Germ

Staring at the streetlamp, trying to catch its flicker, he hoped she would hurry up. On the way over, she had explained that Sweaty Dave was an "identity broker," someone who arranged the acquisition of false identity documents. He would gather the raw materials like signatures and photographs and send them to someone more specialized to turn into official-looking IDs.

Husbands wanting hassle-free relief from nagging wives or greedy exes; militants looking to distance themselves from governmental scrutiny; debtors desperate for a fresh start; but mostly, it was criminals on the run who made up Sweaty Dave's client roster. They all thought they were buying a permanent escape from the mistakes of their past. But only one in ten succeeded in vanishing for good. The other nine eventually gave themselves away by slipping back into the grooves cut by their old habits and penchants.

Then again, some bad guys simply chose the wrong false-document handler, such as Sweaty Dave. The Bureau busted him several years ago, Julia explained, leading to a Faustian bargain for his freedom: he would continue his illicit brokering activities in exchange for timely tips on who was using his services. The Bureau would then wait months, even years, to collar certain fugitives, taking great pains to falsify the means of their detection. Sweaty Dave's operation was simply too sweet to risk causing criminals to cast a suspicious eye at it.

Julia had said she wasn't worried about using an FBI informant. They needed the temporary ability to leave the country undetected, and by the time their patronage found its way to someone who mattered, they'd be long gone.

The tavern door behind him crashed open. Julia backed out, tugging on the arm of a man who obviously had no desire to be with her.

"Lady, you're really starting to tick me off!" the guy yelled, craning his head back toward the dark refuge of the lounge. As soon as he cleared the door, a heavy spring started pulling the door shut.

Someone inside called out, "You tell 'er, Sweaty!" and two or three people howled in laughter. The door slammed closed, cutting off the noise.

"Now look—!" the man said and swung around to face Julia. Instead, he flattened into Stephen. He took a shaky step back, eyeing Stephen up and down. He turned to Julia. "What's this! You going to rough me up?" To Stephen: "Well, do it, big man. Whadda I care?" Defiantly, he pushed a greasy lock of black hair off his forehead.

Stephen rolled his eyes toward Julia, who made an exasperated expression and said, "Stephen, meet Sweaty Dave."

The man glaring at Stephen had a severely bloated face: chipmunk cheeks, tennis ball chin—complete with fuzz—and rolls of fat on his forehead. Within this soft terrain, beady eyes sat too close together, molelike. His lips were fat and puckered, not unlike two wet worms writhing over each other. And indeed he was sweaty. A thin sheen of

moisture that looked more akin to oil than perspiration covered every inch of his pasty flesh. He was about five eight and as similar to the Pillsbury Doughboy as anyone Stephen had ever seen.

"Dave, can you help us?" Stephen asked, kind, composed. His tender manner appeared to soothe Sweaty Dave's wrath. The identity broker's shoulders slumped.

"This ain't the way it's done," he said to Stephen. He turned to Julia. "This ain't the way it's done."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Two Gs before I even look at you again," Sweaty Dave said, holding up his palm and actually turning his head away from them.

She nodded. After a quick scan for nearby predators, Stephen pulled a wad of cash from his back pocket. He quickly peeled away twenty hundred-dollar bills and set them into the man's upturned hand.

Sweaty Dave pushed the cash into a front pocket of his jeans. Then he shoved past Julia and Stephen and shuffled away, mumbling. "Can't even have a drink in peace anymore . . . I'm telling ya .. . Next time I'm not gonna be so nice . . ."

She raised her eyebrows at Stephen, and the two followed Sweaty Dave down the street. Before reaching the end of the block, he turned into a dark portico. Keys rattled. Posters of comic-book heroes covered the inside of the store's display windows. A sign ran the width of the store above the door and window: Dave's Comix Trove.

A bell jangled as Sweaty Dave pushed the door open and snapped on the lights. He called back, "Either of you comic-heads? The Dark Knight? Strangers in Paradise? The Sandman? Gone but not forgotten. Lock that behind you."

Stephen pulled the door shut and thumbed a dead bolt. Piles of comic books rose like skyscrapers everywhere. With practiced agility, Sweaty Dave negotiated a narrow path toward the rear of the store. Julia followed, then Stephen, who had to walk sideways to avoid knocking over the piles.