Joe Haldeman - The Coming

“That’s right, you don’t think ! You don’t think ! You just do what I tell you.”

“What do you mean, Solo?”

“I mean beggin’ your pardon, Boss, but God knows I met all kinds a tough guys and phony tough guys, inside and outside. He’s not phony, and he’s pissed. I think he’d just as soon kill any one of us as look at us.”

“You’ve got a fuckin’ gun. How’s he gonna kill you?”

“You buy that shit about the trumpet oil?” Solo put a finger beside his nose. “Hoppes No. 9, I’ve smelled it all my life. He’s got a gun, all right.”

“So he’s got a gun. He’s a faggot professor twice as old as you.”

“Push the info button for me, Solo,” Moore said. He did. “Public records, military. Norman Bell.”

“I’ll need a service number,” the car said, “or current residence.”

“Gainesville, Florida.”

“Norman Bell volunteered for the draft during Desert Wind, in September 2031. For his service in the 101st Airborne Division, he was awarded the Silver Star with two clusters and the Purple Heart.”

“Silver Star,” Solo said. “Two clusters. Some faggot.”

“So? So you afraid of him?”

Solo didn’t move. “I’ll do what you want.”

“I want.”

Moore kept an eye on the road. There was a bike lane. But Bell probably would take a less direct route, avoiding traffic.

“He probably has a burglar alarm. House full of musical instruments.”

“Solo can take care of a burglar alarm.”

“Yeah, or run like hell.”

Moore shook his head. “You ought to wait until he’s home, if you have to do this. Knock on his door and push your way in.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Lawyer. We already gone over this in the restaurant.”

“It’s an unnecessary—”

“I don’t got a replay button. You clear on that?”

This could get them all into trouble. Too many people in that restaurant saw the four of them together. “It’s going to be an interesting trial. Calling the mayor as a witness.”

“Shut the fuck up. The mayor’s fuckin’ ours. Besides, he came in after the professor left.”

“This is going too fast.”

“Sometimes you gotta live fast. We got a chance for perfect timing here. Get them both, get the money, get the fuck out.”

After they dropped Solo off, he was going to go confront Aurora Bell. In theory, by the time she called home, her husband would be sufficiently intimidated. They would empty their bank accounts into Willy Joe’s coffers.

Again in theory, the Bells couldn’t call the police. This Qabil Rabin was still on the force, Willy Joe had said. But what if the jealous wife was not exactly fond of her husband’s boyfriend. Or her husband, for that matter. This whole thing could blow up in their faces.

The car turned right and went uphill for a couple of blocks, through a quiet residential neighborhood. Then left and right and they pulled up in front of the Bells’ house, a large rambler with conservative but well-maintained landscaping. There was nobody in sight.

“No burglar-alarm signs,” Willy Joe said. “People who got ’em advertise it.”

“Yeah; like me,” Moore said. “Someone stole my sign.”

“Move it,” Willy Joe said. Solo opened the door and got out.

He stood for a moment with his hand on the door. “Call you tonight, Boss, or come by?”

“Call.” He shut the door and the car glided away.

Solo stood for a moment, feeling exposed and perhaps betrayed. What the hell was Willy Joe’s game this time? A test? A sacrifice play?

You couldn’t just walk out on him, crazy and vindictive fucker. Solo fought the reasonable impulse to call a cab and go straight to the airport, sighed, and turned on his heel. Shit or get off the pot.

He went up the walk briskly, checking his watch for the sake of unseen neighbors. The place was a perfect design for breaking in; a small atrium hid the front door from the street.

The atrium was cool and smelled of jasmine. He went straight to the door and rang the bell, getting his story ready in case there was a servant or a robot.

No answer. He looked around carefully for security cameras. If there was one, it was pretty well hidden.

The double lock was a Horton magnetic dead bolt and a plain Kayser underneath. He took out a plastic case of tools and threaded a probe into the Horton and pushed a button. It sometimes got the combination right away; sometimes it took a few minutes. With two mechanical picks, he unlocked the Kayser in seconds. Then the Horton gave a solid snap. He pushed the door open.

He stepped into the anteroom and eased the door shut. Books, paper books, from floor to ceiling! This might work after all; these people had real money.

The Horton lock snapped and he looked back at it—hell, it was a keypad on this side. He’d have to find another way out.

He took one step and a voice in every room said, “Hello? Who’s here?”

Shit. The place did have a system. “Professor Bell,” he said, and the system answered “okay”—but of course it was already calling the police.

Quickest way out. He ran into the kitchen. The door to the garage was also a keypad. There was a glass door and a stained-glass window looking out into the atrium. He picked up a heavy bar stool and swung it against the glass door; it bounced back, nearly dislocating his shoulder. He threw it into the stained glass, which crashed in a glittering rainbow shower, and jumped through the hole into the atrium. He rushed to the walk, paused to smooth his jacket and his tie, and started striding toward town, casually but fast.

Hope the dispatcher’s not too swift.

“Units seven, nine, and twelve. I have a 217 at 5412 NW Fourteenth Avenue. Who wants to pick it up?”

Allah, Rabin thought, that’s Norm’s house. What’s going on?

“Take it?” his partner said. “That’s like eight blocks.”

“Wait and see if there’s a closer pickup.” Seconds ticked by, and no other unit responded.

“Come on, Qabil. We could use some laughs.”

“Sure. Let’s take it.” Two-seventeen was B&E, usually no big deal. Except when the house being broken into belongs to your fellow sodomite. Sweet Allah!

“Unit nine on the way,” his partner said, and switched to manual. The car surged into the middle of the street, and traffic parted in front of them like the Red Sea for Moses. Qabil checked to make sure his pistol was on “stun.” He was tempted to accidentally switch the dart selector to “lethal.” Whatever this guy might say was unlikely to advance his career.

He allowed himself one long moment of reflection. That had been a turning point in his life—as large as being a soldier; larger than the POW camp. He went straight after the wife caught him with “Normal Norman,” at least straight enough to collect his own wife and kids. Love is love, though, and lust, lust, and a man can’t help being what he is.

“Perp shot,” the radio said, and the monitor showed a picture of a well-dressed man swinging a bar stool at a glass door. The image ratcheted forward and rotated, to give them a full-face portrait of the man.

“We have an ID,” the radio said. “Suspect did six months Raiford in fifty-two, accessory to extortion. Two juvies, B and E and A and B. He has a Georgia license to carry a concealed weapon, supposedly in three states. Dolomé Patroukis, street name Solo. Consider him armed and dangerous.”