Max Collins - Skin Game

As he entered the eighth mile of his run, Otto prayed that he was doing the right thing... because Otto Gottlieb truly wanted to do what was best not just for himself, not just to cover his ass, but for his job. His country.

That settled, Otto tried to empty his head of everything except the run. The sound of his own blood in his ears, the smack of his shoes on the pavement, breath rushing in through his nose, out through his mouth, feeling the sweat run down his face... this became his world. Everything else was left behind.

The rest of the eighth mile flew by. He was nearly to the end of the ninth mile, really getting into the run now, when the cell phone clipped to his waistband chirped.

“Damnit,” Otto muttered as he slowed to a walk, and tried to control his breathing so he wouldn’t sound winded. He answered on the third ring.

“It’s me,” came Ames White’s voice.

Otto cursed silently. He wanted to ask where the hell White had been, but he said, “Yes, sir.”

“Sounds like you’ve been running.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You could stand to take off some of that gut.”

“... Yes, sir.”

“Have you talked to anyone since we last spoke?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. We need to meet.”

“Yes, sir.” Otto hated himself for falling back into ass-kissing mode so easily, but he didn’t really know what else to do at this point.

“I’m bringing you in more fully on this op. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Otto?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know the Three Girls?”

“Yes — bakery at Pike Place Market.” White couldn’t have picked someplace closer, of course; he had to pick somewhere clear across the city from where Otto lived.

“You being watched, Otto?”

“No.” Why would he be watched?

“Good. Twenty minutes. Come on foot.”

“I’ll never make it.”

“Half an hour, then. And run faster.”

Otto knew that not only was White a sucker for the meat-loaf sandwiches at Three Girls Bakery, the man also liked the fact that the L-shaped counter only had thirteen seats. Most people didn’t hang around long, and the chances of them being spotted by someone from the office were minimal, especially at this time of night.

White sat at the far end of the counter, waiting over coffee and a scone, when Otto — in his running togs, breathing hard — entered thirty-five minutes later. Two days had allowed White a change of clothes and the opportunity to clean his wounds. They seemed to be healing nicely, from what Otto could see.

The runner sat down next to his partner and boss, and when the counterman promptly came over, Otto said, “I’ll have the same. Decaf, though,” and gestured toward White’s meal.

A skinny man in his late fifties, and obviously not one of the three girls, the guy grunted and went back to the other end of the counter.

“You’re late,” White said quietly.

Otto ignored that. “Are you going to tell me what happened at Jam Pony?”

The counterman brought a cup of coffee, a scone on a small plate, and set them both on the counter in front of Otto. “Anything else?”

“No,” Otto said.

The counterman left the check and went away.

Finally, satisfied they were alone, White shrugged. “They got the best of us. They are transgenics, after all.”

Otto nodded. “That TAC team of yours looked like they coulda been transgenics themselves.”

“You think the NSA has transies working for them now, Otto? Please. Those were just top physical specimens — the kind who could’ve run over here in less than half an hour.”

“Maybe so — but, like you said, the bad guys got the best of them anyway.”

“Let that go. We have something more important than that now.”

“Yes?”

White sat forward, kept his voice down. “You recall the thermal imager that was taken off Hankins?”

Otto took a bite of his scone, but wished he hadn’t when the picture of the red-glistening skinned Hankins popped into his mind. He washed the bite down with some coffee. “Hard to forget,” he managed finally.

“The imager has turned up.”

“Good news. Where?”

White took his time now, nibbling at his own scone and taking a swallow of coffee before continuing. “A sector cop found it, not long after the murder at the warehouse. He was one of the perimeter guys. Apparently the monster that skinned Hankins didn’t know the device’s value — just threw it away. Interestingly, Hankins’ skin didn’t turn up — the perp took it with him.”

Otto put down his scone.

“Anyway, the sector cop who found it knew the thing was valuable. Somehow he got my cell number and got through to me. Name’s Dunphy, Brian Dunphy. He’s willing to return the imager — for a price.”

“How much?”

“Ten grand.”

“No way!”

White’s smile put nasty grooves in his face. “That’s what I told him. He settled for five.”

“That’s still robbery.”

“More like blackmail. But the agency is willing to cover it — if one of those transgenics got hold of an imager, and was smart enough to figure out its use, well...”

“When’s the drop?”

“Tonight.”

“Where’s the money?”

Glancing down, White drank some more coffee.

Otto followed the man’s gaze, saw a briefcase on the floor next to White, and looked back up at his partner. “You brought it here?”

“I needed to pass it to you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” White said. “You’re going to make the delivery.”

The scone and coffee rolled over in Otto’s stomach. “Sir, without proper paperwork, I don’t think I can—”

White interrupted. “You have to. I’m going to be in meetings for the next twenty-four hours trying to clear up that Jam Pony fiasco. You want to keep your job, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The answer popped out before Otto could stop it.

“Well, then, accept the responsibility of being part of this op. Take the briefcase, and take this, too.” White handed him a photo and a sheet of paper with the drop point written on it. “That’s where this Dunphy will be at three A.M. tonight, and a picture so you don’t give five grand to the wrong asshole.”

Holding the items at arm’s length, by the tips of fingers, like they were toxic materials, Otto finally asked, “What am I supposed to do until then?”

White’s brow furrowed. “Run home. Take a shower. What am I, your mother?” Tossing a five spot on the counter, he got up and looked down at Otto, in several senses of the phrase. “Three o’clock. Call me when it’s done.”

Otto didn’t like this at all, but he didn’t know what to say either. He had no idea what he would do with his life if he lost this job.

“Yes, sir,” he finally managed.

“Good boy,” White said, and walked out of the restaurant, leaving Otto Gottlieb to ponder his future.

Otto looked at the photo of a forty-something Irish-looking cop. What a cliché, he thought. Redheaded with a few freckles, Dunphy had the red onion nose of an alcoholic and the hooded green eyes of a sociopath. The photo brought Otto no comfort whatsoever. Looking down at the remains of his scone and the cup of coffee, he realized he wasn’t hungry anymore.

Having some time to kill, Otto caught a cab, went home and got on his computer. By one A.M. he knew everything there was to know about sector cop Brian Dunphy — forty-four, suspended twice for being overweight, with no money in the bank, an ex-wife who left him nearly ten years ago, a daughter he only saw on the weekends, and nothing to look forward to at the end of the road. No wonder this guy was looking to score any way he could.

Two hours later Otto found himself in Sector Eleven heading for the checkpoint with Sector Twelve. Not much happened out here on the edge of town, and he hoped to dump the money, get the imager, and get back home without any hassles. He parked his car a few blocks away and started to walk. He wasn’t taking any chances that he’d be identified by having his car seen at the checkpoint. Still, he didn’t much like walking down the street with a briefcase full of cash.