He also is very touchy about undressing in the locker room in front of other people. Even in the hottest weather he won’t take his shirt off or roll up his sleeves. He says it disrupts the purity of the signal or something. Personally I think he’s nuts—give me a consistently applied regimen of toxin desensitization any day—but I’m grateful that he doesn’t make fun of my method.

“If it makes you feel any better, your ass isn’t the only big newsmaker today. There’s a big new job up for grabs.”

“Oh yeah?” I try to sound interested.

“Dream job. A fucking grounder. This Japanese guy, Nakamura, wants to ice it for a week for some Stateside buyer. Eight figs.”

“A one-week hold?” I say, perking up despite the fact that in twenty minutes I probably won’t work here anymore anyway. “For eight? You sure?”

“It’s a two-man job. Solo plus a floater. I know you’re not cleared for a solo, but a floater on a one-week job for eight? You know what the commission on that would be?”

In my head I do the math. The cut, even for a floater, is good. Really good. Enough to get Deke to keep his pliers in his pocket.

“Otto?” Herk says, snapping his fingers. “You following this?”

“What?”

“I know today was number four for you. I know it’s grim. But it’s just a stretch of bad luck, man. It can’t keep up. You’re the best pulse here. Everyone knows it.”

“With the worst record.”

“Well, who’s got the biggest-profile gigs? You. That makes you the favorite target, right? No wonder you’re getting hit.”

“I haven’t had top-shelf gigs for six months. The K’plua was mid-six. Tops.”

“You’re missing the point. Comps for this Nakamura job are tomorrow. You always take the top score. Take top score again and they have got to give you at least the floater, right?”

“So what if they do, though? I’m sure the Rat Burglar would just get me again. What’s the point?”

“Cheer up, numbskull. You want the Rat Burglar to make a move on you. That’s how you’re going to get your career back.”

“How? With cunning reverse psychology?”

“Just pulsing to term isn’t going to get you back your career, Otto.”

“Who says I want my career back?”

“Oh no. Oh Jesus. Please—please, for the love of Sally Struthers—do not tell me you’re still thinking about a clean getaway. How many times do your mother and I have to have this talk? No Santa Claus. No Tooth Fairy. No Fraggle Rock. And no fucking clean getaway.”

I don’t say anything. He knows I want out of the business— we’ve had this argument many times, and many times he’s made his views clear on the subject of the viability of the clean getaway—but I’ve never told him about the sailboat. If he knew I had gambled money on it—all my life’s savings, in fact, plus money I don’t technically have—he would freak. And it’s no fun being near a man Herk’s size who is freaking.