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courtesy of Bowser's bank card, but it was plain dumb luck that David happened
to have one in his pocket.
But the toll clerk accepted the bill without complaint, and counted over a
handful of bills and change in return, which Hamilton passed awkwardly to
David before hitting the gas and taking them across the bridge.
"So what sort of favor is it you owe Bitty?" David asked quietly, as the
glittering Delaware eased by beneath them and the bridge railings shot past
with soft, breezy sounds barely audible above the hoots and drumbeats on the
stereo.
Hamilton turned and looked hard at him for a moment before returning his eyes
to the road. "Got my mother into a hospice. She died last week."
"Oh. Hm sorry."
"Yeah,well, life's a bitch. Somebody had to take care of her, but both my
brothers are in jail. And I will be, too, the way things are going. That's the
life, I guess."
No, David wanted to say.
That's not the life. You don't have to be a criminal, you don't have to make
ends meet by stealing things.
But this man was helping him, and deserved better than to have his lifestyle
criticized that way. Come to think of it, David was a criminal now, too:
running from the law, stealing money from a dead friend, planning burglaries
... And if he'd had any choices anywhere along the line, they were not
immediately apparent.
"Society does kind of suck, doesn't it?" he said after a while.
"Indeed it does," Hamilton agreed. And then the river was behind them, and the
road signs were welcoming them to New Jersey, the Garden State, and David had
to stop philosophizing and start giving directions to the business they were
about to rob.
"This is it!" David whispered loudly, waving his flashlight beam around to get
Hamilton's attention. It flickered off the walls, the windows, the high,
girdered ceiling, the rows and rows of metal shelves. David was in heaven, in
a warehouse that held lab equipment and scientific instruments he'd kill to
obtain. Well, not literally, but. . . He'd passed all sorts of probes and
microscopes and X-ray crystallographs, still cherry, sealed up fresh in their
factory crates, and it had taken some non-negligible force of will to leave
these items where they were and keep searching. And in the end, the only
reason he hadn't found the
800-kilohertz workstation he wanted was because MFE Enterprises had already
upgraded to the faster model. They had two of them. "Ham, I found it!"
A head popped around corner of the row of metal shelves David had been
examining.
"Shut up!" Hamilton whispered back at him. "Jesus. Three things you need to
know: One, keep your voice down. Two, don't wave your flashlight where
somebody might see it. Three, don't ever call me Ham."
"I'm sorry," David said, more quietly. "But I've found the box I need."
And a lot of other stuff, oh yes. He should leave it, of course, all but the
workstation, if only to prove he was not really a criminal at heart. But damn,
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all this stuff was certainly insured, and Hamilton had cut a chain and some
alarm cables and pried open a padlocked door on their way in, so there was no
way the
robbery could remain a secret. The police would know about it soon enough, no
matter what was or wasn't stolen.
In fact, taking just the one item might look a little suspicious: one nanotech
scientist on the run, one nano-assembly workstation missing. Kind of obvious,
really. It might just make sense to steal a whole bunch of stuff, or even set
the whole building on fire so nobody would ever know what was missing.
Jesus, that was crazy. He was thinking like a maniac. And yet, the logic of it
was compelling, almost inescapable.
Reveal nothing, cover your tracks. . .
"Load it on the cart," Hamilton whispered, stepping forward and covering
David's flashlight with his hand. "Come on, do it; let's get out of here."
"Who's there!" a voice called out, echoing off the walls and ceiling.
Suddenly, a figure loomed down at the end of the row of shelves, holding
another flashlight and pointing it at David and Hamilton.
Shit, we're caught, David thought with surprising calm. He switched off his
flashlight, a heavy aluminum job like cops carried, and tried to decide which
way to run.
Hamilton's reaction was rather different: he pointed his own flashlight beam
directly at the newcomer (cop?
security guard?) and shouted, "They're behind you! Look out!" And then, before
he'd even finished speaking, he sprinted forward, raising his crowbar up in
the air and then bringing it down sharply on the top of the newcomer's skull.
It sounded just like a slap, like an open hand connecting with somebody's
cheek, sharp but not really very loud. The security guard for in Hamilton's
light beam David could clearly see now that that was who had surprised
them crumpled to the floor, grunting. David thought for sure the guy had been
knocked out
or killed, Hamilton had hit him so hard, but in a moment the man grunted
again, and continued grunting. And groaning, and finally screaming, quietly
and with great apparent effort, as he lay in the pool of Hamilton's flashlight
beam.
David could see a wire no, a pair of wires-connecting Hamilton's bicep to some
small object on the floor, beside the fallen guard. A taser? Presently,
Hamilton tucked the crowbar under his arm, and reached up to pluck the wires
out.
"Ow! Mutha fuckah," David heard Hamilton say in a thick ghetto accent that was
not his natural voice.
"You put a couple needles in me. I got holes in my arm; I'm bleedin'! You
lucky you didn't juice me, muthah; you'd really be payin'."
He kicked the guard sharply, then turned and looked up at David. "Hey Lerone,
grab somethin' and let's get out of here."
Hurriedly, not pausing to think, David grabbed up the heavy box that contained
his workstation, and threw it down ungently on the hand truck. Hamilton left
the guard behind and ran back toward David, switching his flashlight off as he
went. "Come on, come on! Push it!"
Hamilton passed him, and David ran after, pushing the squeaky cart out ahead
of him. He followed
Hamilton out the exit, not bothering to throw the door closed behind him. Out
in the yard, floodlights mounted on the building's sides cast bright pools of
light and shadow. David could see his breath in the lights as he ran, so he
made for the shadows and pushed for all he was worth, toward the open gate in
the chain-link fence, toward the blue van, parked over there in the deep
shadows out on the street.
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Shit, there could be cops here any second.
Hamilton had the van's tailgate open for him when he got there, and he clanged
the hand truck to a stop
against the fender, grabbed up the box, tried now to be gentle as he lifted
and hoisted it into the back of the van. It wouldn't do to go through all this
and then damage the fucking workstation.
As Hamilton ran around front to get in and start the engine, David slammed the
tailgate, then cursed and opened it again, picked up the hand truck, and put
it inside.
Leave nothing behind, especially if it's got your damn fingerprints on it!
Only when they were finally underway and moving safely out of the
neighborhood, the dark, curvy streets lined with muddy lots and chain-link
fences giving way gradually to storefronts and apartment buildings, did David
finally let himself get angry.
"What the fuck were you doing back there?" he screamed at Hamilton. In the
darkness, spittle flew from his lips, landing on the stereo's brightly lit
buttons and dials.
Hamilton looked at him in confusion, as if David had said something stupid,
something nonsensical.
"What? Oh, you mean. . . If it's dark and you're doing something bad, you
always pretend to be a Negro.
They'll always believe you, right? They'll remember you as a Negro;
they'll swear they saw your black face looking out at them."
"You hit the guard," David said, genuinely shocked and outraged. He'd hit
people in his life, probably hurt one or two in the past few days, but in [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]