solution to the problem. Shame about that.
Bright and early that Friday morning Paul Partment sat in a car
across the street from a medium-sized Biddenbrooks store in one of
the myriad mundane neighborhoods of Greater Los Angeles. It was
one of those minor districts which people only heard about in
television advertisements for car dealerships. No one could actually
point to it on a map.
Bean Unbearable came back to the car with a double latté and a
bottle of whiskey.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Partment complained, “You went
into the store and bought coffee?”
“Sure,” he said. “Relax. With these duds on I look just like
anyone. And I figured if we’re going to blow it up, I’d like to get a
coffee first. So arewe going to blow it up?”
“Seems that way. That Bidden asshole wouldn’t even take my
call. I told his assistant that this was the last chance to evacuate all
the stores. She said she’d give him the message.”
“Oh well,” Bean said, “There goes the neighborhood.”
Partment turned around to the backseat and nodded to the kid
crouched there. “It’s a go,” he said. The nervous and pimply kid
nodded back. The cup in his hand shook violently.
“You better calm down,” Partment warned, “If you keep shaking
like that you might set off the trigger.” But this of course just caused
him to shake even more. Partment carefully took the cup from his
hand.
“Give the kid some booze, Bean.”
The kid slugged a full fourth of the bottle and wiped his lips with
the back of his hand. He tried again to hold the cup and found now
that he was much calmer. “Good,” Partment said, “Now go and make
history.” The kid gave the thumbs-up sign, which almost caused him
to drop the cup. Partment and Bean tensed, then watched as he
collected himself and crept out of the car. He held the faux gold mug,
aloft as if it were meant for a king or a priest and he was the lucky
young vassal chosen to fetch it.
“Just look at that ridiculous getup,” Bean said. “Khaki chinos,
polo shirt, loafers. And that toupee! You’d never guess he had a Hell
Doradotattoo on his skull.”
“No. And anyone would think the holes in his face were
pockmarks, not piercings.” Partment laughed, “Confuse the
ABYSSINIA
330
 |
 |
 |
 |