Who Dat

Before my Promotion, I was a contract agent for the Company, and at the time, there didn't seem to be much hope of advancement. I had been assigned to Operation Orchid, one of the loonier of the Company's projects. The reports I sent back to the Director had green covers stamped Exdis, which meant that they couldn't be distributed wantonly back at the Company. If Orchid had been a vital assignment that decided the fate of the free world, the reports would have been stamped Nodis, meaning No Distribution. "Burn before reading," if you know what I mean.

Anyway, the Deputy Director for Information patted his computer one day in 1985, asked it nicely to mull over all the information crammed into it, and a few hours later, it spat out a watch list of only one name. This target lived in Kansas City, Missouri.

I initiated a covert intelligence-gathering operation in Kansas City. I proceeded slowly and carefully, because I'd been told by my case officer that we could not tolerate any sort of negative blowback from my investigation. Therefore, the entire project had to remain undercover, but it left me with four equally effective options: harassment, intimidation, deception and disinformation.

I'm not really the (continued on page 132)Who Dat(continued from page 124) harassment-and-intimidation type, so in Kansas City, I went with deception.

The target's name was Nick Ginsberg. When I began, all I knew about him was that he worked at Middleton Lanes, unjamming pin spotters and polishing the alleys. I began casually, not even looking at Ginsberg on the three nights a week that I bowled. When I started, I averaged about 140. Weeks later, when I felt it was time to initiate direct activity, my average had climbed to 185, which is pretty respectable, if you ask me. The secret to bowling is consistency, and the secret to consistency is practice. I mentioned this improvement to my case officer once, and he responded with a complete lack of interest.

One evening, after bowling four lines---including an exhilarating game of 220---I casually asked Ginsberg how I'd go about joining one of the weekly leagues that tied up most of the lanes every night. We talked about a few other things after that, and then I steered the conversation to the topic of the lanes themselves. I told Ginsberg that they were maintained better than any other bowling alley I'd ever seen.

He smiled. "Thank you," he said. "It's a heavy responsibility. You'll notice in most bowling alleys, the left-handers have a distinct advantage, because there's fewer of them, and so the wax on their side of the lane doesn't get worn away as quickly as the right-handers'. I've created a method of waxing that automatically compensates for that."

I raised my eyebrows. "That's wonderful," I said. I feigned admiration. That was part of the process.

I cultivated Ginsberg's friendship over the next few months. My average settled at the 185 level, but sometimes I turned in scores of 240 or better.

We'd reached phase three, and I was now having a few beers in the lounge with my subject, gradually extracting the relevant data, when disaster struck: The Kansas City Royals made it into the World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals. The so-called I-70 Series. It became immediately clear to me that Kansas City was a dead end. I packed my belongings, sent terminal reports on the Kansas City intrusion to my case officer and the director of Operation Orchid and got on the next plane to Virginia. It took almost four years for the DDI's computer to select another target, and in the meantime, I worked on a few other top-secret operations. Finally, though, the computer came up with a name and address in Detroit.

I'd never been excited about the Motor City as a place to spend a few months, but my preferences weren't at all important. The new target was Sheila Giff, a white female, aged 22, with brown eyes and naturally brown hair subject to change, who worked as an image coordinator in a beauty shop called The Hairport in Royal Oak.

The Hairport was in a large mall, and so, initially, I browsed through the bookstores and software shops for half an hour, making a few small purchases. Then I went into The Hairport and asked for a cut and style.

While Sheila Giff cut and styled my hair, she kept up a running conversation. I couldn't hear a word above the obnoxious whine of her blow drier. A television was on in the shop, and the Detroit Pistons were playing the San Antonio Spurs. I watched for a while, and then I began to feel a warning prickling at the back of my neck. When she turned the drier off, Sheila Giff said, "Are you a basketball fan?"

"Not really," I said.

"Well," said Giff, "you must be excited by how well the Pistons are doing this year."

I laughed. "Lions and Tigers and Pistons, oh, my. They'll fold. They always fold."

She just raised her eyebrows and shot some spray at me. By the time I came back from the men's room, having combed my hair back the way I usually wear it, the Pistons had won, 102--99. And that season, they went all the way, defeating the Los Angeles Lakers for the N.B.A. championship. It was a good thing I hadn't wasted time getting to know Sheila Giff. I went back to the office a few days later and caught up on paperwork while the DDI's computer considered its next choice.

•

It took the computer a year to identify the next target. His name was Earl P. Lasson and he lived in New Orleans. New Orleans! The Big Easy! The City that Care Forgot! I had a good feeling about Lasson from the very beginning.

I landed at New Orleans International Airport. It was overcast and windy, and the shock of the damp air hit me as soon as I crossed from the plane to the walkway. I felt as if I'd been squeezed from a tube into a pot of water at the simmer. Near 90 degrees, near 90 percent humidity.

I grabbed a cab and gave the driver the address of the safe house the New Orleans section had booked me into. It took about 25 minutes to get there and, in the meantime, I removed my suit coat, then my tie, then I rolled up my sleeves, and then I grumpily squirmed in the back seat, trying to unstick the sodden shirt from my back. There was a peculiar smell in the air; it took me a while to identify it, but when I did, I added a new nickname to New Orleans' collection. The Mildew Capital of the World.

The house was on Prytania Street, near the intersection of Napoleon Avenue. It was a beautiful part of town, quiet and peaceful, with many wonderful old houses and plenty of tall, arching palm trees. The New Orleans section had thoughtfully left me a Ford LTD in the driveway. The keys were in the cookie jar, as usual.

I unfolded a large map of the New Orleans area and found Esteban Street in a suburb called Arabi. All the way to Lasson's house, the same tune kept running through my head: "I'm the sheik of Arabi. I'm as weird as weird can be." And so forth. My future as a lyricist appeared dim, but my covert agent's sixth sense predicted that I'd soon find what Operation Orchid was looking for. If so, I was in for rewards and citations and pats on the back from all sorts of anonymous middle-echelon file clerks.

The Earl P. Lasson estate was a comfortable one-story white house with green trim and green shutters. There was a young palm tree on the lawn and sharp Spanish-dagger plants like a skirt around the house. I followed a flagstone walk leading to a three-step stoop, where I pressed the doorbell and waited.

In a little while, a harried-looking woman came to the door, with a little boy clutching one of her legs and a pretty blonde girl with chocolate streaked all over her face clutching the other. "Yes," said the woman warily.

"Hello," I said. "Is this the Earl P. Lasson residence?"

"Yes, it is, but he's not here right now."

I nodded. "When do you expect him home?"

The woman gave a sad sniffle. "Not for months," she said. "Maybe not for years." A single tear rolled slowly from the corner of her left eye.

Well, you can bet that wasn't an answer I was prepared for. Quickly, I reviewed my options. Neither harassment nor intimidation was indicated (continued on page 142)Who Dat(continued from page 132) here. Deception and disinformation were likewise unattractive choices. This looked like the time for that most terrifying option of all: individual initiative. It was something I'd never before tried.

I gave Mrs. Lasson one of my Company cards and waited a few seconds. Finally, she looked up at me in confusion. "No need to worry, Mrs. Lasson," I said. "I'm a covert agent looking for your husband."

Her eyes opened wide. "Why do you want Earl?" she said fearfully.

I chuckled in a friendly way. "We think Earl might be able to help us. I assure you, if he decides to go along with our plan, he will be a great hero and a defender of the American Way."

"Won't ... won't you come in, Mr. Smith?" That's the name I had on my card. John Smith.

I smiled again and plucked the card out of her hand. "Could you just tell me where I could find Earl?" I asked.

Mrs. Lasson just shrugged. "I suppose he's down by the Superdome. That's where he usually is this time of day."

"The Superdome," I said. It made a kind of sense. I thanked Mrs. Lasson for her help and went back to my car. Later, when I cabled my report back to the DDI, I was reprimanded for employing truth, but all demerits were suspended pending the outcome of my experiment.

I decided that I'd done enough work for one day. I drove myself back to the safe house on Prytania Street. Along the way, I stopped and got myself half a dozen of those little square hamburgers and a root-beer float. Some people call those burgers "sliders," but after I'd gulped down four of them, I recalled what we used to call them as kids---"deathballs." They were great going down, but then they'd wreak heavy vengeance on your digestive tract. I ate the last two burgers rather than throw them out, and then I stretched out on the bed and watched a couple of movies on cable. Tomorrow would be soon enough to search out Mr. Earl P. Lasson.

•

From late spring to late fall, New Orleans has the same weather report every day. It goes something like this: Highs in the 90s, humidity around 80 to 90 percent, a 50 percent chance of rain. Day after day after day. But I've gotten to like flat cities with palm trees. Except Phoenix. There's no excuse for Phoenix.

About noon, I got in the LTD and drove toward the Louisiana Superdome, the 2124th Wonder of the World, ranking just after some monstrous Islamic mosque that some sheik is building on some coast somewhere. I had to stop and get directions, but I found the Dome easily enough. It was hard to miss. The building's so big you could put the Houston Astrodome inside on the floor. Of course, you couldn't get the Astrodome through the doors, so you'd have to disassemble it first and rebuild it inside the Super-dome, and then, after all that work, what would you have? Well, maybe the 2125th Wonder of the World.

Anyway, I spotted what I believed to be the target's vehicle, an elderly blue Chevy Vega with big dents in all of its doors and most of the external area covered with primer. A rear window had been broken and the space was now covered with gray duct tape. The bumpers were covered with stickers proclaiming the owner to be a fan of the Tulane Green Wave, as hapless a team as any. One corner of the rear window was covered by an orange sign that said, Who Dat Say Dey Gonna Beat Dem Saints? The answer, apparently, was, "Most of the teams in the N.F.L."

The car was parked in the middle of a gigantic parking lot. It was all alone. There wouldn't be an event in the Superdome for at least three days. I drove into the lot and parked my car about 50 yards from my target. Then I got out, removed my suit coat, stretched and ambled in a friendly, helpful, confident way toward the Chevy.

When I was about ten yards from it, a man opened the driver's door and looked at me. "You a cop?" he asked me.

"Nope," I said, smiling. Well, I wasn't, not in the way he meant. "You Earl P. Lasson?"

"You a collection agent? You from the Superdome management again? Want to boot my car or tow it away?"

I waved a hand. "None of that," I said.

"Sure," said Lasson, shaking his head. He pulled his door shut, revved his engine and screamed out of the parking lot. I thought about his accent. All-American. Real New Orleans types sound as if they'd been born and raised in Brooklyn. But the computer had pegged Lasson as a Cleveland boy.

•

I decided to wait a few days before I confronted Lasson again, just to keep him off balance. I did some sight-seeing around New Orleans instead. The first evening, I strolled up and down Bourbon Street and listened to music blaring out of the night clubs. I went into a strip club that advertised topless and bottomless dancers. I didn't see any. One of the women came over and sat next to me. "Where are the topless and bottomless dancers?" I asked.

"That's us," she said. "Except for the pasties, we're topless, and except for the G strings, we're bottomless."

She asked me to buy her a champagne cocktail, and I bought her a Coke. She thanked me and moved away.

Two days later, I made the second approach. I parked my car in a lot on Poydras Street and walked a few blocks to the Superdome parking area. It was very hot and I took off my suit coat. I tried to look casual and nonthreatening as I walked up to my target's car. When I got there, I leaned down and rested one arm alongside his open window. "Sure is hot, isn't it?" As soon as I spoke the words, I realized I should've said, "Ain't it?"

"Plenty hot," said Lasson.

"You got air conditioning in this car?"

"Nope."

"What you doing in there, then?"

"Sufferin' like a stuck pig," said Lasson. "What you doin' out there?"

I gave him a well-controlled little chuckle. "See, when you zoomed off the other day, you never gave me the chance to explain myself. I'm from the census." I hated to lie. It was the part of my job that made me the most uneasy. I still remember Reverend Sawicki in my confirmation class telling us we should never lie under any circumstances.

"The census, huh?" said Lasson dubiously.

"Yes, sir," I said.

My target looked me over slowly.

"Census, huh?" he said.

"You bet." My face was getting tired of smiling.

"So where's your clipboard?"

That came out of nowhere. "Huh?" I said.

"You ain't got a clipboard. I don't even see a pencil. How you gonna interview me, no clipboard and no pencil?"

"Well-----" I didn't get to say anything more, because he put his car in (continued on page 172)Who Dat(continued from page 142) gear and raced out of the parking lot, just as he'd done the first time. It was just as Reverend Sawicki always said: There is no profit in deceit.

"'You've got two choices. Relax and let me interview you or get booted so you won't be able to move."'

•

I waited another three days. I wasn't discouraged by my failure so far. Most operations begin with frustrations. I spent the time watching movies on cable, and I used my contacts to get an appointment with the New Orleans chief of police. We brainstormed for a few minutes and came up with what we agreed was a bulletproof plan. We were speaking metaphorically.

We waited until Monday morning to spring the trap. I rode in an unmarked car, leading the way for four patrol cars. We cruised to the Superdome, and when we were near enough, all five units turned on their sirens and flashing blue lights. When we got to the parking lot. I saw Earl P. Lasson in his car, just sitting quietly, as usual. I directed my driver to pull over beside the exit and I waited while the four other units roared into the lot. They squealed to a stop around my target, one patrol car in front of his blue Chevy Vega, one on each side and one behind him. He was caught now, and he'd have to listen to me.

I got out of my white, unmarked Ford LTD and strolled toward Lasson's car. I had a good feeling. I believed that Operation Orchid would soon rack up its first success. I leaned against the unit parked to my target's left. The sirens were off, but the blue lights on the units' roofs were still flashing.

"Knew you was a cop," said Lasson, spitting out the window near my feet.

"Mr. Lasson," I said in a cold voice, "I am not a police officer. I've told you that before."

"Then who are all these guys in the blue shirts? Eagle scouts?"

"I've brought them with me." I said, "because on the previous two attempts to interview you, you proved to be recalcitrant."

"What's that mean?"

"Stupid," I said, my expression like stone.

"Well, I sure do feel stupid, sitting here with these cops all around me."

I nodded and reached into the patrol unit for the radio. I gave orders that the unmarked car should block the exit and all the police officers in the other cars should move away. I needed to be alone with my target.

"That better?" I asked him.

Lasson gave a bitter laugh. "Not so's you'd notice," he said. "I can't move an inch.

"Well, you've got two choices, as I see it. You can relax and let me interview you or you can get booted so you won't be able to move, even after the cops leave."

"If I don't help you out, you gonna boot my car?" said Lasson with a frown. "So's I'll be stuck here night and day till I cooperate?"

"Exactly."

"You moron!" Lasson cried. "Sittin' here night and day is what I been doin' for the last seven years! I don't care about your goddamn boot!"

I thought about what he'd said, and I realized that he was correct. "Well, along with booting your car, we have a few other tricks up our sleeves that I hoped we wouldn't have to use."

"What are you?" asked Lasson. "FBI?"

I showed him my Company identification, and he gave a little gasp. "May I get in your car and ask a few questions?"

"Don't know how. These cop cars are parked pretty damn close on all sides."

I opened the car door several inches, managed to squeeze through the narrow opening and into the blue Vega. I was breathing hard when I sat beside my target.

"You made it," said Lasson. "I'll give you credit for that."

"Give the credit to the excellent training program the Company provides."

"Sure, what you say. Now, what's this all about? And don't give me no story about the census."

I nodded. "I have to admit that I tried deception on you last time. You were very clever to see through my disguise. Still, I had several other options, including intimidation and harassment. I could get the IRS to pay you a visit here in this parking lot. Or I could threaten physical intimidation on you or your lovely wife."

"What you know about Anna Marie?" he snarled.

I shrugged. "Please understand: Your wife is not our target. You are. If you decide to be uncooperative, we'll have to use your wife as a wedge. If you catch my meaning."

Lasson closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "And this is mental intimidation, right?"

"Exactly." I said happily. "It's good that you're familiar with our techniques."

"All right, all right, I give up. I know when I'm beat. What you want to know?"

"First, tell me a little something about yourself."

My target sighed. "Starting when?"

"Well, when you were a kid. Where were you born?"

"Cleveland," said Lasson. "I was born in Cleveland in 1947. That was way back when the town called itself The Best Location in the Nation. Then it turned into The Mistake by the Lake, but lately, everybody there calls it The North Coast. I still wouldn't use the beaches along the lake front, though."

"How long did you live in Cleveland?"

He leaned back from the wheel and stretched. "Right after I graduated high school, I went to Las Vegas, where I made a pretty good living betting on big-league baseball, basketball and football games.

"Then I met Anna Marie, and she hated Las Vegas. We got married and moved to a nice neighborhood in Queens, New York."

I didn't think all this was getting us anywhere useful. "Does all that tie together to explain what you're doing here in this parking lot?"

He nodded sadly, then he reached under his seat. My hand immediately went to the police special I had in my jacket, but Lasson just came up with a cellophane package. He'd eaten one Twinkie, but the second one had been mashed flat and forgotten. It had gotten moldy and it looked horrible. "'Like the sands of an hourglass,"' Lasson intoned, "'so are the days of our lives."' Then he tossed the Twinkie out his window: it hit the patrol car beside us and plopped to the ground.

"You watch that show, too?" I asked with some interest.

"Not so much the last couple of years. Say, did Steve and Kayla ever get married?"

"Yeah." I said enthusiastically, "and they had a daughter, but she's been kidnaped. And after all that, Steve's a stiff now, too."

"Uh-huh," said Lasson with a shrug, "poor Kayla. Just like Kim and Shane's kid got kidnaped. I swear they only got five plots there. They got the kid-getting-kidnaped plot, they got the five-day-coma plot, they got the innocent-person-tried-for-murder plot, they got the evil-twin plot and they got the amnesia plot. Ever know anybody that got amnesia? On TV, you're not a real character till you get amnesia at least once."

I was enjoying the conversation, but it wasn't helping me get at the truth. "Now, Earl," I said, "can you tell me briefly what the hell you're doing here all the time?" I called him by his first name to foster confidence. That was a Company-approved technique.

"'Cause long as I'm out here, I'll pretend the ball ain't come down."

"I don't understand what you mean, Earl," I said in a friendly way.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It all started in 1983. It was the last game of the season for the Saints. Now, you gotta remember that the Saints had been around for seventeen years and they'd never had a winning season. They had the worst cumulative winning percentage in history."

I stroked my chin, radiating understanding and acceptance, even though I still didn't have the faintest idea what the hell he was talking about. "All right." I said thoughtfully, "we're in 1983 and the Saints are losing."

He got very excited. "That's just it! The last game of the season, the Saints were playin' the Los Angeles Rams, and if the Saints won, it'd be the first winning season for them, and they would've made the play-offs for the first time. Every other team had been in the playoffs except the Saints, including crummy newcomers like Tampa Bay. You know the Buccaneers started off their first couple of years with an amazing losing streak? And guess who they finally beat for their first-ever win? The Saints!"

"Well," I said slowly, "I see you're a passionate Saints fan, but I still don't see why you're living your life in self-enforced solitude here in this hot parking lot."

"Here comes the hard part," said my target, looking me squarely in the eye. "In the fourth quarter, the Saints were ahead 24--23. No such luck. The Rams got the ball back and marched down the field like nobody's tryin' to stop 'em. Maybe that was the truth. Maybe the Saints were as good as nobody. Anyway, there's only five or six seconds left in the game, and the Rams decide they're in field-goal range. Soon as they call time to set up for the kick. I jumped up and ran out of the Superdome. I didn't want to watch it. I didn't want to be a part of it. I went to my car and sat there. While later, crowds came out of the Dome, all lookin' kind of glum."

"Uh-huh," I said.

"Don't you see?" said Lasson fiercely. "I can guess that Mike Lansford made that forty-two-yard field goal, and the Rams won 26--24, and the Saints settled for a .500 season. I can imagine that's what happened, but I have no hard evidence. Far as I know, the ball might still be in the air, as if real life stopped the second Lansford's foot touched the ball. And I'm going to stay here---sort of like I'm suspended in time---till the Saints not only make the play-offs but go to the Super Bowl. They don't even have to win the big game---I'll be satisfied if they make it that far."

That was just plain screwy. "You might have a long wait," I said.

He nodded. "I know, but I sworn my oath."

"That's a hell of a commitment you've made."

Lasson sighed. "What else can a poor man do?"

That might be just the angle I needed. "How are you living and supporting your family?"

"We been living' on my savings from the good years in Las Vegas. But the savings are runnin' a little thin about now."

He was so crazy, he just might be the man I was looking for. "Have you always been such a devoted fan?"

"Devoted? Devoted?" he cried. "I was born in Cleveland, right? In 1947, so I was seven years old in 1954."

He looked at me as if those words were especially significant. I didn't know what he meant.

He saw my blank look and went on. "In 1954, my hometown team, the Cleveland Indians, won the pennant. The whole city was excited. I never paid much attention to baseball before, but in '54. I couldn't get away from it. I still remember those players: Vic Wertz and Larry Doby and Al Rosen. And the starting pitchers were brilliant: Mike Garcia, Bob Feller, Early Wynn and Bob Lemon. It was a thrilling time, and at the age of seven, I'd never been thrilled before."

"That's what first interested you in sports, huh?"

"It was the curse of doom."

"Why do you call it that?" I asked.

His face flushed. "Because the damn Indians went to the World Series and lost it four games in a row. And the next couple of years, they finished second, and then they finished sixth, and pretty soon, they were in their famous slide down into the pit of losers. They ain't never won another goddamn pennant in better 'n thirty-five years."

"But you moved away from Cleveland. Why are you so upset about the Indians?"

His expression was anguished. "Can't help it! Every year. I cheer for the Indians, and every year, they break my heart. I tried to cure it by movin' to New York with Anna Marie. I got there in '66, just in time to catch the Mets' ninth-place finish. I even turned to the Yankees for some relief, but they were even worse---tenth out of ten. In '67, they traded places, the Mets goin' to tenth place and the Yankees to ninth. The followin' year, the Yanks finished fifth, the Mets ninth."

"What did you do? Sit in your car outside Shea Stadium?"

He squinted and said, "Are you makin' fun of me?"

I raised both hands. "Not at all. I want to know what you did."

Lasson spat out the window. "Let Anna Marie talk me into moving South. Now, I love New Orleans, but they said fifteen years ago, when they opened the Superdome, that we'd have a major-league team move here any minute. It never happened. So I started followin' football and basketball."

"In 1969?" I said.

"Yeah," Lasson said dreamily, "the year of the Miracle Mets, who waited until I left town to win the World Series. And now here, without a local baseball team. I watch the Cubs on cable."

"The Cubs?" It made me shudder. The Cubs, who last won the series in 1908, made the Cleveland Indians look like a success story. "What about hoops and football?"

My target laughed without humor. "We had a basketball team here, the Jazz. An expansion team, so it wasn't much good the first couple of seasons. We had Pete Maravich, though, and he was wonderful to see. Then the management got fed up and moved the team from the Dome to Salt Lake City. 'The Utah Jazz.' ain't that crazy? I mean, Chicago is the toddlin' town. I don't think there's a single person in Salt Lake City who knows how to toddle."

"When the Jazz left New Orleans, it must have hurt."

"My inside's been torn up so many times by these godmamn teams, I should be used to it by now. But I'm not. It's not anything you can get used to. Your hopes go up early in the season, then you hang on to the bitter end, and you hope maybe next season. Since 1954, I've never had a good next season."

I thought I detected a tear about to fall from his left eye. "And now all you've got are the Saints, and your car and your oath."

He took a deep, sad breath. "And a terrific wife who understands and supports me."

There was silence in the car after that, and I let it go on longer, to deepen the mood of despair. Then I said, "You know, it almost sounds as if your presence---or even your fannish interest---is enough to jinx these teams."

He nodded glumly. "I'd go somewhere else, 'cause I know as soon as I do, the Saints'll have a terrific year and get to the Super Bowl. I'd do it for them, but I don't want to curse some other team."

"Maybe you don't have to." I said. "Maybe I can help you out."

He looked at me dubiously. "What you mean?"

I took out some folded papers from the inside pocket of my suit coat. "Look." I said, flattening the pages against my knees. "I represent a small, supersecret branch of the Company. We've been working on Operation Orchid for several years now. First we correlated sports results with the movements of certain citizens. We've identified a few other people who have your---ah--talent, but just as I was about to recruit them, their teams suddenly blossomed into winners. You're the first field contact I've made who appears to be the real thing."

"You want to recruit me?" said Lasson. "What for?"

I showed a waiver form he'd have to sign before we could do an in-depth background check on him and his wife. There were some medical forms, too. "Don't hesitate to ask any questions you might have," I told him.

"Well, what kind of job is this?"

I clasped his shoulder firmly with my left hand. "You can take this job and be a national hero, though a secret national hero, or you can decline and I'll take the next plane out of New Orleans."

Lasson nodded and repeated. "What kind of job?"

"We want you to go live in Beijing," I said. "Or Havana or any number of places in the Middle East. We'll pay you a good salary---and we'll pick up one hundred percent of your living expenses. You'll be able to join the American community in these capital cities, and you'll be able to live there without giving up one bit of the quality of life you cherish here."

Lasson stared through the windshield. "Sounds too good to be true," he said.

I smiled. "Don't give me an answer now. Take the papers home and discuss it all with Anna Marie."

"If I say no, will your Company waste us? Just for knowing about all this?"

I lifted a hand. "All that kind of stuff is just in the movies. We wouldn't kill you, we're your country!" I gave him my card with my real telephone number on it and got out of his car. I used the radio in one of the patrol cars to get the police officers to clear away for Lasson's Vega. He started his blue Chevy and headed for the exit. I waved the unmarked car away and Lasson headed home.

A few days later, after I'd gotten his call of acceptance, I packed my bags and headed to the airport. I was going on to Atlanta. Atlanta's sports teams are about as pitiful as one could hope. They had a contest recently to choose a slogan for the Braves. One of the entries read. "Go, Braves! And take the damn Falcons with you!"

Atlanta. My kind of town.

"The new target was Sheila Giff, a white female, 22, with brown eyes and brown hair subject to change."

"'Where are the bottomless dancers?' I asked. 'That's us,' she said. She asked me for champagne."