laid out the game. Most operations of this sort came freighted with a high-wire sense of adrenaline tension. Since the release of homicide was not to be involved, I knew that I would be high on endorphins and body chemicals once the job clock ran out, so Cognac would make out on both ends of the deal, which both pleased and inspired her.
    She looked at the photo of Dominic Sharps from the dossier. “Strictly missionary,” she said, tapping enameled nails on a laminate tabletop and sipping a Mike’s Hard Lime. “Once we get going, he might even like it because he sure doesn’t look like the type to be getting any variety at home. Straight?”
    â€œLike a ruler,” I said. “The file puts him as a tightly wired control freak. He’s a little bit of a media whore. Likes being on TV.”
    â€œWell, that’ll be over once this is done.” She crossed her long, gorgeous legs. Barefoot she was still nearly six feet tall. She had not put her panties back on yet, not that she bothered all that often. She was wearing thin reading glasses to examine the dossier; her green contacts were marinating in their little container in the bathroom. Her real eye color was a calm blue-gray. Stray light from the curtain slit picked out copper highlights in her hair. “How’re you going to get this guy alone-at-last? He’s gotta have security all over him; I mean, he gets it for free.”
    â€œI’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “Not your worry.” I gave her a business card–sized note with the target hotel, room info, and a hot-period timetable.
    â€œOooh, the Chalet,” she said. “Cool. I love their room service.”
    â€œJust don’t eat anything provocative that’ll make you fart during the taping,” I said.
    â€œLike I said—he might like that. Queefing.”
    I loved Cognac’s sense of humor. “Oh, god,” I said. “That has a name, too?”
    â€œI heard a new one,” she said, mischievous. “For when you’re sitting on the john and you have one of those half-in, half-out experiences?”
    â€œDo tell.”
    â€œIt’s called a fifty-cent.”
    â€œOww.” I laughed. “That’s worse than a Hollywood Loaf.” Which was vernacular for half a hard-on, sometimes the result of “brewer’s droop.”
    That Cognac, she sure knew how to cultivate repeat customers. I wondered what kind of rap she spieled off for the city fathers or wayward clergy in her client book.
    I did not have to rifle her bag while she attended to bathroom functions; I’d done that when we first met a couple of years ago. Her real name was Cypress Wintre, which itself might have been a perfectly serviceable handle for a model or adult film celeb. She had come from Nebraska fresh out of