Free Internecine by David J. Schow Page A

piles of data that was condensed from. In fact, you should take a look at
your
life-file, one of these days, if you ever get the chance.”
    The secret records that sum up your whole life, that big imaginaryfile folder with the stamps and seals? You’ve always suspected its existence while shrugging it off—
naahh, there’s nothing interesting about
me
anybody would want to know
. But that’s two different things: the facts, in excruciating detail, versus someone’s desire to know them, justified or not. The facts, the file, remains . . . and Dandine had just said that one of those mystery folders, in some secret place, had my name on it.
    Privacy is another illusion, like national security.
    Dandine took a few labyrinthine turns inside a huge lot populated with equal numbers of big-box trucks, vacant slots containing parts trailers or other on-hold junk, and automobiles that appeared to be bombed-out, forsaken, or at least had been sitting there long enough to get dusty.
    “Do I sit in the car again?”
    “Negative,” he said. “They already know there’s two of us.”
    “How do you figure?”
    “We’ve been dogged since six blocks back. Varga uses spotters.” I saw his eyes check the periphery and mirrors with metronome relentlessness. “But something’s cooking. I’m sensing a lot more spotters than he needs for simple security.”
    “What?” I said. “You’re telepathic, now?”
    He snorted. “No, just observant. You learn to see how controlled spaces are monitored. Shadow profiles. Negative movement. Maybe the watchers are being watched, and maybe they don’t know it, but I know it. Rather, I sense it. Unconfirmed. You ever hear that expression about growing eyes in the back of your head? Now would be a good time to start.”
    Every time Dandine answered a question I felt more in the dark than ever.
    He made sure to park with adequate cover from multiple angles; I did notice that.
    “Now,” he said. “Do you want to continue to play?”
    Flashbacks of game shows crowded my head. Door Number One, Two, or Three? Dandine would know that, then wait for me to ask what he was talking about, then tell me that I couldn’t afford the luxury of dissipate fantasy. I could impress him by skipping the obvious. I nodded, feeling my own reluctance.
    He sketched it out for me, “You’re my associate. You don’t have to say anything unless somebody addresses you directly. Just stand behind me about two paces, with your hands folded in front of you, and try to avoid direct eye contact, like it’s all beneath you. Think you can manage that?”
    “Hell,” I said. “It’s exactly the same as a bid conference.”
    “A what?” Dandine paused in midexit.
    “Your company’s got a bid on an account, but so does another company. They’re the enemy, and you have to out-macho them by pretending it don’t mean nothin’.”
    He rolled that around in his brain for a moment. “I think you’ll do fine.” What he did not say was
I want to toss you onto the firing line and see who flinches,
because that might have made me bolt outright.
    He led the way up a roll-off ramp to a metal staircase. There were lights on in the office, about three stories from ground level. The shutters were cocked halfway, and they looked very sturdy; probably bulletproof. He rapped exactly three times on an all-metal door, and we were quickly sized up through a view slot even though there was a surveillance camera mounted behind us, up high, painted black. Dandine’s knock was businesslike. I hate it when people try to knock “cute,” or do shave-and-a-haircut. I hate it when people try to compose creatively adorable and individual outgoing messages on their answering machines. Grow the fuck up. Most people are un-special and untalented, and always will be. Otherwise, I’d never be able to sell them anything at all.
    The door unbolted and we were admitted by a gigantic guy who looked: (1) Samoan, and (2) born without a sense of