K Jeter - Noir

“That’s not a claim,” said McNihil. “It’s the truth.”

Turbiner nodded. “And your knowledge of this copyright infringement is based on… what? What I’m supposed to have told you?”

For a moment, McNihil studied the empty glass on the table, then looked back over at the other man. “You’re saying you didn’t tell me?”

“No. I’m just saying you can’t prove I told you anything like that.”

“Well, yeah…” That was true as well. “I’m not in the habit of recording phone calls from my friends.”

“Maybe you should be more careful about that.”

Another shrug. “Or maybe about my friends.”

“Now that’s something-” Turbiner gave an approximation of a smile. “You can’t be too careful about.”

“I’ve got a feeling that it’s a little late for this kind of advice.” The feeling was actually a certainty, like a rock in McNihil’s stomach. “So why would I need to prove anything at all? About what you told me?” He picked up the glass from the table, remembered that it was empty, and set it back down. “This kid was ripping you off. He told me so himself. He was bragging about it.”

“What a foolish young man.” Turbiner glanced over at the cable running to the subwoofer, then slowly shook his head. “He must not’ve actually read those titles he was stealing from me. That’s the problem with those collector and dealer mentalities.” He looked back around at McNihil. “If they ever bothered to read the stuff-especially the old noir classics-they’d know that’s how you get into trouble. By not clamming up when you’ve got the chance. You let your mouth run on, you can talk yourself into the grave.” He nodded toward the snakelike cable. “Or worse.”

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t the smartest one I ever encountered.”

“I suppose not,” said Turbiner. “I don’t suppose you bothered recording your little encounter with him, either. Even though that’s standard agency procedure, isn’t it?”

McNihil made no reply. I should have -instead of doing the job on the cheap, trying to economize on the nonessentials. When he’d still been working for the agency, even the smallest field assignments he’d gone on had been secretly-and expensively-bugged and taped. Some of them, his prize hits, had even been converted by the agency into training videos, instructional adjuncts for getting new hires up to speed on the asp-head way of doing business. But recording cost money, especially with all the masking and counterfeed-suppression technology that had to be added on, to make sure that the pirates, with their funky but effective hair-trigger alarm systems, didn’t catch on to the fact that they were being taped in all their hard-evidence glory. Money that an effectively retired asp-head, doing a favor, might not want to tap into his own pocket to shell out.

“All right,” said McNihil finally. “I didn’t record you, and I didn’t record the kid I worked over. What does it matter? As long as he was stealing from you, as long as he was violating your copyrights, his ass was mine.”

This time, it was Turbiner who kept silent. He shifted in the chair so he could dig his wallet from his back pocket. Flipping the wallet open, he extracted a PDA card; its tiny display panel illuminated when he pressed the top right corner between his thumb and forefinger. With the edge of his nail, Turbiner scrolled down through the listed data.

“You’ve seen this before.” Turbiner had found the entry he’d been looking for; he extended the card toward McNihil. “Standard issue, right?”

Most writers that McNihil had dealt with, or the composers or other creative types, had something similar with which they kept track of their copyrights. He’d had this one in his hand on previous occasions, when he’d been checking Turbiner’s records against the agency’s central database. He glanced at the little screen, tilting it away from the light sifting in through the flat’s window blinds. “So what am I supposed to be looking for?”

“Bottom of the file. Most recent entry.”

A name that McNihil didn’t recognize. “Who’s Kyle Wyvitz?”

“That’s the name,” said Turbiner, “of the kid whose brain is in that cable you just brought me.” The words had been spoken softly, no added emphasis required. “Your latest trophy job.”

“Ah.” He could just about see it all now; the relaxation in McNihil’s bones and muscles was echoed by a similar expansion in time, the appreciable gulf between one second and the next. Just as the would-be pirate kid’s senses must have gone into slow motion as soon as the snaring hydro-gel had leapt up from the plastic cup; the way the small animal in the triggered leg-hold trap must have been able to study every tooth of the metal jaw slicing down toward its pelt and flesh. “And why… just why … would his name be here in your copyright tracking?” As if he couldn’t figure it out, already. “What’s that mean?”

“Other than that you’re totally screwed?” Turbiner sounded almost sympathetic, as though he were in fact sorry to see the trap snapping shut. “But you know that already, don’t you?”

“I know all sorts of things. Some of them I just learned.” He looked at Turbiner, as though seeing him for the first time, unoccluded. In the flat’s musicless silence, McNihil could almost hear the blood singing in his own veins. “I’m just interested in these particular details, that’s all.”

“You can work it out.” Turbiner shrugged. “It’s all there. I keep very accurate records-you know that. Just read the listing.”

He hardly needed to; nothing on the little screen of the card came as a surprise to him. Not now. McNihil scrolled across the tiny words and numbers, the black marks like legible flyspecks beneath his fingernail. Beside the kid’s name was a coded list of properties, old thriller copyrights of Turbiner’s early writing days; McNihil was familiar enough with the account at the agency to recognize them without using the hyperkeys. He knew which tides matched up with the numbers: they were all the ones that the Wyvitz kid had been peddling.

McNihil drew his fingertip to the end of the line. The date for the licensing of the copyrights was barely forty-eight hours ago, the day that he’d gone up north on the rim to take care of this business. To do this favor for Turbiner. There was even a time stamp for the transaction: exactly when he’d been sitting in the theater with the kid.

They were watching me , thought McNihil. “They” being the ones Turbiner had been working with, cooperating on setting up this little sharp-toothed trap. McNihil already had a good idea who they were.

“The kid didn’t know.” McNihil looked up from the card and its info. “Did he? You used him.”

A moment passed before Turbiner gave another nod. “Somebody did.” He reached over to take the card from McNihil. “I wasn’t in on that part.”

“I’ll just bet,” said McNihil, “that the timing is exactly right on this one.” He laid the card in Turbiner’s outstretched hand. “A short-term licensing of your copyrights-what, ninety days?”

Turbiner shook his head. “Thirty. I don’t like to let go of them for too long.” He opened his wallet and tucked the card back inside. “If I can help it.”

“And it was all set up to go through with the push of a button, I imagine. Soon as they saw how the deal was going to go down with the kid.”

A nod this time. “They got it on tape.” The wallet returned to Turbiner’s hip pocket. “I’ve seen it. You know, you really should’ve checked around for surveillance gear. Even before you walked in there.”

“Well, I guess I didn’t know.” McNihil leaned back against the couch’s upholstery. “I didn’t know what I was walking into. I thought I did. But I was wrong.”