"Help you?" the clerk said.
Gridley handed the cane to her. "Is this one of yours?" He already knew it was, having gone through product descriptions and.GIF files of all the commercial cane manufacturers in North America until he'd found a match.
The woman examined the cane. "Yes, it's the Instructor's model, in hickory. Is there a problem with it?"
"No, it works fine, far as I know. But I need some information about it. Do you keep records of your sales?"
"Of course."
"Is there any way to find out who bought this?"
The woman's smile faded. "I'm afraid our client records are confidential, sir."
"You have a manager I could talk to?"
"Just a moment."
A tall man wearing a frown appeared behind the clerk in a few seconds. "May I help you, sir?"
Gridley produced his Net Force ID and held it out. He waved at the cane he'd brought. "This stick was used in an attempted assassination of a federal government official," he said. "I need your sales records."
"I'm afraid we can't do that," the man said.
"Oh, you can. You can voluntarily give them to me, saving us both a lot of time and hassle, and earn my gratitude. Or I can get a federal subpoena and be back in an hour with a gang of IRS/CPA programmers to deconstruct everything your company has done in the last ten years. My guess is that these guys will almost certainly find some irregularities in the way you do business. I mean, given the tax code complexities and all these days, you can't be totally honest even if you want to be."
The man took Gridley's ID, ran it under a scanner and waited for the verification. When it came, he said. "We're happy to help the government in any way we can. Denise, would you transfer the records for this agent, please?"
Gridley nodded, but didn't smile. Too bad he didn't have this kind of clout when he wanted to get into a decent restaurant.
Outside the store, Gridley walked to his new Viper. Well, actually, since the program he was using was a backup for the one that had been trashed in New Orleans, it was the same age as his old Viper, and it also lacked a few bells and whistles compared to the wrecked one. He'd done a lot of fine-tuning on the wrecked unit, and he hadn't bothered to save the updates. No big deal, but it would require a little work to sharpen this one so it ran as well as the other.
In the car, he looked at the HC printout. Cane Masters had been around for at least fifteen years, and they had sold thousands of canes in that time. In the last ten years, they had sold several hundred of the particular model Net Force was interested in. Still, running down several hundred possibilities was better than running down no possibilities.
He started the car, frowned a little at how rough the engine ran. Definitely needed a tune-up. He put it in gear and headed away from the store.
24
Grigory the Snake had won three hundred in chips, playing at the five-dollar blackjack tables in the big pyramid-shaped casino; to celebrate, he was getting drunk and talking about looking for a prostitute. The drinks were free as long as he kept playing. The prostitute would likely take most of his winnings, in exchange for which he would have a few moments of loveless pleasure — and run the risk of catching a deadly disease.
Ruzhyo did not know how prevalent HIV was among American trulls. In parts of Africa and Southeast Asia, eight of ten whores would be infected. Of course, there were vaccines for the more common strains of the disease, but it seemed as if a new strain developed every week. And the Snake had bragged more than once that he did not use a condom under any circumstances. The Snake could catch something, rot slowly and painfully, and it was all the same to Ruzhyo. He did feel sorry for Grigory's wife, who might also contract the disease before her husband had the grace to die. And sorry for her that she had married such a buffoon in the first place…
Ruzhyo stood next to an electronic slot machine, listening to the jarring and obnoxious chords blare from the other machines as people methodically and joylessly pumped the handles or punched the buttons that operated the devices. No one seemed to be having a good time. There were no smiles, no backslapping, just intense manic concentration, as if by so focusing, the winning bars would magically line up and pay off. Now and then, they did, and along with flashing lights, the cacophony of the machine forced to give up its gold added more to the general noise, Look, it said, people do win! Put in more money! You could be next!
Greed was supposed to be fun, but apparently it was only fun if you were winning.
He did not know why he had gone along with the Snake for this outing. Ruzhyo was not a gambler. Cards, dice, wheels, these were things beyond his control. The risks did not interest him. There was nothing to be gained but money, no more pleasure for him in winning than there would be in losing.
Perhaps he was trying to prove to himself that he could still relax and have a good time; if so, this had not been the way to demonstrate it. It was not yet midnight, and he was tired, of the clamor, of the din of machines and unhappy voices of people in the casino, and especially he was tired of Grigory the Snake. Already the man had made it clear to the other four players at the table that he was a Russian war hero. Soon, he would be talking about his medals. Ruzhyo did not wish to hear those stories again. Ever.
The days when Ruzhyo could party all night and then work the next day without sleeping were long past. Decadent living was for the young or the stupid.
Winters came to stand next to Ruzhyo. The American wore a black T-shirt with the logo of another casino, one shaped like a lion, upon the back. He wore Levi jeans, a broad belt with a large, shiny buckle and black cowboy boots. He had a brownish, watery-looking drink in one hand. He looked as if he belonged here. He sipped at the liquid and frowned. "Lizard piss," he said. But he took another sip. "Welcome to the adult version of Disneyland, pard. You catch that whole River of Death and Boat business on the way in? Dog-headed gods and Ra and all? Christ, it looks like a ride in Yesterday land. The Mummy's Pyramid Boat to the Other Side."
Ruzhyo glanced at his watch.
"Our boy racking up a few bucks?" Winters asked.
"He is ahead, yes. Three more hands and he plans to leave, to seek professional female company."
"Now there's an idea. Might as well blow your money on blow jobs. That way you could have a good memory to show for it. Not like gambling and losing."
"Grigory has a system."
Winters laughed, took a final slug of the drink, then put the glass of ice cubes on the floor next to his feet. "A system? Hell, you got money and a system, the casino will send a plane to pick you up. They'll give you your room and food and drinks for free. Only thing that works besides cheating at twenty-one is card-counting, and if they spot you doing that, they throw you out. And our boy Griggy ain't got the smarts to count cards past the three or four in his hand, much less the multiple decks in the shoe. I grew up over a bar with poker tables and slot machines in it. Trust me, you stay at the tables, the house always wins."
Ruzhyo looked at Winters, then back at the Snake. "I am going back to my room," he said.
"I'll watch Griggy here for a while. Maybe keep him out of trouble."
Outside, it was cool, even after a day when the afternoon temperature had been near body heat. A gusty desert wind stirred the dry, dusty air. The fronds of the palm trees planted around the parking lots of the giant black pyramid streamed like organic flags. A bright beam of light erupted from the top of the structure, right at the apex. So brilliant and hot was the beam that it sucked dust into itself and hurled it upward and into the night sky. A searchlight would be pale and anemic by comparison with this laser-like ray shooting from the pyramid.