“You got that straight. Most of the rods, especially Marlboros, will end up overseas. Meaning the ship will head that way, following the smoke to the Far East. And where does that leave America?”

“Farther down the drain, Bubba. I’m glad I’m past sixty-five, can retire tomorrow if I want, have a drawer in the new mausoleum at Hollywood Cemetery and know if I pass on tonight, I spent my life in the right camp.”

Fred lit a Parliament and shook his head again as the line of cars behind Bubba got longer.

“People these days don’t see beyond their damn hood ornaments, which are a helluvalot nicer than yours and mine, Bubba, because of all these people suing and getting rich for faking coughs and blaming ailments on deep pockets. And I ask you, Bubba. Did we stick the goddamn things in their mouths and tell ’em to inhale? Did we blindfold ’em and line ’em up against the wall and say we’re gonna shoot ’em if they didn’t light up? Did we force ’em off the highway into Seven-Elevens at all hours of the night? Did we make Bogart smoke in the movies?”

The unfairness and downright criminality of it all sent Fred into a fury. The line of cars was almost out to Commerce Road, dozens of other Philip Morris employees about to be late as Bubba was no longer early.

“Tell it, brother.” Bubba couldn’t agree more. “Why don’t we just sue waste treatment plants because it’s their fault we shit.”

“Amen.”

“Why don’t we just drag KFC to court because we’re gonna drop dead of a stroke.” Bubba was inspired.

“How’s your cholesterol doing, by the way, Bubba?”

“Honey keeps bugging me to get a checkup. Who the hell has time?”

“Well, I have a new attitude about it,” Fred said. “I’ve decided if your body says ‘Eat eggs’ or ‘Sprinkle a little salt,’ it’s talking to you, telling you what it needs.” Fred crushed out the cigarette. “Course, if I get high blood pressure, I’ll just sue the umbrella right out of that little Morton Salt girl’s hands!”

Bubba guffawed. Fred laughed so hard his eyes watered. He began waving cars around them. Drivers were panicked as they sped past the guard booth, competing for parking.

Brazil was panicking, too. It occurred to him that neither he nor anyone else would be able to fix the new website he had begged Hammer to delay until the department had someone other than Fling banging away on the keys every day.

Brazil was computer literate and actually quite good at understanding instructions and help files, unlike West, who had no patience for any sort of tool or material she couldn’t grip in her hand or saw in two. But Brazil could not cure computer viruses, and he was convinced the blue fish were a fulminating eruption caused by a fatal new strain that had slipped in unnoticed, perhaps because it was widely assumed if one abstained from practicing unsafe disks, there was nothing to worry about. How could he have been so naive? How could he have been so careless when he knew damn well that viruses could be transmitted over the Internet, and therefore his website had put all of COMSTAT in jeopardy?