Don DeLillo - Running Dog

"Sort of."

"The machine has a thing called a diamond tip penetrator. I trademarked it as the Mudger tip."

"A little better," she said.

"I'm building a large shop about twenty miles south of here. If things work out, I'll be filling contracts for Radial Matrix."

She watched him light up a little at the irony of that.

"This is what's called negotiating a termination," he said.

He laughed, eyes not leaving her face. She judged him the kind of man deeply pleased by the appreciation of others. He would be a studier of faces, eager to gauge people's reactions to things he said. Robust men were always like this.

"It's real work," he said. "Doesn't involve secret transmitters, hot mikes, all the rest, Like for instance"-she watched his face shade with amusernent-"I can let you hear dialogue and other noises pertaining to last night's amorous activities."

"Involving whom?"

"You and the Senator, of course."

"Never happened. Sorry to disappoint."

"It doesn't necessarily have to happen," Mudger said. "All we need's your voice and his, which we have. The rest is purely technical."

"You make it happen."

"Sure."

"In this case has it already happened or is it pending?"

"I don't know. Lomax would know."

"Being the Senator's man, Lomax might push the wrong button. Scramble the voices beyond recognition. Or erase the tapes."

"It's a little more complicated than that."

"You've got me thinking I've done something wrong."

Mudger seemed to grow serious. He sat sideways in his chair, left arm extended, resting on the table, his right arm hanging over the back of the chair.

"When technology reaches a certain level, people begin to feel like criminals," he said. "Someone is after you, the computers maybe, the machine-police. You can't escape investigation. The facts about you and your whole existence have been collected or are being collected. Banks, insurance companies, credit organizations, tax examiners, passport offices, reporting services, police agencies, intelligence gatherers. It's a little like what I was saying before. Devices make us pliant. If they issue a print-out saying we're guilty, then we're guilty. But it goes even deeper doesn't it? It's the presence alone, the very fact, the superabundance of technology, that makes us feel we're committing crimes. Just the fact that these things exist at this widespread level. The processing machines, the scanners, the sorters. That's enough to make us feel like criminals. What enormous weight. What complex programs. And there's no one to explain it to us."

That night Mudger stood behind the bar in his living room, mixing himself a drink. He put his glass down on the red folder, the Dorish Report. Lomax sat near the French doors, looking at a magazine. The doors were open, revealing a small Buddhist shrine in the garden beyond the patio.

"Been meaning to ask."

"What's that, Earl?"

"Why was the subject carrying a gun?"

"I don't know."

"He's over there in Percival's office, reading, isn't he? Or hanging around some art gallery. I'd like for you to tell me why he's carrying a gun."

"Earl, he shouldn't have been."

"Is he some kind of cowboy? What is he, a junior G-man? Because I thought we trained people better than that."

"It was contrary to procedure."

Mudger was sitting at the bar, his back to Lomax.

"This business with guns. He's, what, some kind of sportsman? Shoots fucking bear with a handgun?"

"He was on the Lower East Side. Maybe he thought it was dangerous."

"He was right, it turned out."

They both laughed.

"Who'd you press into service?" Lomax said.

"I called Talerico. He's in Canada these days. We've done things for each other before. Always worked out. Tal said he'd see what he could do."

"That's what he did?"

"He got some guy from Buffalo. His old jurisdiction. Supposed to be a weapons expert. Famous for midnight raids on National Guard armories."

"Who?"

"Augie the Mouse."

They both laughed.

"So Augie goes in there wailing," Mudger said. "He's got his fancy little two-pound Kevlar vest. He's got yellow glasses and ear protectors. He's wearing everything but platform shoes. And he's wailing, he's got this AR-18 and he's strafing the place, he's busting it up."

"What happens, he gets hit."

"He gets hit but doesn't know it. When he gets home he takes off his armor and sees this little hole in it. So he starts feeling his chest, his belly. He tells his driver maybe it got deflected into his lungs. He starts coughing and spitting, looking for blood. Finally his driver shakes out the vest and this small lead mushroom hits the floor. Which isn't the worst of it. Ignorance of technique. The worst of it is that he's supposed to isolate the subject before going to work. The subject's supposed to be a-lone. Not a sin-gle wit-ness in sight."

"You got the Saint Valentine's Day massacre."

"Jerk-off. I told Talerico. Where'd you find this jerk-off?"

"Augie the Mouse."

Mudger laughed, hitting the bar with the palm of his hand.

"Tell you what, it was my fault. Ought to have used different people."

"Such as?"

"_Tieu to dac cong_."

"That's not your average man in the street they'll be dealing with," Lomax said. "I have to tell you I felt a little surge of pride or satisfaction or what-have-you when I got word he walked out of the bar without a mark on him. Plus putting a bullet in the Mouse. I felt gratified, Earl, truth be known. Certain amount of my own time and effort invested there. This is the best penetration I've run, frankly. I don't think your adjusters will find this is just another day's work."

Mudger shrugged. The phone at his elbow rang. He picked it up, listened a while, said something, listened some more. Lomax went out on the patio. It was a warm night. He stood in the garden watching Mudger put down the phone and say something over his shoulder at the same time. Lomax walked back into the room, belatedly realizing what it was Mudger had said.

"Congratulations, Earl."

"Where's your glass? We'll have another drink."

"How's Tran Le doing?"

"She's fine. She's great. Never better."

"I couldn't touch another drop, honestly."

"An eight-pounder," Mudger said over his shoulder.

"What is it, a fish?"

"Where's your glass?"

"Maybe just a wee snort, to mark the occasion."

"Where's your fucking glass?" Mudger said.

Lightborne stepped off the train and walked through a tunnel under the tracks. On the other side he entered the depot. Klara Ludecke was sitting on a bench near the newsstand. In her lap, for purposes of identification, was a copy of _Running Dog_ magazine. Lightborne's spur-of-the-moment idea.

He nodded and she followed him back out. Early evening. They walked toward the underground passageway he'd just come out of. The sole on Lightborne's right shoe started flapping.

"I'm authorized," he said, "to hand over the agreed sum in cash once the film is in my hands."

"I'll be happy to see it go."

"Can I assume it was your husband who gave you my name?"

"My husband gave me three things. He gave me your name. He gave me an address in Aachen. And he ye me the key to a storage vault located at that address."

In the passageway Lightborne lowered his voice, wary of the effects of echo.

"Have you seen the footage?"

"He wanted me to have nothing to do with it."

"Did he tell you anything about it at all?"

"He only told me Berlin, under the Reich Chancellery, during the Russian shelling."

On the opposite platform the flapping sole began to annoy Lightborne, and he suggested they sit for a while on one of the plastic benches.

"And so the film has been in a vault in Germany all these years."