“How are we going to find out if he’s the inside guy?”

“How do you think, dumbass? Look for proof.”

“Where?”

“Jesus, Otto. Where else? His apartment.”

“Breaking and entering? You know we’re pulses, right? Not talent? Do you even know how to pick a lock?”

“How tough can it be?”

“I don’t know, Herk....”

Herk eyeballs my groin, making a suction noise that suggests raisinlike shriveling.

“Have you been listening to what I’ve been saying to you? Do you understand that Nunes already suspects me? Do you think that getting caught breaking into Schermer’s apartment is going to make me look innocent?”

Herk is getting impatient with me. It’s hard for a man his size to hide his physiological response to elevated emotional stimuli. He didn’t display even a molecule of sweat while throttling the mime, but now, as he is getting frustrated with my reticence, I can see dewy beads of water forming on the whiskers of his upper lip and the inverted U at the hairline of his brow. I can nearly hear his veins and capillaries constricting, the blood congesting.

“You know what? You’re a great asstimer. World-class. Maybe the best I’ve ever seen. But Otto, your whole life is ass-time. You never do anything. The universe isn’t going to save you because you said pretty please. It doesn’t reward slack-asses. If you don’t do something to prove your innocence, to get this inside guy, whoever he is, guess what? You are going to get fucked. It’s not a hypothetical. It’s not a probability. It’s not a fucking Miss-Cleo-says-the-future-is-cloudy-so-who-knows-what-will-happen. It’s for real. It is going to happen. It’s guaranfuckingteed.”

“Herk . . .”

“Look at that girl,” he says, indicating the Goldfish. She is still working it, smiling at Herk from the other side of the bar, striking supposedly photogenic poses. “She’s not just sitting around on her ass, feeling sorry for herself and rubbin’ her nubbin. She’s making an effort.”

“She’s pathetic,” I say. “She’s desperate.”

“You’re desperate, Otto! You two have that in common. What makes you different is that she is doing something. Not to brag on my own cock rock or anything, but she wants me, and look at her go. You have been in love with Charlie for a year; you have bought the ring; you have almost bought the boat—you’re trying to start this whole new life—and yet you haven’t popped the question? And your career, your freedom, and maybe your life are in danger—hell, Charlie’s life may be in danger—and you still aren’t doing anything? Does that make her pathetic or does it make you pathetic? Because from where I’m sitting, dude, you’re the one with the Raisinets.”

Herk toasts my glass sarcastically with his. He is upset with me enough to hit it harder than he means to and it makes a loud, clear, ringing note like a boxing bell, but it’s impossible to tell if it indicates the start of something or the end.

Size Matters