Dick Stivers: Deathbites

Lyons nodded.

"Okay. We'll play it that way. We still need a trap to bait. I was thinking that I would set up shop in Atlanta. We can probably get Elwood Electronic Industries running again. Then, when we're ready to set bait for our terrorists, we'll have a base.''

Lyons nodded his approval of the idea.

Brognola looked at his shoes for a moment.

"What else is on your mind?" Politician prompted.

Brognola looked up, some internal decision made.

"I took what evidence I have to the President," he said. "It's an election year. He will do absolutely nothing that makes it look as if he is investigating or in any way harassing the unemployed. We're on our own on this. No cooperation from other departments. No acknowledgment from the President that he even knows we exist. We can't even check in with the local police forces."

Lyons got up and started for the door. Over his shoulder he snorted. "So what. Let's get to work."

July 10, 1950 hours, Atlanta, Georgia

The night was still early by the standards of the Southern Hospitality Bar — most of the regulars not arriving until after eight, but already the stools along the bar were filled. Georgios Zosimas looked down at a bigmouth on the end. The Greek-born barkeep had a ten-percent interest in the Southern Hospitality, and a definite interest in keeping the place friendly.

However, there had been a lot like the bigmouth in the bar lately. They had one thing in common: they mouthed off about the way society was screwing the working man. The big guy with the blond hair was no exception. At least now Georgios knew what to do about the yappy bastard.

As Georgios approached that end of the bar, the guy on the stool next to the mouthpiece spoke up. "If you don't like this country, you can always go back to where you came from."

"I'm there," the big guy growled. "Now, why the hell don't you go back to Shitsville where you come from? Your sister hasn't been able to find anyone to lay her since you left."

Georgios hurried the last few steps, anxious to prevent mayhem.

"We don't allow talk like that in here," he said to the blond.

Georgios Zosimas transferred his attention to the guy who had been insulted. His mouth suddenly went dry. He did not know the man's name, but knew him as one tough customer. He had once broken the arm of a customer who had accidentally slopped beer on him. If these two big guys started slugging it out, they could wreck the place.

"Let's step outside," the insulted man said.

"Piss off," the blond spat. He caught the other's flying fist in his right hand. He held it and began to squeeze. The owner of the fist slowly changed color from fury red to agony white. He brought his other hand into action and tried to pry the hand from his fist. The hand convulsed tighter. A bone cracked.

"You're leaving to have your broken hand set, aren't you?" the mouthy man said.

Sweat had broken out on the other man's face, in spite of the air-conditioning.

"Yeah," he grated.

"Yeah, what?"

"Yeah, I'm leaving now to get my hand set," the man said through the pain.

"You still haven't got it right, mister. Try again. Yeah, what?" the mouthy bastard with the icy eyes repeated.

"Yes, sir."

"That's better."

Georgios did not wait to see any more; he hurried to the telephone.

Lyons watched the barkeep make his hurried call. He hoped that it would produce a small Japanese with deformed hands and a face like a road map.

Lyons was not much for role playing, but he could do it if he had to. His way of playing the present role was simple — he just acted like a person the real Carl Lyons could not resist pounding.

The problem was that he could not stand himself. The longer he had to live with the creep he had created, the more he wanted to throw up.

This was only the second bar Lyons had tried. He was systematically choosing the drinking spots that were closest to the building where Workers Against Redundancy had their offices. Sooner or later, he expected to meet someone from HIT, someone who would recognize a kindred spirit. He hoped it was sooner rather than later, because Lyons felt he was in danger of punching himself out.

A few minutes later, he knew he had hit pay dirt. A Japanese slipped onto the stool beside him. Only one Japanese in North America could have the hacked-up face and the knobby fists that Politician had described.

"Did you stock some sake?" the newcomer asked the barman.

"Yes, Mr. Nogi. This bottle's on the house."

The barkeep produced a small bottle of clear fluid and worked the cork free.

"Please heat it," he was told.

Lyons nursed his beer in sullen silence, listening to the interchange, but not looking at the man on the adjacent stool. He had mouthed off enough to attract the fish. Now he must play hard to get.

When the barkeep brought back the heated bottle and a shot glass, the Japanese nodded briefly at Lyons and raised an eyebrow. Georgios nodded to signify that the large blond was the man he had telephoned about. The Japanese, looking almost presentable in a gray suit, shook his head slightly to signify that this was not a man for whom he was responsible. Georgios's face fell.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Nogi. He sure sounds like the others. He's not at all happy about being out of work."

"Very few people are, Mr. Zosimas. Thank you for calling me, but this is not one of my trainees.''

The Japanese paused and then continued. "However, if he's making difficulties, I'll be glad to persuade him to leave when I leave."

The bartender glanced doubtfully from the small Japanese to the large, mean-looking customer beside him.

Nogi smiled. "I guarantee there will be no fuss and no damage."

There was something about that smile that made Georgios even more nervous than before. He struggled to keep his fears off his face.

"Thank you, Mr. Nogi."

The Japanese nodded, his face was blank. His mind was full of contempt for stupid Westerners who could not conceal the most elementary of feelings. It was time to demonstrate how easy it all was. The friendship of the barkeep helped keep the trainees in line. So Nogi would make a duly impressive demonstration. Nogi sighed when he thought of all the trainees he had lost. Having to start over again with another batch of stinking long-noses was a repulsive future to contemplate. He would certainly like to get his hands on the Americans who had ruined the raid on Elwood Electronic Industries.

He sipped his sake. He wished the stupid American would mouth off again. It would make everything much easier.

Lyons signaled for another beer. When Georgios brought it, he grabbed the barkeep's hand.

"Were you talking about me to that gook?'' he demanded.

Georgios looked at those icy blue eyes and then looked away. Nogi saw genuine fear there. He inserted himself into the conversation.

"Mr. Zosimas made it a point to let me know that you are out of work. I work for an organization that helps the unemployed."

The blue eyes looked into his. They reflected suspicion.

"My business is my business," the man said.

"I may have a job for you."

"Fat chance."

Nogi was beginning to hope he could recruit this one. A good instructor always throws the largest member of the class around when doing demonstrations. Nogi would enjoy throwing this one around.

Nogi took another drink of hot sake. "I could teach someone your size to be really effective in combat. You'd be paid for learning."

"You recruiting for the army?"

"I'm recruiting people to fight the injustices that leave good men without jobs." Nogi said it mechanically.

Lyons drank half his beer nonstop, then slammed his glass down. "Sounds like bullshit," he spat.