Free Fiddle Game by Richard A. Thompson Page B

from me and the building I had just come from. That explained a lot. He seemed to have a computer instead of a partner, and I had to wonder how much comfort that was when the shooting started. It was the coming trend, though. Robo Friday, virtual partner.
    “Are things as dull out here as they are inside?” I said.
    He whirled around to face me and began to reach for his pistol. Then his eyes registered the phony badge that I had carefully placed just peeking out from behind the lapel of Feinstein’s raincoat, and he relaxed and gave me a more leisurely look.
    “I didn’t know we had a man inside,” he said.
    “It figures, doesn’t it? It wasn’t enough of a bullshit operation to start with, so they threw some more manpower at it.”
    “You got the ‘bullshit’ part right, anyway.”
    “Yeah, well, it all pays the same, they say.” I stuffed my hands deep in my pockets, the way I hoped a bored detective would.
    “That’s what they say, all right,” said the cop. “And it all counts for thirty.” What a stimulating conversation. It even made me feel like a cop. So far, so good, but sooner or later, he would…
    “I don’t think I know you, detective.”
    That, right there, is what he would do. And with his hand alarmingly close to his weapon again, too. Well, there was nothing for it now but to pick a name and try it out.
    “Hanes,” I said, offering my hand. “I work with Evans.” And in my off-duty time, I manufacture underwear.
    “Bunco, huh? I don’t get over there much. Been on the strawberry wagon a lot lately. Lots of action, but no weight, if you know what I mean. I’m Benson.” He took my hand and, to my astonishment and joy, shook it, rather than cuffing the wrist it was attached to.
    “Yeah,” I said, “I know exactly what you mean. Pleased to meet you.” I had no clue what he meant. But the information about Evans being on the Bunco Squad was certainly interesting. Not Homicide at all, but the division that dealt with con games and grifts. My, my, my. I would also have liked to find out what case Evans was officially working at that exact moment, but I figured I had pushed my luck far enough. Time to wrap up this little bit of street theater, before the set fell apart on me.
    “How long you been out here?” I said.
    “Three and a half hours, but who’s counting?”
    “Nobody relieved you?”
    “Do I look relieved?”
    “That really sucks, man.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “Tell you what, Benson,” I said. “I’m on my way out, but if you want, I’ll stay with the unit for fifteen, while you take a code seven.” I may not know what a “strawberry wagon” is, but I do know that a car is a “unit,” and a “code seven” is a rest break. In this case, it was also the magic phrase.
    “You sure about that?”
    “Absolutely.” If he only knew how sure.
    “You’re on.” He hoisted himself out of the car, dropped his flashlight in its holster, and motioned to me to take his place.
    “Use the computer, if you want,” he said. “But don’t forget, CIS can tell every site you went to, even if you erase it, okay?”
    Still more unsolicited information. I was starting to like this guy a lot. Maybe I wouldn’t steal his squad car, after all. I nodded and climbed in the driver’s seat, and he went off toward the building, walking like a man who has just remembered he has a bladder he’s been neglecting. I figured he wouldn’t be gone long, though. After all, I never did find a coffee machine in the building, and Feinstein damn sure wasn’t going to give him anything.
    I decided to leave the car, and the sooner the better, but first I wanted a look at that computer. I’m not even slightly proficient with these things, but it was an opportunity I couldn’t resist. The screen was full of dialogue between Benson’s unit and at least two others, mostly in some language known only to cops. Not what I wanted, even if I could decipher it. I looked around for a mouse and