I nod.
“Haven’t they been telling you that for months?”
I nod again.
“Did you do it? Did you quit?”
“Yes,” I say, stupidly.
“You know I read the tox report, right?”
“Oh.”
“Starks, empty your pockets, please.” Onto the table I unload a logspill of bottles and hypodermics and a few torpedo-shaped suppositories. “What is all that?”
“Flintstones?”
Po-Mo picks some up and rolls them in his hand. “Isoflurane? Grisogonol? Phyllobates terribilis? What is all this for?”
“Headache,” I say hopefully. “Runny nose?”
“You got anything in here for recovering thirty million bucks? I know you’re a college guy, Starks, so I’m sure you can follow this.26 Janus gets clients because we have an impeccable record of MacGuffin retention. Good news for us is no news. But when something like this happens”—and he throws a newspaper clipping whose headline I have time to see says something about the Rat Burglar and the dearly departed Khmer reliefs—“it’s the opposite of good news. And when it’s the same talent rolling the same pulse...”
“The media has my name?”
“No. But they have Janus’s, don’t they? Do you know what they’re calling us?”
“I don’t really follow the news, boss. I mean, what they call news nowadays...”
“I’ll quote it for you, then. From Doreen Doherty, Patriot TV.”
“Come on, boss. Patriot TV doesn’t even count as news. It’s just tits and teeth—”
“ ‘Janus, Inc., one of Manhattan’s Big Three specialized security firms, has lost another objet d’art to the Rat Burglar, who has been raiding its facilities with such ease and regularity it looks less like robbery and more like shopping. One industry insider from rival Invigilator Corp. confided in us that the Rat Burglar himself refers to the embattled Janus, Inc., as his favorite store—J-Mart.’ ”
When I say nothing to this Po-Mo repeats it. “J-Mart, Starks! And you’re the employee of the year!” He exhales a ragged breath of disgust. “I don’t know how else to say this. The stock is down nine percent. We are in danger of not making our earnings projections. And when the media gets hold of the K’plua, well...The long and short of it is the board wants you out, Starks. Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t do it?”
“Because you know even though I’ve had a rough patch lately I still have it? Because you wouldn’t send me back out into the colonies after investing all this time in me? Because you’re more of a people person than a bottom-line guy?” When Po-Mo’s dark and stony expression goes darker and stonier, I try another tack. “Because it’s an administrative pain to fire me?”
“An administrative pain? It’s a shitdrizzle, Starks. Shit. Drizzle. But that’s what the board wants. And even though you’re my guy, I’ve got to do it. Unless—” He rubs his face briskly with his hands as if scrubbing to get something—my failure residue?—off his skin, and says, “Unless...you’ve got something . . . up your sleeve.”