Manolo leaned back in his chair, and patted his thousand-dollar blow-waved haircut. His hairstyle consultant must throw in a Tom Selleck moustache twirl for free. He was wearing a silvery Italian suit over a T-shirt which read HONK IF YOU LIKE HUNKS.
Duroc remembered why he tried, wherever possible, to avoid Californians.
A bust-enhanced beauty queen in a goldthread string bikini wandered in with Manolo's Nicaraguan, which steamed in an authentic 1919 World Series Commemorative Mug, and wandered out again. Manolo's eyes followed her jiggle from the door to the desk and back. Kandi took the time to flash a smile at Duroc; he supposed the company must have a charge account with the same high-flying Beverly Hills dentist. Or maybe it was all the fluoride in the water.
"Great ass, huh?" said Manolo, licking his moustache. "Oh, I'm sorry, reverend, I was forgetting."
"Elder. My title is Elder."
"Cheezus, what a maroon I am. Elder. I'll get it. Say, are you French?"
"Originally, yes. I have been with the church for ten years now."
"Heyy, cosmic, man, cosmic. I'm very spiritual myself. I attend the Pyramid down at the Surfside Mall. Gari—that's my Guru—says it's important to get in touch with your inner being. I always take the time to meditate between my squishball practice and the tanning parlour."
Sunshine three hundred and fifty days a year, and Californians fry themselves under microwaves. There was a sign up at the airport—John Wayne Airport, naturally—that read CALIFORNIA: WE'VE HAD THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY HERE FOR TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. Duroc had had to smile at that. As a succession of paycops, stewardesses, diplomatics, immigration officials, armourcabbies, narcotics relay expeditors, hotel functionaries, arms dealers and hookers told him to "have a snazz day" and shoved his credit card through their machines, he wondered whether they would like the real 21st century when Nguyen Seth rained it down on them.
"Your agency comes highly recommended," he said.
"Yeah. Me and Bob Holderness are the most on the coast. At least, Bob was until the Surf Nazis got him. You don't see that gangcult much these days, because we genocided them. It got personal. Nasty work, but the karma was right for it. City cops looked the other way, and the Cal State Angels loaned us hardware. Bob was a great buddy, and a great guy. He had a lot of friends, no matter what you read in the trades."
There was a framed picture on the desk. Duroc had assumed it was a father and son shot. There was the younger Manolo, plus an older man with the same teeth, hair and moustache. They were standing either side of a surfboard, and there were some Kandi clones in the picture.
"Back in the '70s, he worked with all the topster Ops—Matt Houston, Cannon, Banacek, Mannix, Lance White. Those were the great days of the business in La-La Land, before we closed the state borders and tossed the immigrant filthos back into the desert."
"An impressive record, indeed."
"And could he surf! We're talking radical in a tubular way!"
Manolo took a couple of hits of coffee, and picked up a wrist-exerciser that probably doubled as some kind of sex aid.
Squeezing away so that his biceps shifted in his sleeve, he asked "So, Rog, what's going down the chute?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"What's the beef? The case?"
"Ah yes, the case."
He put his briefcase on the desk.
"Not that kind of case, pilgrim."
"I know what you mean. I have some documentation for you."
"Zero-degree cool."
Duroc took out the file on Jessamyn Bonney, and slipped off the electronic seal.
"We want this woman."
Manolo showed his dazzling choppers again, and took the file. He flipped it to the photographs, and werewolf-whistled.
"Okay if you like the type. I'm a 3-B man myself, blonde bimbos with boobs. Kid must want to be a Disney cartoon villainess when she grows up. Look at that black eye make-up and the suspenders. Is that hair for real?"
"She's killed perhaps forty or fifty people."
"Ouch. Antisocial lady."
"Among them, several Elders of the Josephite Church. She attacked a wagon train two years ago. We have been compiling this dossier ever since."
"The church don't forget, huh?" A beady glint appeared in Manolo's clear blue eyes as he got his first scent of blood money and began to turn into a shark.
"Something like that. We are prepared to meet your regular fee. On top of that, you will note that there are seventeen outstanding warrants filed by various state and federal authorities against her. Should you be successful, you will be able to pick up a bounty on each of them."
"How much is this kid worth?" He licked his moustache again. Duroc wondered whether it was an implant.
"It's in the file."
Manolo flipped the pages until he came to the accounts. He ran his eyes down the column of figures as if he were taking a good look at Voluptua Whoopee in a no-piece swimsuit and whistled "Dixie."
"A prize package. You have us on the case, padrone. And we never give up. We'll have this…uh…Jessamyn Bonney…behind electro-bars at Tehachapi just as soon as the schedule allows."
He continued to page through the file absent-mindedly, fiddling as he did so with the snuffbox, making sure that the gold inlay buttons on Mickey's rompers caught the light.
"No, you misunderstand."
"Run that round the block again, Rog, and see if you can sneak it by under the limbo-line this time."
"We in the church are not interested in the apprehension of Ms Bonney. In Deseret, we adhere to a Biblical code rather than to the laws and statutes of the United States."
"Heyy, the Bible, man. Heavy book. I keep it right here in my desk with the I Ching, Illuminatus and my Castenadas."
"Then you are familiar with the saying 'an eye for an eye.'"
"Absolutamente, Rog."
"Then, you will work it out. Jessamyn Bonney has killed members of the Church. In turn, we would like you…"
A real smile crept onto Manolo's face. It didn't show off his teeth, but it told Duroc a lot more about the Op's character.
"…to shut down the ratskag's terminal with massive overinvestment? "
Duroc nodded. He knew Manolo would be taping this meeting, and he didn't want to say it out loud in words.
"So, it's liquidation not incarceration that's your bag. Fine. We can handle that consignment. Mucho extra dinero, of course, but if that's what you want…"
"The Tabernacle of Joseph is not poor."
"I can tell where you're coming from, Rog."
"You accept the commission."
Manolo stuck out a hairy hand, and Duroc shook it. Gold bracelets rattled.
"She's somewhere in Arizona, we believe. You might try to look up a Dr Simon Threadneedle in a township called Dead Rat."
"Dead Rat? Downer of a handle. Those vibes are negatory, Rog."
"I'm sure you can get on top of it."
"That's a charlie A-One breeze-from-the-freeze affirmative-to-the-max topside positive situation in the black column roger, Roger," Manolo chirruped.
"You mean yes?"
Manolo looked hurt. "Yes."
II
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