“Getting what?”
“The human factor.”
Cummings Peak was a mountain jutting right out of the flat New Mexican desert. Driving up the old truck route, it became obvious to Hiccock that the only destination on this mountain was the old lead mine. As Hiccock and Fuentes drove up to the entrance of the defunct mine shaft, they were surprised to see a glass-and-steel three-story office. The design gave the building the appearance of having been pushed into the rock, so that just the front and a little of the sides stuck out. Above the roof was a sign proclaiming “ALISON INDUSTRIES.” On the far side, off in the distance, parked on the flatlands encircling the mountain, were hundreds of RVs and camper vehicles.
A beefy guard in rent-a-cop blues halted the Gremlin hatchback delivery car at the gate. “Where’s Joe?”
“Joe’s kid got into some shit at school so he had to go in and see the teacher. I’m Bill, the assistant manager. This is Luis. We got 32 pies, 64 pizza sticks, and 23 salads. What do we do?” Hiccock wanted to make this the guard’s problem.
The sentry’s eyes took in the two delivery jerks in their little uniforms, then gave a second look to Fuentes. “Hold on.” The guard went to the telephone in the shack.
Fuentes talked under his breath without facing Hiccock, “I know that guy, Sir.”
Hiccock quickly muted his surprised expression. “From where?”
“Ranger School. He’s a mean motherfucker, Sir.”
“Do you think he recognized you?”
“I think he thinks I look familiar, but I’ve had my ’stache since I was sixteen, Sir.”
“Do we bolt or play this out?”
“I really don’t think he made me, but be ready to outrun that Mac-10 he’s got under his jacket.”
Hiccock was stunned. He hadn’t noticed anything under the guard’s jacket.
Fuentes continued, “I feel all naked and shit, Sir. He’s got an air-cooled, semiautomatic, recoilless machine pistol and all we can do is cream the fuck with pizza pies.”
The guard returned. “Pull over there by the yellow lines. Someone will be up in a moment.”
They pulled away. “Keep an eye on him,” Hiccock needlessly instructed.
“Yes, Sir.” Fuentes had already angled the rearview mirror to afford himself a better look at his former classmate. A metal door on the side of the main entrance opened and three men, one wheeling a dolly, emerged. Hiccock and Fuentes got out of the Gremlin. Fuentes opened the hatchback and they, with the assistance of the three guards, started stacking pizza boxes on the dolly.
Hiccock took a chance. “How many people work here?”
The men stopped loading. The one who seemed like the leader moved into his face. “Why do you want to know?”
Hiccock was caught by surprise. The three men tightened their ranks as they approached the two delivery “boys.”
“I was wondering what the odds were, that out of how many people, there would be one guy who orders anchovies with pineapple … errrgh.” Hiccock sold the sourpuss expression like a trained actor.
The leader relaxed his grimace. “That’s Malo. You don’t want to be around when he farts.”
The other two chuckled and Hiccock and Fuentes followed suit.
Hiccock returned to the car and reached in through the driver’s side window for the receipt stuck in the visor. “Here ya go. That’ll be $384, and the tip’s included.”
The leader looked puzzled. “Don’t we run a tab or something?”
Hiccock feigned checking the bill again. “No, no one mentioned that when they called it in. And it ain’t marked down here. See normally it would say ‘on account’ but …”
“Enough! I’m just picking this stuff up. I ain’t got 400 on me.”
“Well, who’s gonna pay for dinner, man?” Hiccock just stared. Suddenly he was in charge. He saw that the leader hated being in this situation. This guy probably wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet between Hiccock’s eyes if he made a run for the door, but present him with a socially uncomfortable scenario and the guy was reduced to a fumphering malcontent.
“Ah, shit. Hold on. I don’t need this sh …” The leader pulled out a radio and keyed it twice. “Come back, Gold.”
“Go blue,” the radio crackled.
“Pizza guy says we owe him for the delivery.”
“We ran a tab, I thought?”
The leader raised his eyebrows to Hiccock as if to say, see, I told you we had a tab. Hiccock played it out. “Listen, maybe you do have a tab. And with Joe being out and all, maybe this got screwed up. Tell ya what, maybe someone can put this on their credit card so my ass is covered, and tomorrow, if Joe says there’s a tab, we tear it up.”
The leader wasn’t going to make this decision, so he keyed the radio. “Gold, I’m going to bring this guy down to non-sec. Have someone meet us there to work this out.”
“Roger.”
Hiccock followed the leader into the building as the two guards with the dolly took up the rear.
Fuentes started to follow but the leader stopped him, “Hold on! How many guys does it take to get a credit card? Wait here.”
“I’m in training man. I’m supposed to go where he goes and follow him so I can learn. C’mon, Homes. I really need this job, bro.”
The guard stared, assessed, and then acquiesced. Fuentes followed.
The smell of the pizza quickly filled the small elevator as, contrary to Hiccock’s expectation, it descended. Hiccock and Fuentes emerged with the leader. They passed the back of two sliding glass doors with “aerA eruceS noN” stenciled across them. Hiccock reversed the letters in his mind. A woman in her late fifties came out of a sealed doorway that opened with a rush of air. The sound was reminiscent of those Hiccock heard in laboratories equipped with “clean rooms,” places where airborne contaminants were kept to one part in 100 million.
The woman produced a credit card and offered it to Hiccock. He blankly glanced at Fuentes then back at her. She jutted it toward him one more time, but he didn’t know what to do with the card. She prompted him again by stretching the card out further.
Fuentes jumped in and pulled a blank credit card form from his pocket, placed it over the card and, taking a pencil from the desk, rubbed it flat over the chemically treated, pressure sensitive paper, leaving an impression. “Cool. Thank you, Ma’am.” Fuentes handed it to her to sign, as Hiccock stood silently impressed that he had the presence of mind to bring the form. He must have done deliveries at one time.
They were leaving when the leader suddenly called out, “Hold it. Wait a minute.”
The two hesitated. Hiccock’s nerves tightened as he slowly pivoted, expecting to be looking down the barrel of a machine gun.
“Did you say your tip was included?”
Relieved, Hiccock smiled at Fuentes.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Two floors below, a guard hung up a wall phone and announced, “Pizza time!”
“Yeah, big deal,” Edmonds said.
“Gee, what a sourpuss. Just ’cause you can’t have any.”
“Go get your slice, ya pain in the ass.” As the guard headed off, Edmonds opened his shirt pocket and pulled out a bottle of diet pills. He popped one and took a drink from the water fountain. He hated the way these things made him feel, but he was carrying an extra sixteen pounds and his lieutenant was giving him shit over it. The one-bar-wonder even threatened to rotate him out if he didn’t shape up. The pills jazzed his system and took away the hunger, which helped him not eat as much. Especially when there were seductions like pizza around. Returning to his post, Edmonds’s metabolic rate started to climb, along with some of the negative side effects of Dihexemfemeral.