“What’s the matter?” he said irritably.
Eberhard moistened his lips. “Nothing.”
“Come on, give for Chrissake. What are you, afraid to tell me? Come on, be a mentsh.”
“I’m just wondering how much longer you’ll be with us, Mr. Steinleser,” Eberhard said.
Steinleser looked at him. “You going to explain that or what?”
“If I do, you’ll fire me.”
Steinleser took a grip on himself. “I won’t fire you, okay? I swear on my mother’s grave.”
“Okay, you know Al Mahony over at Capitol Processing?”
“Know him? I knew him. He dropped dead last Wednesday.”
“Right, and so did Win Colford at World, and Rich Piotto at Hi-Тек, and three or four others that I know about. Not last Wednesday, but like the last six months or so.”
“And you think I might be next, huh?” Steinleser moved toward the door, turned around. “What did all those guys have in common, Eberhard? They were all sons of bitches, right, and I’m another one?”
Eberhard said nothing.
“You’re fired, ” Steinleser said. “No, the hell with it. You’re not fired. Maybe I’m going to give you a raise, who knows.” With an effort, he added, “Thanks.”
He went back to his own office, told the computer, “Pinky, hold my calls,” and leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. Well, he was an SOB; he could afford to be one, and it came natural, so why not? “Pinky,” he said, “there was something on the news about rudeness, when was it, last week sometime.”
“Is this it?” In the holo, the head and shoulders of a local anchor appeared. “A new development in the story of McNulty’s Symbiont,” she said. “A wave of unexplained deaths in Eastern cities has a few scientists worried. Like earlier victims apparently killed by symbionts, they were mostly men between the ages of thirty-five and sixty, but unlike those earlier deaths, there is no evidence that they were about to commit any act of violence. They were, however, said to be extremely rude and overbearing persons, who made everyone around them miserable. In other news—”
“Yeah, that was it,” Steinleser said. “Any more?”
A well-known commentator appeared in the holo. “Here’s a new wrinkle,” he said. “A company called Feelsafe is marketing a gadget that fits on your wrist and buzzes you if you start to lose your temper. They point to the recent wave of deaths among middle-aged men, particularly those in management positions: These people, they say, dropped dead in the middle of tantrums because the McNulty’s Symbiont got them. Wear their gadget, they say, and live longer.” He leaned closer in the holo, with a conspiratorial smile. “How do you like them apples?”
“Enough,” said Steinleser. “Look up Feelsafe.”
A picture came up in the holo: a computer bracelet in two styles, silver and gold, the gold one a little broader. A voice was saying, “Feelsafe looks like an ordinary wrist computer, and actually has a full spectrum of functions, but in addition it is a sensitive biofeedback device that lets you know when you are about to give vent to anger and hostility. Feel safe and live longer.” The prices and order numbers were flashing.
“Enough,” he said. “That’s craziness.” He took a cigar out of the box on his desk, looked at it and put it back. Were they killing people for being rude, for Chrissake? But he more than half believed it, and he told the computer to order him a bracelet, the gold model, three hundred twenty-nine ninety-five.
27
Three Mexican-looking men were standing beside Hugh Wilkins’ powder-blue BMW when he came out of the mall. “Sir,” one of them said, “this is your car?”
“What’s it to you?”
“It is a very nice car. Will you give it to us?”
“What are you, crazy?”
“No, we are not crazy. I think you should give us this car.” The other two men advanced, one on either side. Wilkins started to back away, but now they were behind him.
“I need the car,” he said. He was beginning to perspire, looking around for help. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention.
“You have two cars,” the man said. He had narrow eyes, and there was a scar on his cheek; he looked dirty, like all of them.
“How do you know that?”
“You live at twenty-four hundred Live Oaks, yes? We saw the two cars.”
“Well, one of them’s my wife’s. She needs a car too.”
“But we have no car, and we also have wives and children.”
Wilkins swallowed, turned, swung desperately at one of the men and missed. Then he tripped somehow, and the men were holding him down while they went through his pockets. They found his keycard, took it off the ring, and tossed the rest of the cards on the concrete beside his head. In a moment he heard the doors slam. The BMW, with the three Mexicans inside, backed out of the space, turned, rolled forward and was gone.
The crazy manager at The Greentree fired one of the waiters just before the evening shift. The waiter’s name was Joe Balter. “I don’t care!” Limoni was yelling. “You’re out, and that’s it!”
Balter turned and went away, stony-faced. The other three waiters followed him into the men’s room. “Hey, Joe, that’s a lousy thing,” Carpenter said.
“He’s a maniac. See you around.” Balter put his overblouse on and went toward the door.
Phillips caught his arm. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Wait, wait.” He beckoned to the others to come nearer. As they bent their heads together, he said, “I just had a crazy thought. Why should he fire us? How about if we fire him?”
“I don’t get it. How are we going to fire him?”
“Shove him out the door and start running the place ourselves. How does that grab you?”
“Well, it would be fun,” said Eckert, with a slow grin. “Hey, I’m game. You, Stan?”
“Why not?”
“You through socializing?” Limoni asked when they returned to the kitchen. Sal Aronica, the chef, was stirring something in the pot; the busboys were standing around.
The three waiters looked at each other. “Okay, Dave, that’s it,” said Phillips. The three of them closed in on him and pushed. Limoni shouted, “What are you doing, you crazy—!” They shoved him through the swinging door. Limoni staggered, regained his balance, and began to flail his arms around.
“Ah-ah, don’t hit,” said Carpenter. They grabbed his arms and kept moving, through the main dining room, past the desk where the hostess and the cashier were looking at them incredulously. One of the busboys opened the door and they pushed him out. When he came in again after a moment, they pushed him out a little harder.
“All right, listen,” said Phillips, “the first thing we have to do is keep Dave from coming in again. Second thing, I’ll manage tonight if you want, but then we’ve got to elect a new manager and revise the work schedules.”
“You’re going to keep on working?” a busboy asked.
“Why not? Who needs him?”
“Who’s going to pay us?”
“Rita will make out the vouchers, okay? Either the front office will honor them or they won’t. If they don’t, hey, we’ll take it out of the till. Listen, that might be a better idea. We take our share out and then deposit the receipts.”