Roadside Picnic

"Working both sides, eh? You son of a bitch.” Noonan was hissing right into his terrified eyes. “Buzzard Burbridge is swimming in swag and you give me beads wrapped in paper?” He smacked him in the face, trying to hit the scab on his nose. “I'll ship you off to jail. You'll be living in manure, eating dry bread. You'll curse the day you were born!” He punched the sore nose one more time. “Where does Burbridge get the swag? Why do they bring it to him, and not to you? Who brings it? Why don't I know anything? Who are you working for, you filthy pig? Talk!"

Mosul soundlessly opened and shut his mouth. Noonan let go of him, returned to the chair, and put his feet up on the desk. “Well?” he said.

Mosul sniffled back the-blood from his nose and said: “Honest, boss, what's the matter? What swag can Buzzard have? He doesn't have any. Nobody's got swag."

"What, are you going to argue with me?” Noonan asked gently, taking his feet off the desk.

"No, no, boss, honest,” Mosul hurried to say. “Me argue with you? I wouldn't dream of it."

"I'm going to get rid of you,” Noonan threatened. “You don't know how to work. What the hell do I need you for, you so-and-so? Guys like you are a dime a dozen. I need a real man for real work."

"Hold on, boss,” Mosul said reasonably, smearing blood all over his face. “Why do you attack me all of a sudden? Let's work this out.” He touched his nose gingerly. “You say Burbridge has a lot of swag? I don't know, somebody's been lying to you. Nobody's got any swag now. After all, only punks go into the Zone now, and they're the only ones coming out. Nope, boss, someone's lied to you."

Noonan was watching him covertly. It looked as if Mosul really didn't know a thing. It wouldn't have paid him to lie, anyway—Buzzard Burbridge didn't pay very well.

"These picnics, are they profitable?"

"The picnics? I don't think so. You won't shovel in the money. But there aren't any profitable things left in town."

"Where are these picnics held?"

"Where? You know, in different places. By White Mountain, at the Hot Springs, at Rainbow Lake."

"Who are the customers?"

"The customers?” Mosul sniffed, blinked, and spoke confidentially. “If you're planning to get into the business yourself, boss, I wouldn't recommend it. You won't make much up against Buzzard."

"Why not?"

"Buzzard's customers are the blue helmets, one.” Mosol was ticking the points off on his fingers. “Officers from the command post, two. Tourists from the Métropole, the White Lily, and the Plaza, three. Then he's got good advertising. Even the locals go to him. Honest, boss, it's not worth getting mixed up in this business. He doesn't pay us that much for the girls, you know."

"The locals go to him, too?"

"The young people, mostly."

"Well, what happens on these picnics?"

"What happens? We go there on buses, see? And when we get there everything is set up—tables, tents, music. And everyone lives it up. The officers usually go with the girls. The tourists go look at the Zone—if it's at the Hot Springs, the Zone is just a stone's throw away, on the other side of the Sulphur Gorge. Buzzard has thrown a lot of horse bones around there and they look at them through binoculars."

"And the locals?"

"The locals? Well, that doesn't interest the locals, of course. They amuse themselves in other ways."

"And Burbridge?"

"Burbridge? Burbridge … is like everybody else."

"And you?"

"Me? I'm like everybody else. I watch to see that the girls aren't hurt … and, well, like everybody else, basically."

"And how long does all this go on?"

"Depends. Three days, sometimes, sometimes a whole week."

"And how much does this pleasure trip cost?” Noonan asked, thinking about something else entirely. Mosul answered something, but Noonan didn't hear him. That's the ticket, Noonan thought. Several days, several nights. Under those conditions, it's simply impossible to keep an eye on Burbridge, even if you tried. But still he didn't understand. Burbridge was legless, and there was the gorge. No, there was something else there.

"Which locals are steady customers?"

"Locals? I told you, mostly the young ones. You know, Halevy, Rajba, Chicken Tsapfa, that Zmyg guy—and the Maltese often goes. A cute little group. They call it Sunday school. Shall we go to Sunday school, they say. They concentrate on the old ladies, make pretty good money. Some old broad from Europe … "

"Sunday school,” Noonan repeated.

A strange thought came to him. School. He rose.

"All right,” he said. “The hell with the picnics. That's not for us. But get it straight: Buzzard has swag, and that's our business, pal. Look for it, Mosul, look for it, or I'll throw you to the dogs. Where does he get it, who gives it to him? Find out and we'll give twenty percent more than he does. Got it?"

"Got it, boss.” Mosul was standing, too, at attention, loyalty on his blood-smeared face.

"Move it! Use your brains, you animal!” Noonan shouted and left.