The Triggerman Dance

"We're always working on something, sir. You can hardly figure that into overhead for Wayfarer." Joshua mustered his best expression of agreeability, but he could feel his Adam's apple bobbing and his ears growing hot.

Though it was hardly the point here, Joshua wanted to ask why the California Feebies always got shortchanged by the Bureau budgeteers. He thought of the Los Angeles office, so strapped for money that the agents actually shared rides on stakeouts. One of them was caught selling Amway products from the trunk of his Bureau Ford, then later busted wide open for selling Government information to his Russian girlfriend. But Josh knew the truth, sad or not: Washington thought California was unworthy of federal dollars the same way New York thought California unworthy of intellectual respect. It was a nasty little prejudice he'd noticed from day one.

"We're playing it as tight as we can," Joshua said.

"You know that and I know that. But Appropriations sees twelve million going out and nothing coming back. If we can't make a cost-effective go of it this year, we'll get nothing from Hate Crimes next time around. I don't have to tell you that. Unfortunately, there's no neat way out of this. That's why I've called you here. You now have a deadline. A short one."

Joshua actually felt his stomach turn. It rotated, then settled back down into a new, less comfortable position. He had tried to isolate his own tiny operation in this labyrinth of finance and politics but that was hopeless. It was just a speck in the federal wind.

There was silence in the room now, all hands aware that Captain Frazee was about to make a major course correction. Joshua's stomach squeezed out a gurgling surge of gas, which he held in with great discomfort.

"And if we can't make a clean arrest of Wayfarer I'm going to have to turn him over to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Let them finish it."

"No," said Joshua.

"Shut up, Weinstein," said Norton. He stood now, sighing histrionically. Josh saw the fresh rush of blood to his already heated cheeks. He circled the conference room once, like a lion pacing the confines of a cage. "Walker, we can't sit still for that.'

"You will if I tell you to."

"Why? We've put in the time. We got the money from the Hate Crimes bill. We've worked Wayfarer up one side and down the other, we've got a man inside, just inches from pay dirt, am you want the Bat Boys to finish it? On what possible grounds?"

"All grounds," said Frazee, offering his smile, his clear am guileless eyes, his Gleam, his righteousness. "ATF takes Wayfare off our books, but the dollars stay. We are seen to be Joint Tasking effectively. We use what's left of our Hate Crimes windfall for more achievable goals. We still get our man. Moreover, the nation sees that our fellows in the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms are not the bumbling murderous fools last spotted in Waco, Texas."

"Oh, God," said Joshua, his stomach churning like a washing machine now, his tongue all but frozen by anger.

"Don't 'oh God' me, Mr. Weinstein," snapped Frazee. "You can sit back in your Bureau seat and call ATF anything you warn You can laugh, scorn, micturate or moan. But that won't change the fact that they're looking for redemption. They're not just looking for it—they're frothing after it. I had lunch with the Attorney General yesterday, and I can tell you that she is absolutely resolute on this point—ATF needs another chance. And, hint, hint: Hate Crimes largesse is much in question for next year. So, if we don't have Wayfarer's head on a platter soon, ATF gel their chance. I've got to give them something."

Norton was still standing, his mouth open, a look of incomprehension in his wet, blue eyes. He'd taken a cigarette from his pack but hadn't lit it—federal regulations, of course. For just moment Joshua saw Norton as ridiculous, a Scotch-soaked old triceratops wandering heavily in a world of smokeless bureaucracies, smug, soulless zealots like Walker Frazee and muscle-headed storm troopers like the Bat Boys. He wondered if Norton would start to fossilize, right before his eyes.

"How soon is soon?" managed Weinstein. His own voice sounded like something released from under pressure. He could hardly form words around his jumping larynx. He saw Share Dumars staring at him, which encouraged a fresh jolt of anxiety;

"Six days is the best I could do. Believe me, the Attorney General was this close to shutting us down right there, over lunch—redlining about ten of my operations. She pointed out with unfortunate accuracy that the murder of Rebecca Harris—a heterosexual WASP—does not, in fact, even constitute a hate crime."

"We all know who the target was!" yelled Joshua.

"That doesn't change the outcome," said Frazee.

"And if we don't have the arrest in six days?"

"She cannot guarantee us all six days. Six, maximum."

"If we don't have an arrest in time?''''

"ATF takes over."