As she unwrapped another condom from its fresh-from-the-factory packet, Connie looked up at her employer.
"You know, I could be doing this for years," she complained.
"I pay you," Swindell said, stripping off his jacket and hanging it on a peg. "And you might as well be doing something as sitting on your pretty little butt. We ain't moving units like the old days, you know."
"I heard about those Dirt First people on the radio. Are they all dead?"
"What ain't road kill is. They messed up my Condome but good. Insurance don't cover this. We may have to cash out."
"What about all that Missouri property you were going to buy? Can't we stall the creditors until they come on the market, Con honey?"
"How many times I gotta tell you? Don't 'Con honey' me. It ain't professional. In bed you can 'Con honey' me all you like. No place else."
"Sorry Mr. Swindell," Connie said frostily, piercing the condom and feeding it through the stamper. Another packet clicked into the pile.
"That's better, but don't skimp on the warmth."
"This is a long way to go to start another baby boom." She pouted. "I'll be a saggy old lady by then."
"You always got a stall in my stable, you know that," Swindell said absently, looking through the stack of letters on his secretary's desk. "Anything special in here?" he asked.
"The one on top's another paternity suit."
Swindell dropped the envelope into the waste basket. "Nobody wants to pay the piper no more," he muttered.
"The electric and phone bills are both overdue."
"So? Draw two checks."
"Against what? We're tapped."
"Do it anyway. Just make sure you stick the phone check in the electric envelope and vice versa. That oughta tangle up their shorts for another three weeks.
"Oh, Con. You're such a genius," Connie said admiringly.
"If I'm so smart, how come I'm in so much debt?"
"Maybe you should pay more attention to your horoscope, like I told you to."
Swindell grunted. He dropped the remaining mail into the wastebasket. "Taggert call yet?"
"Not yet."
"If anybody wanting to buy calls," Connors Swindell said wearily, "I'll be in my office. I'm out to salesmen, lawyers, and creditors."
The door slammed sullenly, and Constance Payne went back to putting pinholes in condoms. It was boring work, but every time she passed a newborn in a stroller, it gave her a tiny swell of pride. Who knew how many newborns owed their lives to the most brilliant real-estate-promotion scheme in human history?
In the sunshine-filled sanctity of his Palm Springs den, Connors Swindell didn't feel at all brilliant. He felt instead like he was drowning in warm air.
This latest setback to the Condome development looked to be a mortal blow. The banks would be all over him when they got the news that Dirt First!! had trashed the site. He had spent the entire night trying to clean it up, but it was useless.
"Damn those ecobusybodies!" he burst out. "Imagine them messing with my plans twice."
The phone rang. Swindell scooped it up.
"Mr. Taggert on line one," Connie chimed.
"Put 'im through." A moment later: "Hello, Taggert? About time you got back to me."
"I don't appreciate your tone," said a voice that sounded like Humphrey Bogart in a dry well.
"Sorry. I'm having a bad decade. Listen, the reason I called yesterday is, I got another special job for you."
"Yeah?"
"The La Plomo thing is fixing to work out fine," Swindell said. "I aim to scoop up all them fine houses-the ones still standing, that is-real cheap, just like I planned."
"Don't forget I get first choice."
"Glad you mentioned that," Swindell said breathily, leaning into the phone. "I saw the cutest French Colonial you ever did see. You like it, it's yours."
"Don't forget my Condome unit too. When do I get the tour?"
"Soon, soon," Swindell said vaguely. "I got a great bottom-floor unit with your name on the door. You can see it as soon as we pump-"
"Pump?"
"I mean finish it off. Now, listen. Taggert, you can find anything, right?"
"I found you all that poison gas."
"That you did. Listen. I had me a kinda setback. I lost something mighty valuable to me."
"Describe the item."
"Spoken like a true private detective, which you are," said Swindell heartily. "But the item I have in mind got damaged. It's no good to me anymore. I need another."
"So what is this item?"
Swindell swiveled in his chair. Beyond the window, stands of twisted Joshua trees rippled magically. They repeated in a nearby wall-length mirror, a nice touch, he thought.
"A neutron bomb," Connors Swindell said softly.
"Are you crazy? What do you want with a neutron bomb?"
"Same thing I wanted with all that damn gas. To shake some dinks loose of their prime real estate. You know, there's lots of folks holding on to property these days instead of trading up and fueling the real-estate sector of the economy. It's downright un-American."
"I was lucky to find the gas. A neutron bomb may be out of my league."
"Probably. But a tall hank of a hippie girl ain't."
"Come again?"
"There's this girl name of Sky Bluel. Must come from a long line of hippies or something with a name like that. She built a bomb. I ended up with it, but the CIA took it away from me."
"CIA!" Taggert exploded. "Christ, Swindell, what if this line is bugged? We'll both be doing federal time in Atlanta."
"No chance. The CIA blamed those Dirt Firsters. They happened to be in two inconvenient places in one day, like they was following me. Not that they were. The thing of it is, I got hold of their neutron bomb and they got the blame."
"That's convenient."
"But then one of them jerks stole my helicopter, which had the bomb in it. Crashed it good. I lost the bomb and the helicopter both."
"You're lucky to be alive."
Connors Swindell examined his pinkie diamond ring. He blew on it.
"Naw. Bomb didn't have a core."
"What good was it, then?"
"Reason I called you in the first place was, I wanted you to scrounge me up a core."
"Somehow, I don't think 'scrounge' is quite the word for it," Taggert said dryly.
"Never mind that. Look, you find this Sky Bluel. Kidnap her and I'll have her build me a new neutron bomb. It'll be better than poison gas."
"What do you have in mind?"
"I was kinda thinking of clearing those filthy-rich snowbirds outta Orlando and snapping up what the heirs don't get, just like I'm trying to do in La Plomo. "
"If you nuke Orlando, Florida, I guarantee you the heirs will sell out to you for ten cents on the dollar."
"I figure a nickel. Times are tough. I can't afford ten. Then I'm gonna rename the place Swindellburg. Catchy, huh?"
"That's your business," Taggert said flatly. "What's in it for me?"
"I got this here industrial park just sitting out in New Jersey, on the banks of the Hudson, without any tenants," Swindell said, thinking of a property he had acquired in boom times, unaware the ground was contaminated with PCB's. "I'll sign title over to you. And you do with it what you want-rent, sublease, subdivide, name your poison."
"Sounds fair. You know, this is better than taking cash."
"It's called trading up, and it's how I made my empire."
"So where do I find Sky Bluel?"
"She made the news the other night. That's your lead."
"Got it. One last thing."
Swindell smiled into the phone. With his free hand he eased a silver Waterman pen from his inner jacket pocket.
"You're about to ask me about poor, departed Horace Feely," he suggested smoothly.
"Departed?"
"He helped me with the bomb, just like he did my dirty work buyin' all that poison gas. Which is more than I can say for some."