Free Revolution Number 9 by Peter Abrahams Page B

news he passed on through the mail, to keep things pleasant. Now, at ten-thirty on a morning in May, with the sun glaring through his dusty windows, Nuncio dialed Brucie Wine’s number. It rang many times before Brucie answered it, somewhat reducing Nuncio’s enthusiasm.
    “Yeah?” said Brucie, his voice thick and sleepy. Then came a horrible sound that Nuncio realized was throat clearing. He held the phone away from his ear, as though germs might be speeding through the wire.
    “Good news,” Nuncio said.
    “Huh?” said Brucie. “Are you tryna sell me somethin’?”
    “It’s me,” said Nuncio. “Mr. Nuncio.”
    “Oh, hi.”
    “I’ve got good news.”
    “What about?”
    “Your case,” Nuncio said. “They bought it. You’re off the hook.”
    “Meaning?”
    Meaning?
How, thought Nuncio, had he been unclear? “Meaning they dropped the charges in return for the tip. You can resume normal life.” Nuncio then made the mistake of adding, “Or not, as the case may be.”
    “Huh?”
    Nuncio sighed. “You’re in the clear, Brucie. Let’s leave it at that.”
    “Whatever you say.” Brucie hung up. No thank-you, no good-bye. Nuncio switched on his Dictaphone. Could a clientsue his lawyer on the grounds that he had failed to understand that he was no longer under indictment? Probably. Nuncio dictated a letter to Brucie spelling out the good news.
    · · ·
    Brucie’s arrest had not been, as Brucie thought, a matter of random bad luck, or even, as Nuncio thought, the inevitable result of Brucie’s stupidity. The truth was that Brucie had an enemy he knew nothing about.
    Brucie’s enemy stood just under five two and weighed 103 pounds. Rodolfo Chang had always wanted to be a cop, but he was far too small and so he settled for a job as a field agent for the INS. He had a master’s in criminology from San Francisco State, spoke Spanish, Mandarin, and Cantonese, and worked twelve hours a day, seven days a week. What made him so dedicated was the existence of his many cousins, aunts, and uncles, none of whom he had ever met, in Mexico and China. They were always seeking his help in coming to the United States. Rodolfo Chang steered them impartially toward the proper channels, forwarding all necessary documents at his own expense and advising patience. The thought of these desperate and poor cousins, aunts, and uncles, all waiting their turn, made Chang intolerant of those less-patient types he sometimes turned up in dark, improper channels. Chang had little mercy for corner-cutting would-be Americans, and none at all for the bloodsuckers profiteering from them, profiteering bloodsuckers like Brucie Wine.
    Not long after Nuncio woke Brucie with the news, Rodolfo Chang’s beeper went off. Chang was sitting in a café near the waterfront, drinking his third coffee. He’d been up all night, waiting for a fishing boat packed with Hondurans that hadn’t come. He called the office, was put through to a clerk he knew at the D.A.’s.
    “Heard about your pal Brucie Wine?”
    “He’s not my pal,” said Chang.
    The clerk snickered. “That’s why I called. Thought you’d like to know that Brucie walked.”
    “What are you talking about? He hasn’t even gone to court yet.”
    “And he’s not about to. A deal went down, charges dropped.”
    “What kind of a deal?”
    “Hey, don’t get mad, Rudy, I just work here. Gotta run.” And he hung up before Chang could say, “Don’t call me Rudy.” He hated being called Rudy.
    Rodolfo Chang spent the next two hours at the office, trying to find out about Brucie Wine’s deal. All he learned was that word had come down from a level of the Justice Department that, in terms of his own influence or his boss’s or his boss’s boss’s, might as well have been heaven itself. He stalked outside, got into his car, slammed the door and yelled “Shit” and “Fuck” at the top of his lungs. A woman passing by stopped and stared, then walked quickly on. People weren’t