“Hmmmm.” Brazil was willing to consider anything at this point. “Let’s just go down that path for a minute. Let’s say this is going on in the Senate and no one knows about it yet. Well, since one of the primary gateways is the Senate Judiciary Committee, and saying fish is a big issue, then could it be we somehow picked up some of their coding as our data passed through?”

“I’m getting a headache,” Hammer said. “And Virginia, would you please get your cat off my foot. He won’t move. Is he dead?”

“Niles, come here.”

11

WEED TRIED TO get to his feet and fell back on his butt. He crawled across the floor, his new tattoo throbbing. Smoke lit half a dozen fat candles and carried over several gallon jugs of water and a roll of paper towels. Weed started cleaning up his mess and would have thrown up again had anything been left.

“Now, go outside and take your shirt and pants off,” Smoke said.

“What for?” Weed barely asked as his stomach heaved like a small boat on an upset ocean.

“You’re not getting in my car stinking like that, retard. So go dump water over yourself until you’re clean, unless you want to walk from here.”

Weed carefully made his way in wavering candlelight, stepping through the sliding glass door frames. He peeled off his shirt and jeans. It wasn’t as warm out as it had been, and he shivered uncontrollably as he dumped three gallons of water over himself, his slight body clad in nothing but soaked boxer shorts and Nikes that sloshed when he walked.

“You got something for me to wear?” Weed asked Smoke, who was throwing down vodka again.

“What’s wrong with what you got on?”

“I can’t go anywhere like this!” Weed begged. “Oh, man, my head hurts so bad. I feel real sick and I’m freezing, Smoke.”

Smoke handed him a Dixie cup of vodka. Weed just stared at it.

“Drink it. You’ll feel better,” Smoke said.

He went behind cases of liquor and returned with a pair of folded Gottcha jeans, a black tee shirt, and Chicago Bulls jersey, windbreaker and cap.

“Your colors,” Smoke proudly said.

For an instant, Weed was happy and forgot his head throbbed. He felt important as he worked the relaxed-leg jeans over his soaked hightops and pulled the tee shirt and jersey over his head. He didn’t want any more vodka but Smoke forced it on him.

Weed had very little awareness as he struggled and tripped after Smoke through dark woods and ended up at the adult bookstore, hiding behind cars until the coast was clear, then jumping inside the Escort and speeding away. Weed was beginning to think that things weren’t too bad when Smoke stopped on a dark street corner in Westover Hills. He reached in back and pulled out two dark blue pillowcases. One was empty, the other filled with things that clanked and clacked together.

“Get out and keep your fucking mouth shut,” Smoke said. “Don’t make a fucking sound.”