HOSS: I was game to take Phoenix clean and that meathead Mojo Root Force jumped it on me.

RUIDO: Yeah. I savvied that. Supposed to be on your ticket too. Crude swipe.

HOSS: He can’t get away with that, can he? They got to chop him.

RUIDO: I can’t dope them sheets, Hoss. You’ll have to consult a Ref for the Rulebook or appeal to the Keepers.

HOSS: Appeal! I’m not appealing! Besides, I can’t go to the Game Keepers. They’ll demand an itinerary and question past Kills. I can’t afford a penalty now! I need every point I’ve got!

RUIDO: Well, lookee here now. Gander this. There’s action all around but no Numero Uno. No real Emergence. That’s what they’re backin their chips on you for, boy. The Bookies got you five to two.

HOSS: That close?

RUIDO: Gaze up there. There it is. Five to Two. Black and white. All of ’em runnin it down to you.

HOSS: No stretch run? Nobody on the rail?

RUIDO: Sprinters, man. Sprinters. You left the pack. I mean there’s shys like Little Willard.

HOSS: East Coast?

RUIDO: Yeah.

HOSS: Willard’s Solo now?

RUIDO: Stainless Steel, through and through, but no threat.

HOSS: How’s that?

RUIDO: You really got some tailwind goin here.

HOSS: Just give it to me! Why’s he out?

RUIDO: No breeze. Can’t go the distance. Never even been around two turns yet.

HOSS: (looks at image) Who’s that? That one there.

RUIDO: Studie Wilcock. Driving a beat-to-shit Vette with modified Chrysler cams. He ain’t even on the dance floor.

HOSS: (another image) What about him? Who’s that Mark?

RUIDO: Jade Monk. Supercharged Hudson Hornet. Slammed some corners and tried a hit on St. Paul. That’s not your parish. Blew a head gasket tryin to cross the St. Croix. Rumor had him offed by the El Caminos. Probly better gone.

HOSS: The El Caminos? Those Chitos are pressin it pretty hard. They’re gonna get the throw-down sooner or later.

RUIDO: No doubt. No need to pout. Course is clear. Maybe a handful of Gypsy Killers comin into the picture but nothing to fret your set.

(Pause.)

HOSS: What do you mean?

RUIDO: Lowrung. You know. Gypsy Matar. They rattle some caps then vanish. They been poppin in and out for some good while now.

HOSS: Gypsies?

RUIDO: Yeah, Dog.

HOSS: I knew it! Meera was right.

RUIDO: Meera?

HOSS: My Gazer!

RUIDO: The one you jogged?

HOSS: Yeah. He sussed it! He laid it out.

RUIDO: No, Hoss, look—They’ve drawn some side bets, that’s all. They go anonymous cause of the Code. One slip and they is poked out clean. Snapped right off the map. Keepers won’t even conk ’em.

HOSS: No! They’ve got a following. They’re growing in the polls. I can sense it. The Hovays are flockin to Gypsy Kills.