John E. Stith - Naught for Hire

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“Naught for Hire” by John E. Stith (including “Naught Again”)
Copyright 1990 and 1992. Both works published in ANALOG.
CEC NOTICE: This work is being distributed according to the
policy established by Coalition for Ethical Copying (CEC). Please
do your part to keep your favorite writers writing, and preserve
this notice and the contact information at the end of this file.
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Naught for Hire by John E. Stith (Copyright 1990)
From ANALOG, July 1990
Prologue
Late at night in a deserted Los Angeles office, a telephone
rang once. The echoes died as a phone answerer sprang obediently
to life.
The recorded voice spoke, baritone and slightly hoarse.
"Nick Naught private investigations. I'm not all here right now,
so please leave a message or a threat."
A soft voice came from the speaker. "Nick, this is Heather.
I'm free next weekend, and I've got a neat new vid on massages.
Call me if you're interested, okay?" A high-pitched click gave
way to dial tone, then silence filled the Spartan office.
In the phone answerer, the message waiting circuit turned
on. Then, softer than the faint air conditioning whine, a small
voice said, "Nahhh."
The message waiting circuit turned off.
An attentive listener, who by this time of night would have
been bored silly, could have heard an ever so faint laugh.
Chapter 1
In a one-bedroom L.A. apartment, faint gray light, nearly
exhausted from having traveled through thick smog, penetrated a
window and illuminated a wall poster showing a South Seas
island. The vivid blue water and the sparkling white beach,
backdropped with an array of greens, would for some people have
been almost enough to displace the sensations of thick air and
gritty streets.
Next to the poster hung a framed quote. Lettered in the
same mock-stitch style as folksy home-sweet-home signs, the words
read, "Nostradufus: I have seen the future and it sucks."
The sound of a distant siren rose and fell like waves
lapping against the shore, and the noise mingled with Nick
Naught's relaxed breathing. A faint smile on his lips said he
was dreaming he was on the island pictured near his bed, probably
lying back in a comfortable beach chair and sifting the sparkling
clean sand through his fingers.
From near Nick's bed came a soft click.
Ending the calm and untroubled atmosphere, the digital alarm
clock began to play the only song it knew: reveille. Three
surfaces of the alarm clock showed cracks from having fallen to
the hard floor. Two segments of the display were out, so the
eight looked like a three. The alarm droned on, its tone more
like a kazoo than the bugle it had started life as.
Nick snorted and squeezed his already closed eyes even more
tightly closed. For an instant, he wished he was some kind of
mutant and could squeeze his ears closed.
He fumbled for the alarm. Almost immediately he knocked it
onto the floor. The alarm bounced, and two final notes trailed
off into silence, as if an arrow had taken the life of a very
conscientious bugler.
Nick made a feeble attempt to rise. He imagined this was
how it felt to be just coming out of open-heart surgery. He
touched his chest, to see if he could feel any stitches or
syntheskin. Nope.
After a deep breath, he hesitated, then grabbed for
something beside the bed. His fingers made contact on the second
try, and he pulled it up to his level.
A jumper cable.
Still mostly asleep, he bent forward and after a couple of
tries managed to fasten the black cable to a band affixed around
his ankle.
His fingers fumbled by the bed again and came up with a red
jumper cable, which he fastened to a band around his wrist. His
wrist flopped back onto the bed, and the cable swayed but kept
its grip. The other end of the cable led to a large, heavy
battery beside the bed. On the side of the battery was a
colorful label saying, "Morning Jump Start."
Nick yawned and sighed. He fumbled again, near the head of
the bed. His fingers found a large switch. He patted it the way
a small child would pat a stuffed bear that had strayed too far
from reach.
It was time. If he quit now, he'd be fast asleep in
seconds. He summoned strength, and he flicked the switch that
triggered a shrill electrical buzzing noise reminiscent of a
failing neon sign. Nick was instantly galvanized. His eyes
popped wide open, then promptly squeezed closed again. He
screamed and writhed on the bed, like a snake with its tail
caught in a mouse trap.
Barely able to muster a rational thought, he reached for the
switch to turn the current off. Where was it? He fumbled for
it. His fingers touched it! And he knocked it onto the floor.
God, no, he must be wrong.
He groaned agonizingly, like a patient in electroshock.
Still writhing under the pain and struggling madly, he reached
for the floor and groped for the switch. Sweat stood out on his
forehead. Where was that switch? This couldn't be happening.
He searched to the left and searched to the right, and finally
his fingers reached the switch housing. He maneuvered it so his
fingers found the switch itself, and he finally managed to turn
it off.
Instant silence. Nick fell back to the bed and resumed
breathing. He rubbed his eyes and began to relax, feeling hardly
more energetic than when he had first woke. After a long minute,
he finally dragged himself into a sitting position, legs over the
side of the bed and sighed. He blinked hard several times. Even
the dim light seemed bright.
He said, to no one in particular, "Man, I hate Mondays."
Nick pulled the jumper cable off his ankle and let it drop
to the floor. He pulled the cable off his wrist. He stared at
the one from his wrist for a long second, then looked back at the
switch. He moved the jumper cable toward his wrist and away
again, and now that he could think clearly again, he realized he
had not needed to look for the switch. He grimaced and got out
of bed.
He managed to stub his toe on the way to the bathroom.
Squinting in the brighter light at the bathroom mirror, Nick
sprayed a white foam into his hand. He spread it over his
stubble, then rinsed his hands. He rested his hands on the sink
until, moments later, he picked at the edge of the foam, which
had turned hard, like a rubbery mask. With an abrupt, firm yank,
he ripped the whole thing off his face, and he screamed. He
inspected his smooth cheeks as he dropped the foam mask into the
toilet and flushed. As the mask swirled in the water, it
dissolved, leaving what was left of his stubble in the bubbling
remains.
* * *
Nick was feeling a little more awake by the time the
elevator reached his floor. Bing. The doors opened. As Nick
entered the empty elevator, it said, "Good morning!" in a voice
inhumanly cheerful for this time of day.
"Morning," Nick forced himself to say.
"What floor please?" The elevator's voice was copied from a
nerdy, bow-tied comic actor of a decade past. Mixed in with the
overdone cheerfulness was a nasal twang.
"One," Nick said softly.
"Thank you!" The elevator sounded as pleased as Pinocchio
had been at becoming a real boy.
The door closed, and the elevator dropped two floors before
it had to stop for another rider. The doors opened, and a
frowning, burly guy got on with Nick. The man's coat sleeves
were so short, his digital watch showed on the arm with the
briefcase.
"Good morning!" said the cheerful elevator.
"Morning." The man's nod took in Nick. He turned around to
face the door and assumed standard elevator posture, dutifully
looking at the motionless floor indicator.
"What floor please?"
"Five," said the man. His voice seemed to be naturally loud
thanks to the smooth walls all reflecting the sound so well.
The elevator hesitated. "What?"
The man spoke louder. "Five."
"What?" asked the elevator, using exactly the same
intonation it had used the first time.
Nick grimaced. He tapped the man on the arm, about to say
something, but the man ignored him.
"Five!" the man shouted.
Nick winced.
"What?"
Nick sighed and put a hand over his eyes. The high volume
made his head hurt.
The man screamed, "Five!"
"What?"
The man's face colored. He sucked a full load of air into
his chest and moved toward the microphone grill.
Nick whispered quickly, "Five." Experience had told him the
elevator's voice-sensitivity setting was out of whack.
"Thank you!" said the elevator.
The man, still with lungs bloated with air, looked at Nick,
amazed, as the elevator doors finally closed. The two men
dropped in silence four more floors, and the elevator admitted a
woman wearing a green business suit. In one hand, she held a
book-viewer that seemed to absorb most of her attention.
"Good morning!" said the elevator.
Apparently absorbed in her reading, the woman ignored it.
The elevator doors stayed open.
The elevator said, "I said good morning."
The woman suddenly looked up from her display, and her eyes
opened wide in surprise. "Morning."
"What floor please?" the elevator asked, sounding much
happier.
"Six."
The burly guy looked like he was hoping the elevator would
give her a hard time, too, but the elevator merely said, "Thank
you!"
The man looked disappointed as the elevator doors closed and
the elevator started to drop.
It stopped at the sixth floor and the woman got off.
"Have a nice day!" said the elevator.
The elevator dropped to the fifth floor, where the burly guy
scowled at the speaker grill and got off.
The elevator repeated its refrain. "Have a nice day!" As
the doors began to close, the elevator voice added, more softly,
"Dipstick."
The burly guy hesitated, still facing away from the
elevator, probably trying to decide if his ears were playing
tricks on him, or if Nick had said it. Before the guy could turn
around, the elevator doors closed very quickly.
Chapter 2
Nick nodded to the doorman as he stepped onto the sidewalk
and drew in a deep breath of stale morning air. The sound of a
couple of distant sirens rose and fell almost in unison. Nick
glanced around at the rows of parked cars along the sides of the
dirty street, feeling sad that he hadn't been somehow magically
transported to a South Sea island while he slept.
Parked so closely to the car in front of it that there was
no space to squeeze through, sat a pickup truck with a gun rack
containing an AK-47 assault rifle and a bazooka. The car next to
it was a bubbled three-wheeler with its front tire flat. Nick
patted his pocket to make sure he still had his key, then walked
past two more cars and started across the street. He saw only
one slow-moving car nearby, and he returned his attention to
looking at his own car as he approached it, wanting to make sure
nothing had happened to it overnight.
That one slow-moving car, a fairly new Subarota Minx, held
one passenger, an old lady wearing a beige hat.
The car was halfway down the block, cruising smoothly on
autopilot as the driver knitted. Without warning, the car
abruptly lurched forward, accelerating fast. The old woman
missed a stitch.
The woman looked up in horror. She started to bang on the
dash. "Oh no! Stop that! Stop it!"
The car barreled toward Nick, who walked in complete
oblivion, wondering if that scratch near his front fender was
new. Finally, with less than two car lengths left to go, Nick
glanced toward the oncoming car, seeing its headlights flicker on
and off as the car hit bumps in the road. He scrambled madly out
of the way, barely managing to throw himself between two parked
cars as the Subarota flashed past. An instant later, the car
plowed into the string of parked cars. Sound died, leaving only
the ticking of contracting metal and the dripping of fluid.
Nick got to his feet and dusted himself off. He trudged
toward the wreck and muttered under his breath, "Man, I hate it
when this happens."
He reached the wreck and pulled open the passenger door.
The old woman sagged forward, constrained by her seat belt.
She seemed dazed, but fortunately the knitting needles had done
no damage. Her eyes opened wider and she surveyed the view
ahead, then looked up at Nick. "Oh no. My brand new car. It
just--took off. I don't know what happened. I'm terribly sorry.
It was an accident."
Nick glanced at the damaged cars. "No harm done." He
turned to the doorman and yelled, "Call the cops, will you?
We've got another runaway."
The doorman called back. "I just did. They're still on
delayed reporting."
Nick nodded his understanding. Just as he turned back to
the woman, the air bag controller belatedly activated, and the
bag blew up in the woman's face, hammering her body backward into
the seat. The air bag reached a knitting needle, and suddenly
the bag exploded like an enormous balloon.
Nick hadn't heard anything that loud since he'd forgotten
his earmuffs at the target practice range. The woman looked like
she'd never heard anything that loud.
* * *
Several miles away, a midnight-blue van pulled out of an
alley garage which bore a sign saying, "Major Opportunity
Business." The unmarked van knocked an old man and his shopping
cart out of the way as it pulled onto the street.
* * *
Across town, a switch activated, and the automatic garage
door on an expensive house rolled slowly upward. Ed Taylor
walked forward, preoccupied, as the door rose. He avoided the
bike lying in his path as he straightened his tie. Ed was a big
man, with broad shoulders, a pot belly, and thinning hair.
If the garage door had worked properly, his head would have
passed just under the bottom of the door. Instead, the door
suddenly reversed just as Ed reached it, and his forehead smacked
soundly against the descending edge.
"Damn it!" he said.
Ed struggled, pushing up on the door to get it to quit
closing. Finally the door responded and started up again,
resuming its interrupted path. Ed muttered and rubbed his
forehead as he walked toward the rolled up newspaper lying near
the front hedge. Behind him, the garage door continued rising
without stopping, until finally the wood began to splinter and
break under the constant pressure. A window popped loose from
its surroundings and fell to the concrete, smashing thoroughly as
it hit.
Oblivious, Ed stooped to grab his morning paper. Just as
his fingers almost touched it, the paper jerked out of his reach.
For the first time, Ed noticed that tied to the paper was a
string leading into the hedge.
"Damn it, you kids. That's not funny!"
Watching from the window, Ed's son Alex grinned.
Ed took another step and reached for the paper again. It
jerked away again. This time Ed moved faster, trying to reach it
before the string yanked it away again. By now he was right next
to the hedge.
Ed didn't get another chance to grab the paper. Suddenly a
thick arm reached through the hedge and grabbed him, pulling him
off-balance into the hedge.
On the other side of the hedge, Ed found no neighborhood
children. Instead, two large, strong men met him. One of them,
who sported large tattoos up and down both arms, had a small
aerosol can stuck in one pocket. The other man had flaming red
hair cut tent style. Ed's unsuccessful struggle lasted only
seconds before they had him pinned to the ground. A second later
a sweet-smelling spray in the face rendered him unconscious.
The two men manhandled him to a waiting midnight-blue van
and dumped him inside. The tattooed man started the engine and
made a U-turn.
The van's tires screeched as it lurched forward and sped
away, narrowly missing a kid on a bike, and forcing the kid into
a fence.
The red-haired man took a time card from a slot over the sun
visor and looked at his digital watch before he filled in the
next entry.
* * *
Nick Naught pulled onto the street. As he passed the next
intersection, he saw down the side street a scene much like the
one he had been in earlier. A runaway car crashed into a parked
car as pedestrians scattered. Several nearby witnesses started
to help, so Nick continued on his way.
Nick put his little finger in the ear that had been closest
to the air bag explosion, and he wiggled the finger. He pulled
the finger out, listened for a moment, and repeated the process.
A police car flashed past, siren on, lights flashing.
Nick turned his attention to the road ahead. "Radio on."
"Whatever you say," the car voice replied. The voice was
feminine and sexy, with just a trace of huskiness.
The radio started playing some classical selection Nick
didn't recognize. He banged his fist on the dash and the station
switched to rock.
* * *
At a modest house in a different section of the city,
Annette Taylor came out her front door. She was dressed for
work, looking trim, and moving confidently. Today was going to
be a good day. She had an appointment with her boss at the
agency about the possibility of taking on a large, valued client.
In the front yard stood a very large tree. On Annette's
side of the tree was a rolled up morning newspaper. On the other
side of the tree were the two musclemen and the end of a string
tied to the newspaper.
Annette spotted the paper. "Go get it, boy!" she called,
and her collie raced out the front door and grabbed the
newspaper. The string drew tight. The dog growled through
clenched teeth. It knew this game. The dog shook its head from
side to side and lowered its hindquarters, pedaling backward.
The tug of war lasted only seconds before the string broke, and
the dog rushed triumphantly inside with the paper, happy about
the battle it had won, and not too curious about who had been
defeated. Annette closed the door and started for her car.
One of the men pointed to the van. "Quick!"
The men raced to the van. The tattooed man started it up as
Annette was starting her car. They pulled the van forward
quickly, blocking the driveway, and the engine died.
In her rear-view mirror, Annette saw the two large men
getting out of the midnight-blue van, guns in their hands.
Without taking time to figure out why this was happening, and
what they were after, she knew this wasn't a typical Monday. She
twisted the wheel and goosed the engine. She almost mowed down
the red-headed man as she raced around the van, knocking trash
cans into the street.
The two men hopped into the van as Annette's car sped away.
The driver flooded the engine as he tried to start it. The
engine just spun slower and slower as the smell of gasoline
filtered into the van and the squealing of Annette's car tires
faded into the background.
* * *
Nick pushed through the revolving door into his office
building lobby.
"Wanna buy a paper?" asked the newspaper vending machine.
The machine's tone of voice gave the impression of hawking some
illicit thrill.
"Sure," Nick said.
"That'll be six bucks."
Nick ran his credit card through the slot on top of the box.
The machine's face opened, and, with a practiced motion, Nick
snatched a paper just in time, as the lid snapped down very fast,
like a bear trap.
"Have a nice day," said the vending machine.
As Nick waited for the elevator, a teenage boy in a striped
shirt approached the coffee vending machine.
"I wouldn't bother, if I were you," Nick said.
The teenager ignored him and said to the machine, "Coffee,
black."
Nick shrugged. As the elevator doors opened, the vending
machine squirted coffee all over the kid's shirt and pants.
* * *
In Nick's unoccupied office, the phone began to ring. The
phone answerer clicked on, and Nick's voice said, "Nick Naught
private investigations. Leave a message. Unless you're with a
collection agency." Beep.
"This is the Internal Revenue Service, Mr. Naught.
Yesterday you missed your third audit appointment. Be in our
office at two today, or a warrant will be issued for your
arrest."
The phone answerer clicked off only seconds before Nick
entered the office. He put the paper down on the desk and looked
wistfully at the large South Seas island poster on his office
wall. Finally he pressed a button on the phone answerer.
"Sorry," the answerer said. "No messages."
Nick sat down at his desk. The desk clock read 2:30 AM. He
shook his head and pushed the clock slowly over the edge, where
it landed with a clunk in his wastebasket.
* * *
Annette watched the elevator floor indicator stop. She
leaned forward, anticipating the opening of the doors, but they
stayed shut. She looked around to see if the elevator had an
emergency bell switch.
Suddenly, in a voice mimicking the voice of a short,
web-footed cartoon character almost always seen in a sailor suit
with large buttons, the elevator hummed. It played the theme
from "Twilight Zone." "Do do DO do. Do do DO do."
Annette banged on the control panel.
Finally, as the doors opened, the elevator voice laughed.
"Wahhh. He he he he."
* * *
Annette knocked on the door saying "Nick Naught Private
Investigations," then, without waiting for an answer, entered the
office. She patted her hair into place, and glanced over her
shoulder toward the elevator door in the hallway.
"Hello, Nick," she said.
Nick thought she looked sad, but she also looked determined,
businesslike. Her hair was longer than he had seen it last, and
the change looked good on her.
Nick got to his feet slowly, confused about why she would be
here after all that had gone on between them. "Hello, Annette.
I have to say I never really expected to see you here." Nick
felt his insides start to churn, and he suddenly felt as forlorn
as he had four years ago.
"I need your help," she said simply.
"After four years?"
Annette shook her head. "Let's not start in on it, all
right? What's done is done. I wouldn't be here if I didn't
figure I needed someone like you."
Nick was silent for a moment, considering. Finally he
gestured at a chair. They both sat. "Okay. Today's business.
Let's hear it."
Annette's calm facade crumbled a little, and she fidgeted.
"Ed's been kidnapped. And someone tried to get me, too."
Nick leaned forward, concerned. "Why?"
"That's the worst part of all. I have absolutely no idea."
Nick caught his thoughts moving to the past, and he forced
himself to think about the present. "I don't watch much
television. Your brother's still a reporter for K-S-M-Y?"
Annette looked at him directly. Her eyes had a pained look
Nick had seen before. "Yes. I already told them about it. Two
big guys grabbed him this morning. One of the neighbors saw part
of it out his window. They were probably the same two guys that
were after me. Muscle guys I'd never seen before, one of them
with lots of tattoos."
"I suppose you already called the police?"
"Sure. But they don't have time to do anything this month.
They're too busy already."
Nick nodded and went through a mental checklist. "Did
anything unusual happen recently? Did Ed meet a new woman, take
out a big loan, buy a gun, take out insurance? Anything at all
out of the ordinary that you know about?"
"Nothing. It's just been business as usual." She
hesitated. "His wife is in the hospital, but I really don't see
how that would relate to Ed being kidnapped--or to anyone coming
after me."
"Anything else you can think of?"
"No, nothing. I put some of the things you might need in
this envelope. His home address, things like that. And I wrote
down descriptions of the two guys. Will you help?"
Nick sighed softly, not asking any of the questions he most
wanted to ask. "Yeah. I've got a friend down at K-S-M-Y. Maybe
he knows something that can get me started. I'll call him as
soon as we're done talking."
Annette nodded. She seemed to have a hard time meeting
Nick's gaze now. She glanced at the wall poster. "It looks so
peaceful."
"Yes, it does. Which reminds me. My fee is a thousand a
day, plus expenses. How about if you give me a retainer for a
couple of days?"
Annette nodded again. She pulled out a credit card.
Nick took a charge card setup from a desk drawer. As he ran
his company card and her card through, the machine spit his card
across the room, where it landed in an in-box placed there to
catch it. Nick walked over and retrieved the card. He handed
her a receipt. "You still save your carbons?"
"Yes, please."
Nick started tearing out the little sheets of carbon paper.
There must have been nearly twenty of them in the stack. Annette
put them in a small card file she kept in her purse.
She managed to give him a level gaze. "Thanks, Nick."
"Where can I reach you?"
"You can't. I'm not about to go home now. I'll find a
hotel and call you later."
Nick nodded. Annette rose and walked to the door. As she
closed the door behind her, Nick looked up and sighed.
He shook his head, as if doing that would clear away the old
thoughts, then picked up the phone. He dialed a long number.
"Thank you for using AT&T," said a voice on the line.
Then, "Thank you for using Sprint."
"Thank you for using MCI."
"Thank you for using U.S. West."
"I'm sorry. Your call cannot be completed. Please check
the number and dial again."
"It must be some problem with AT&T."
"Correction. It must be some problem with Sprint.
Nick slapped his forehead. He felt tired. He put the
receiver down, and tried again.
"Thank you for using AT&T."
"Thank you for using Sprint."
"Thank you for using MCI."
"Thank you for using U.S. West."
"Thank you for using Lucy's Phone Network."
"Hello. This is the President speaking."
Nick's head jerked up. "President of what?"
"Of the United States. Who is this?"
"Ah, sorry, sir. Wrong number."
Nick hung up. He rose and started for the door.
Chapter 3
In another part of the city sat a large office complex with
a sign out front sporting block letters that said "Major
Opportunity Business." Inside, two executives sat at a
conference room table.
Mike McCormick, the company president, listened to the end
of the briefing. He was a prematurely graying man with small
gold earrings. The briefer was a senior company officer, Paula
Rosenberg. She was about ten years his junior, and wore neither
makeup nor earrings.
"That's fine," McCormick said when Rosenberg finished her
old-business briefing. "Do it. Any new business?"
Rosenberg ran a finger down her list of notes. "Only one
thing today. You remember David Turvey, the accountant who
testified at the Williams trial?" As she spoke, she opened a
notebook, extracted a photo, and slid it to McCormick. The photo
was of a man in his sixties. Underneath the picture, large
letters said, "David Turvey." Rosenberg went on without waiting
for an answer. "The Philadelphia branch has verified that Turvey
has definitely accepted a new identity and a disguise from the
witness protection program. He's now here in town, using the
name Nick Knott."
Rosenberg slid another photo to McCormick. The second photo
was of the same man, but it showed an idiot mustache that looked
like it had been just scribbled onto the photo with a large black
marker. Underneath in large letters was, "Nick Knott."
"Your recommendation?" McCormick said. He looked at his
watch.
"Send out a dispatch team. Have them do an analysis and
complete the task. It should look like an accident."
"Fine. Is that it? I need to get to that charity
luncheon."
* * *
Rosenberg leaned into Cynthia Willis's office door.
"Willis, I need you to run a dispatch on a Nick Knott. An
'accidental.'"
"Can it wait 'til after break?" Willis asked. She had been
just about to get up when Rosenberg arrived.
"Do it now, will you? It's for McCormick." Rosenberg
started to leave.
"Gotcha. Is there a special charge number or just
overhead?"
Too late. Rosenberg was already gone. Willis looked at her
clock, which read "09:55" then quickly turned to her computer
terminal. She grabbed a form and filled in a couple of blanks as
she spoke to the terminal. "Give me a file on Nick Knott."
She rose impatiently, waiting on the machine. A moment
later it spit a photograph out a slot in the side of the machine.
The photo wasn't exactly like the one Rosenberg had had. The
image was different, and below the photo were several lines of
small text headed in large letters with, "Nick Naught."
Willis grabbed the photo before it could fall into the
wastebasket below the slot. She stapled the form to the photo
and rushed out.
Only a moment after she had left, the computer spit out a
different photo, the one for Nick Knott. The photo fell into the
wastebasket.
* * *
Willis ran down the hall. She passed sections labeled
"Accounts Terminating," "Numbers," "Security," "Laundry," and
"Protection."
Don Lyeth was sitting at his desk when Willis rushed in and
dumped the paperwork in his in-basket. Lyeth wore a bow-tie and
had his shirt sleeves rolled up. His desk was perfectly neat,
and even the two pieces of paper on top were lined up precisely
parallel to the edge of the desk.
Willis started to leave. "Gotta run," she said.
"Hey, hey, hey. Not so fast," Lyeth said. He examined the
form, then frowned like an auto mechanic with bad news.
"What's the problem?"
"What's this?" Lyeth asked. He shook the paper in the air.
"We haven't used a form fifty-six for months."
"It's a dispatch. That's what I've always used."
"Not anymore. Form two-twelve." Lyeth slid a new form to
her.
Willis scanned the paper and filled in a few of the blanks.
"Okay. Look, I really gotta run."
"Not yet."
"What now?"
"You left the suspense date blank. And you didn't check
'accidental' or 'doesn't matter.'"
Willis filled in a date a week in the future and checked
"accidental," then handed the form back. Lyeth examined the form
for a full twenty seconds before he dropped it into another
basket. "Okay then."
Chapter 4
Nick waited impatiently in the KSMY lobby. A receptionist
with a cubed hairdo sat behind a desk and chewed gum. Next to
the desk, a TV monitor showed the current live feed from the
station, with news personalities Howard Darling and Connie
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“NaughtforHire”byJohnE.Stith(including“NaughtAgain”)Copyright1990and1992.BothworkspublishedinANALOG.CECNOTICE:ThisworkisbeingdistributedaccordingtothepolicyestablishedbyCoalitionforEthicalCopying(CEC).Pleasedoyourparttokeepyourfavoritewriterswriting,andpreservethisnoticeandthecontactinformationatthe...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：70 页 大小：169.06KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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