Free Wild Cards V by George R. R. Martin

another bottle of Chianti.”
    Mazzucchelli raised his hand, snapped his fingers. A waiter rushed into the room.
    Linguini, e una bottiglia ,” he said. “Chianti.”
    The man hurried off. Croyd rubbed his hands together, to the accompaniment of a faint crackling sound.
    â€œThe one who just left…,” Mazzucchelli said at length. “Bludgeon.…”
    â€œYes?” Croyd said, after an appropriate wait.
    â€œHe’ll make a good soldier,” Mazzucchelli finished.
    Croyd nodded. “I suppose so.”
    â€œBut you, you have some skills besides what the virus gave you. I understand you are a pretty good second-story man. You knew old Bentley.”
    Croyd nodded again. “He was my teacher. I knew him back when he was a dog. You seem to know more about me than most people do.”
    Mazzucchelli removed his toothpick, sipped his beer. “That’s my business,” he said after a time, “knowing things. That’s why I don’t want to send you off to be a soldier.”
    The waiter returned with a plate of linguini, a glass, and a bottle, which he proceeded to uncork. He passed Croyd a setting from the next booth. Croyd immediately began to eat with a certain manic gusto that Mazzucchelli found vaguely unsettling.
    Croyd paused long enough to ask, “So what is it you’ve got in mind for me?”
    â€œSomething a little more subtle, if you’re the right man for it.”
    â€œSubtle. I’m right for subtle,” Croyd said.
    Mazzucchelli raised a finger. “First,” he said, “one of those things we talk about before we talk about other things.”
    Observing the speed with which Croyd’s plate was growing empty, he snapped his fingers again and the waiter rushed in with another load of linguini.
    â€œWhat thing?” Croyd asked, pushing aside the first plate as the second slid into place before him.
    Mazzucchelli laid his hand on Croyd’s left arm in an almost fatherly fashion and leaned forward. “I understand you got problems,” he said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI have heard that you are into speed,” Mazzucchelli observed, “and that every now and then you become a raging maniac, killing people, destroying property, and wreaking general havoc until you run out of steam or some ace who knows you takes pity and puts you down for the count.”
    Croyd laid his fork aside and quaffed a glass of wine.
    â€œThis is true,” he said, “though it is not something I enjoy talking about.”
    Mazzucchelli shrugged. “Everybody has the right to a little fun every now and then,” he stated. “I ask only for business reasons. I would not like to have you act this way if you were working for me on something sensitive.”
    â€œThe behavior of which you’ve heard is not an indulgence,” Croyd explained. “It becomes something of a necessity, though, after I’ve been awake a certain period of time.”
    â€œUh—you anywhere near that point yet?”
    â€œNowhere near,” Croyd replied. “There’s nothing to worry about for a long while.”
    â€œIf I was to hire you, I’d rather I didn’t worry about it at all. Now, it’s no good asking somebody not to be a user. But I want to know this: Have you got enough sense when you start on the speed that you can take yourself off of my work? Then go crash and burn someplace not connected with what you’re doing for me?”
    Croyd studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I see what you mean,” he said. “If that’s what the job calls for, sure, I can do it. No problem.”
    â€œWith that understanding, I want to hire you. It’s a little more subtle than breaking heads, though. And it isn’t any sort of simple burglary either.”
    â€œI’ve done lots of odd things,” Croyd said, “and lots of subtle things. Some of them have