Joe Haldeman - Work Done for Hire

Aunt Helen—“Hell,” she liked to be called—had by then turned this cycle into a way of life. The hangover would start to gather about the time the coffee was perking, so she’d spike it with a gin Bloody Mary and get on with life. I sincerely hope she outlives us all.

That breakfast had started out airy and French, a soufflé made with berries, and then anchored with hot Andouille sausage and fried potatoes, washed down with imported beer. I don’t think I had eaten better in my life at that time, and have only a few times since.

Of course this visit to the Big Easy was going to be less festive. Not easy.

After eighteen hours on the bus, sleeping fitfully after I finished the short Hunter chapter, I was ready for a little walk. The ticketmeister drew me a map on a three-by-five card and said it was a little more than a mile. It was not quite eleven, and I’d told Kit “about noon,” so I set out into the gathering heat.

Quite a bit of foot traffic, but it wasn’t unpleasant, tourists happy to be where they were, not yet sweltering and cross. I resisted the automatic reflex to take out the cell and check for calls, or call Kit to reassure her. They’re probably listening; why make it easy for them?

Of course there was a chance we had lost them now. In my mind’s eye I could visualize them crawling over Kit’s car, looking for clues. There wasn’t one molecule of evidence that we were going to New Orleans. They would find the directions to Baton Rouge, crumpled up and kicked under the seat, but otherwise I hoped our trail stopped there, in the long-term lot outside the St. Louis airport.

They would get the rifle. That gave me a little chill. Would they bench test it without first checking—lock and load and fire the second round into the blocked barrel? If it killed or injured some DHS or FBI agent, they would probably up the ante. If it was the people who’d supplied the rifle in the first place, who knows? They wouldn’t have any reason to test-fire it. Maybe it would show up in our motel room in Key West, still fatally booby trapped.

The line for Brennan’s was half a block long. After a minute or two, long enough for me to fall into a reverie, Kit tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, sailor—new in town?”

We kissed and she steered me across the street to a place with tables in the front garden. She’d already gotten us a table and a carafe of coffee.

The coffee was strong and bitter with chicory. Thick real cream and honey to take the edge off. A waiter came over immediately and I ordered a beer and a pile of sausage and bacon.

“Breakfast of champignons ?”

“Living on candy and carbs, on the bus,” I said. “Dreaming of that sausage.”

“And coming up with a master plan, I hope.”

“I have some ideas. You?”

“One you won’t like.”

In other words, one I’d better accept. “What?”

“We should both change our appearance radically. Look like we belong in the Quarter. Chop my hair short and dye it, go butch.”

“I love your hair.”

“It’ll grow back. Likewise you: off with the beard and moustache, and shave your head.”

“Shave my head ? I’d look fucking gay.”

She nodded, expressionless. “Look around. Black jeans and tight black T-shirt, little earring. You get hit on, just say no. I do it all the time.”

I couldn’t argue with the logic. If your appearance gives off a specific sexual signal, most people won’t see anything else. “And then we get fake IDs?”

“You said this would be the place.”

“Yeah. True.” Maybe I could go home for just one minute and grab the file of notes I had on the subject, for the novel. “Smoke shop, head shop, is the place if you don’t need anything heavy-duty. Out-of-state driver’s license.” I looked at her critically and stroked my beard. “Think you could pass for twenty-one? Little girl?”

“In your dreams. Wet dreams.” She could pass, actually—even for a teenager if she dressed the part.

A pile of pig protein and lots of muscular chicory-flavored coffee, and I was ready to face a bunch of spies, or at least a barber.

He didn’t speak much English, but he got “Take it all off.” The feeling of a straight razor sliding along your skull was a new kind of discomfort for me, which I hope never to repeat. He also did an expert job on my beard. In the mirror I looked like one of those children with progeria, a baby’s face with age lines and basset eyes.

Kit’s haircut cost three times as much, and looked like the result of an industrial accident. You shouldn’t lean so close to the lathe, babe. But I hardly recognized her, which was the idea: bleached blond riff brushed out stiff with a purple accent.

She looked in the mirror and started to cry. But then she laughed brightly and wiped her eyes. She put on some lipstick that I didn’t know she had, and a little mascara. Stuck out her tongue at the reflection.

We split a pair of earrings, black pearl studs that she had in the bottom of her purse. I hadn’t worn one since I was an undergraduate, so it hurt and bled.

As a mutual disguise, though, it worked pretty well. We did look like a couple of thirty-ish tourists trying to look younger. On the Bourbon Street sidewalk, we blended in like cows in a herd.

A restaurant on St. Charles, Korn Dogs ’n’ More, needed a dishwasher and a waitress. The manager looked like he had just stepped out of a Yale faculty meeting, but he didn’t blink at our appearance or at Kit’s story that we’d been robbed and had no IDs.

The dishwashing wasn’t hard. Piled up after lunch and then was quiet until about five. Pretty busy till the place closed at ten. The pots and pans took another hour after that, Kit helping.

I probably would have hated it if I’d had to do it for a living, up to my elbows in greasy water. Doing it as protective coloration was kind of fun.

The Italian owner, Mario, cooked nonstop but had lots of stories, and was obviously happy to have a new audience. He’d also been in the desert, so we bonded over that.

Once I didn’t respond when he called me “Jim,” my temporary name, and he gave me a big wink.

He had a friend who rented rooms by the week a few blocks away, and gave Kit an hour off to get us a place. We finally crashed there a little after midnight.

The computer beeped at ten. Kit was already in the shower down the hall.

The room had a coffee machine. By the time I had it charged up and dripping, she came back, rubbing her hair with a towel. She shrugged out of her robe and handed it to me, then giggled when I put it on. “We’ll have to get you something without lace and flowers.”

I looked in the mirror and almost didn’t go down the hall. Baby-blue posies clashed with my skinhead asshole look. I showered quick.

We got to work one minute early, and Mario seemed vaguely surprised to see us. But we were going to hang in there at least six days, until the first paycheck. Or until somebody caught up with us.

We got our first week’s pay and the phone call the same day, no coincidence, I suppose. Even paid by cash, there would be a record. My “James Kinney” ID probably went straight into a federal database of false IDs, and a face recognition program linked it with the person I used to be.

The phone rang at Korn Dogs and someone asked for me. Mario put it on hold and asked whether I was here.

“Someone want Jim Kinney?”

“Well… ‘the person who calls himself James Kinney.’ Want me to say you haven’t come in yet?”

No, they might be watching. I shrugged and held out my hand. A woman’s voice asked if I was Jack Daley.

“Or Jim Kinney, yes. Who is this?”