"I will," I told him. I always pay back.

Those guys who did Rodney…I'll see them soon.

Cripple

I worked my way down the long corridor toward the spill of light, antenna out. Ready. The door to the room was standing open, a greenish glow from the computer terminal marking the path. I stepped inside, my rubber-soled shoes soundless on the thick carpet. He was in his wheelchair, facing the screen, huge head wobbling on the thin stalk of his neck, skeletal fingers splayed across the keyboard.

On the screen, the image of a little boy dressed in a sailor suit.

He touched some keys. Another figure entered the screen. Dark, looming in the shadows. The human in the wheelchair tapped more keys and the image crystallized. Into a man. A tall man, neatly dressed.

Faint hum from the computer. The man's breathing changed, went from smooth to ragged.

"How did you get past the dogs?" he asked, not turning around.

"Tranquilizer gun," I told him. "Secobarbital. A grain and a half in each cartridge."

He pushed a button on the wheelchair's console. The motor moved him back, away from the computer, rotating until he faced me across the room.

"You must be very good at what you do," he said. His voice was as atrophied as his body, rusty from neglect.

"Like you are," I replied, just above a whisper.

"What do you want?"

"I want what's in your computer."

"It's not for sale."

"That's why they sent me."

"You don't understand. I'm not a pornographer. I don't hurt children. This is all a game. For entertainment. What I do is create interactive computer modules. Just images on a screen. You push the buttons, and the images do whatever you want them to. It doesn't hurt anybody."

"Whatever you say."

"This isn't even illegal, you know. I've got my rights. The First Amendment, you ever hear of it?"

"Sure."

"No, you wouldn't understand. You're just a mercenary. A man for hire. A common criminal. Well, you tell the people who sent you that they'll never be competition for me. You can steal my computer, but I always have my brain. My intelligence. Whatever you take, I can just make more of it."

"I know."

"Then take whatever you came for and get out. I have work to do."

He spun the wheelchair again, faced the screen. Tapped the keys. I took out the pistol, screwed in the silencer, and shot him in the back of his head. His brains splattered the screen, obscuring the images.

A mind isn't always a terrible thing to waste.

Mad Dog

How come you want to give him up? He turn on you or something?"

I shifted my weight in the battered vinyl office chair, scratching the big Doberman behind his ears the way he liked. The fat man sat facing me across an old wooden desk under a painted metal sign. CENTURION GUARD DOGS–Sales and Rentals. He held a pencil in one hand, a clipboard in front of him. The sleeves of his graying T-shirt were rolled up, a tattoo of a hula dancer on his right biceps. When the flab had been muscle, the dancer would shake her butt when he flexed.

I snapped a match into flame with my thumbnail, lit my cigarette. The Doberman's ears were flat, corded neck muscles gentle against the choke collar.

"That's a lot of crap," I told the fat man. "Dobermans don't turn on you. They got a bad rep for it, but they don't deserve it. See, what happens, a guy hears all the stories, okay? He gets a Dobie as a puppy, he figures he's going to make sure the dog never turns on him when he grows up. So he beats the hell out of the dog every day. Takes control. Dominates. It's easy to make a puppy afraid of you. Makes some people feel tough, you understand? But Dobermans, one way they're different from other dogs, they got good memories. Real good. So, one day, the guy goes to beat up his dog and the dog says, 'Un huh, not today, pal.' And the dog nails him. Like he deserves. Then this guy, this guy who beat his own puppy, he says, "The son of a bitch turned on me.' You understand what I'm telling you?"

The fat man's eyes flicked a challenge at me. Dropped it when I tossed it back. His voice was soft, sly-cored. "If he didn't turn on you, how come you're giving him up?"

My expression didn't change. "He's brain-damaged. I had to leave him at a kennel when I went away. He got hold of some virus from the other dogs. Almost died."

"He looks okay to me."

"Oh yeah. He's in great physical shape. But his mind's not right. He'll be just sitting around and all of a sudden he'll go off. He's not safe. You couldn't put him in a home or anything."

"You sure? I mean, he looks so good and all. He should be worth…"

I gave the Doberman's chain an imperceptible tug. His ears shot up. A blood-chilling snarl slipped between his Hashing teeth. "Stop it!" I yelled at him, tugging again. He lunged at the fat man. I jerked the chain hard. The dog's ears went fiat again like nothing had happened.

"What d'I do?" the fat man asked, rubbing his hands together.

"Nothing. You don't have to do anything. He's just nuts. It's not his fault."

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe I could use him for a warehouse job. Or something. But I can't pay much…I mean he's not trained or nothing.

"You got a mobile cage?"

"Back of the station wagon."

I walked the Doberman around the back of the joint to the cage. The fat man opened the door. I jerked the chain and the Doberman jumped inside, quiet as oil in water. The fat man slammed the cage shut. The Doberman looked at me. I reached my hand inside the cage, rubbed the side of his head. Turned my back on him.

The fat man handed me the money. "What's his name?" he asked, pencil poised.

"Devil," I told him.

The concrete processing plant stood alone in the middle of a prairie on a six-acre lot in Brooklyn. Surrounded by a six-foot chain-link fence topped with loops of razor wire. Nothing nearby but abandoned factories. No streetlights. The front gate was wide enough for the sand and gravel trucks to make their daily deliveries. The two sides of the gate were held together by a heavy padlocked chain. A white metal sign was posted on the front. Big red letters: PATROLLED BY ATTACK DOGS. It was 5:50 A.M. early in June. I watched the dogs through the binoculars. A pair of Shepherds, their coats thick and matted with the concrete dust. A barrel-bodied Rottweiler. And a sleek Doberman.

Okay.

It's gotta be an accident. This guy, he's not reasonable. We got no problems with the other partners. They understand the way things are. The way they gotta be. This guy, he's a hardnose. He gets shot or something, maybe the other partners get the message, maybe they spook and run to the federales. You know how it works."

"I know."

"You pull this one off, there's a place for you with us. I told you this before."

I kept my face neutral. The way they taught me. In the place where I was raised. The man in the white silk shirt watched me, waiting. I waited too. Another thing they taught me. He shrugged his shoulders. "Half now, half when it's done?" he asked.

"Yeah." I held my hand out for the cash.