Live Bait by Ted Wood Page B

it. He took out a fin. "When did you get out?" he repeated, making a Clark Gable grin and holding out the five bucks. I said nothing and he waved the five at me. "Out of prison, the joint, the slammer, the bucket?"
    "Yesterday," I said, eying the money the way he expected.
    "And I'll bet you haven't had a drink since, have you. Here. Go have a beer on me. Or will you go and tell the same story at the next lawyer's office you pass. Let me see, five dollars an hour, that's better than you'd make working."
    I reached out for the bill. "Thanks, does this mean I'm hired?"
    He tugged the bill a fraction of an inch from my outstretched fingers, his voice as scratchy as fingernails on a blackboard as he hissed, "There is no job. There is no Tony, none I've ever heard of, anyway. And there is no point in your remaining here. If you want a drink, take the five dollars but don't come here again, you frighten my help."
    I flipped the bill out of his fingers. "But I don't frighten you, right?"
    "Go," he said savagely. "This is the sum and total of my charity towards unemployed hoodlums. Understood?"
    "Yeah. Thanks again." I winked and waved the bill at him and stood up. He was furious at me and at his own restrictive body that prevented his coming around the desk and throwing me out with his own hands. I might have felt sorry for him but too many of my own buddies had ended up in worse physical shape than his. Men I had served with had wound up in wheelchairs, in life-support systems. They had lost hands, feet, sexuality, life itself. He was whole—twisted, but whole—and I had an instinctive policeman's feeling that he was into something ugly, headfirst.
    I touched the five to my forehead in a salute that was only a shade too slow to be formal. "Thanks for the fin, sorry'a take up so mucha your time." I nodded and backed out of the door.
    The bullpen area outside was deserted. There were four desks and a number of typing stations and filing cabinets and one computer terminal. Earlier it had been a beehive. Now it was empty except for me. I folded the bill up tight between my fingers as I glanced around. On top of one of the cabinets there was a glass jar with no top. It had coins in it. I stepped out of my way towards the door and stuffed the five dollars into it. Behind me I heard Yin Su say, "Just a minute. What are you doing?"
    She came over and looked into the jar. It was courageous, I thought. She was alone except for her handicapped boss. If I'd turned ugly she would have been helpless. She looked up, pulling out my five dollars. "You really put money in here?"
    "Surplus to requirements," I told her and she grinned at me as if we were old workmates.
    "That's the office swearbox," she said, "a nickel a word. You have a hundred curses owing to you now."
    "I guess I'm already over budget in your books."
    "No." She shook her head firmly. "You never said anything bad. If you want your money back, I will understand." She was still acting out her role as employee, office faithful. The link between us was as fragile as the first line of a new spiderweb, a breath might break it.
    "I want to apologize for acting like a slob. I had a job to do." Maybe Cy Straight was listening, I didn't care. I already had enough of a feeling to know I would be following him later. The anger he had shown was a whiff of fear.
    "You must have an unusual job," she said. She had the ability to talk straight but disarm me with a smile that wasn't even a smile at all.
    "It's done now. I was wondering if I could ask you to share a cup of coffee, something, and give me a chance to explain what I do normally."
    She straightened up, suddenly formal. "Really, I understand. You don't have to explain," she said.
    "I'd like to. My name is Reid Bennett and I usually behave much better, I'd like the chance to demonstrate for you."
    She laughed, one quick pure note. Behind her the door of Cy Straight's office clicked shut. He had been listening. I wondered why, running