They couldn’t tamper with his social security, Huddy knew, and the man’s savings were secure in an insured bank account. He was too old to threaten bodily and probably too dumb to know better. He continued to read the screen, murmuring aloud.

“One sister, moved to Texas, died there age forty-two.” He found himself nodding knowingly, dispassionately. “Lung cancer.” He wondered if the woman had been a smoker and hoped so. Not that anyone was likely to pursue personal histories that far.

The best thing about Pickett was that he had a bad heart. Chronic history of heart arrest, angina, complicated by liver problems. Slightly overweight. Pickett had been a drinker in his youth, though apparently no longer. If only he’d cooperate and die tonight, Huddy thought. He considered having a couple of strong-arm types break into the old man’s home and rough him up a little. Take a few things, make it look like a robbery. Maybe they could induce a fatal attack.

Trouble was, there wasn’t much to rob, and just one suspicious county detective could really begin to mess things up. A better idea, Somerset had suggested, was to employ a bunch of barrio toughs. Unfortunately, the dump site was so far out of town that no home boys claimed the area as part of their turf. Besides, teenagers were unreliable, as likely to turn on you as help you. Too dangerous.

What really concerned Huddy was not Pickett’s intractability or his family’s medical history. They could tolerate a few remaining examples of disease. According to the reports, the man was something of a neighborhood flake. Not crazy, just independent and ornery enough to make trouble just for the hell of it and hang any consequences. He was an old man, lived by himself, with no close relatives within a thousand miles. There seemed no way to get at him.

Gomez, now, had six kids. If he hadn’t accepted the Calexico job there were other avenues open to Huddy’s people to convince him he’d better do what he was told. But there seemed to be no way to gain control of Pickett. He spoke perfect English, had lived next to the dump most of his life, and seemed damnably straightforward. Huddy definitely did not want him talking to the county inspectors.

The staged robbery still seemed like the best alternative. If caught, the robbers could claim they’d gone to the wrong house. It was a thin story, but a plausible one. The police ought to buy it. They might even be able to get away with having the old man “accidentally” catch a stray bullet.

“You know something?” Huddy said. “I worry too much.” Somerset leaned back and put her hands against him. Her head was thrown back and she stared up at him through exquisite lapis eyes.

“I’ve told you that, Benjy.”

“Yeah. You know, when this is over, we really should take that vacation. Find an island and just sit on the sand for a couple of weeks. I’m sure the company wouldn’t begrudge us the time. Hell, if we pull this off they won’t begrudge us anything.”

“That’s my boy.” One nail made circles against his belly. “What’s the point of knocking yourself out if you don’t take advantage of life once in a while?”

“Sometimes I just forget about resting.” Privately he thought, that’s the trouble with you, Somerset. Those who aspire to wield real power don’t have time to rest. Lotus-eaters never get anywhere.

His own sense of superiority thus fortified, he turned his attention back to the screen. “I mean, what can we do about this guy? Likes to dress up on Halloween, play Santa Claus at Christmas, play with the neighborhood kids. A real retard. How do you manipulate somebody like that?”

Unpredictable, too, he thought. Just the sort who, if he was confronted by a health inspector, was likely to say something real dangerous.

He read on. “Graduated high school, no college.” That figured. Actually, Huddy was surprised to see evidence of the high school diploma. Rural school, though. Virtually worthless. So he’s not the brightest guy around. Good. He might have trouble putting his feelings and suspicions into words. Hardly likely to mention his sister, who’d lived with him for fifteen years. Probably both of them played down in the dump. Well, the sister was no longer a concern. She was long gone. Pity Pickett hadn’t picked up the same bug as his sibling.

Somerset’s hand moved to his collar and stroked his neck. Her fingers toyed with his hair. He sighed, tried to force himself to relax. Less than a week, he reminded himself. Less than seven days and we can forget all about this and enjoy the money and promotions.

Only Pickett still stood in his mind, blocking his delight like a black valentine.

He’d try the job offer one more time, only this time he’d make the proposal himself. That way he could at least size up his last roadblock to success in person. He had to ascertain just how dangerous Pickett might be before deciding on something extreme like the fake robbery. Hopefully the old man would come around and extreme measures wouldn’t be necessary.

First thing in the morning, he told himself. Now he was exhausted and Somerset was right about him needing to relax. She was good at that. Real good. Huddy was certain he gave back as good as he got, of course. Sex was only another form of wielded power. He had no qualms about letting her feel she was in command at such times. It was good for her ego and he was hardly hurting as a result.

Yes, Somerset was nice to have around and not only for her encyclopedic mind. She knew that and it didn’t cause her any problems. She was too well-balanced.

The computer continued to wink glassily at them as they moved from console to couch. He’d finish with Jake Pickett in the morning. Probably worrying about the old man needlessly. Everything else had gone so smoothly. One stubborn old man surely wasn’t going to screw things up.

Somerset pulled him down on the couch and he forgot about Jake Pickett, forgot about the project, forgot about everything except the wonderful warmth and movement she was.

As usual they both enjoyed the hell out of their lovemaking, and, as usual, there was no love in it….

IV

Surely a beneficent spirit was watching out for Benjamin Huddy, for he learned the next morning that the company’s lawyers had scored yet another triumph of legal obfuscation, for which they were famed. They’d succeeded in delaying the inspection of the dumpsite not for another day or two, but for a whole week.

Huddy could scarcely contain his pleasure. A full week would give the landscapers several opportunities to slip down into the site and check on the transplanted chaparral, to add water and fertilizer and replace any plants which hadn’t taken to the sanitized soil. It also let him return to the Century City office to take care of accumulated busy work before driving back out to Riverside the next day to confront the obstinate Jake Pickett.

The section of Riverside he had to drive through to reach the site was even more depressing in the daytime. This barrio was worse than East L.A.’s. There was no community spirit here, none of the pride which had produced the blazing murals which turned old buildings in L.A. into towers of light and color. He guided the Cadillac cautiously through garbage-lined streets, past ancient corner markets shielded by black iron grates.

Finally he was maneuvering the Eldorado out of the barrio proper and up the dirt road leading to the ridge bordering the dump. He wondered if maybe he should have sent an aide. But he was curious to see the site after a couple of nights’ work by the landscaping crews, and knew he’d handle Pickett better than any assistant. They’d had their opportunity and had failed. Anytime you want something done right you’ve got to do it yourself, he thought sourly. They just hadn’t handled the old man properly.

Also, it was a nice day to be out of the office. He wouldn’t miss anything. He had a good secretary and Somerset would warn him if anything unexpected developed in relation to the project.

The dirt road which climbed the ridge did not show many tire tracks. Not everyone who lived on the road owned a car, though you couldn’t tell it from their front yards, where deceased Chevrolets and wheelless Fords slowly disintegrated in the California sun, rusting dinosaurs from the fifties.

The valley looked odd from this angle. He was the same height above the site’s floor, but everything else was different, including the position of the sun. It was a beneficial revelation, he thought. Beneficial to view the valley from any place where the inspectors could see it. And what they would see was a little geologic depression no different from the dozens which surrounded it.

The tallest trees had been planted in the center of the valley, where water was likeliest to collect. Hastily transplanted grasses and wild grains bent to the summer breeze. There was no sign that man had intervened in this place or that the natural order had been disturbed.

Something caught his eye. He frowned, stopped the car. The window hummed as he lowered it. There, on the far hillside. There was a patch of brush that appeared to be turning brown much too rapidly, even for late Southern California summer. He made a mental note of the spot. Have to get the landscapers up there to work on it, he thought, and a field tech to make sure the soil is clean.

Not that the county could make much of one little plot of poisoned flora, but Huddy wanted everything to look so normal, so natural at first glance that they wouldn’t even bother to run a soil analysis on their way to the next locale on their ecological hit list.

He continued upward, thankful for the front-wheel drive which took the barely graded track easily, wincing every time a kicked-up piece of gravel struck the car and echoed through the padded interior.

Then he reached the end of the road, near the highest part of the ridge. A couple of battered white crossbars blocked his way. The Dead End sign that hung limply from the center was a mess of bullet holes, spray paint graffiti unintelligible to anyone outside the barrio, BB dents and rock scratches. The lower of the two horizontal barriers lay forlornly on the ground. Kids had jumped up and down on it until it busted off.

Those same children, who ought to have been in school, now appeared as if by magic from the yards surrounding the dingy, grime-encrusted houses. They clustered around the car, marveling at the fresh paint and polished chrome, and making Huddy uneasy. He decided the best thing to do would be to do nothing. The last thing he wanted was to antagonize these gutter brats.

He stood there for a moment, ignoring their giggles and wide-eyed stares as he studied the papers and map on his clipboard. Jake Pickett’s house was straight ahead, up a trail which began where the road ended. The ridge was too narrow for a road beyond this point, hence Pickett’s comparative isolation. He put on his best smile while he thumbed the car door lock. There was a click as both doors snapped tight. He pushed the door closed.

The children promptly shifted their attention from the car to its driver. Huddy was careful not to touch any of them as they crowded around him.

“Hi, mister.” The boy who spoke looked to be about ten. He glanced admiringly at the Eldorado. “Nice car. Too nice for you to be from the welfare.”

“That’s right,” he replied with forced pleasantness, “I’m not from the county, or the city.”

“Well, where you from, then?” asked another boy curiously. His tee shirt was cut off just below the sternum, revealing his bare brown belly to the sun. Whether this was the result of local fashion trends or just poverty Huddy couldn’t have said and didn’t much care.

Nearby a little black-haired girl stared solemnly at him. Occasionally her stare was interrupted as sharp, racking coughs bent her over. Huddy knew that cough, could surmise its likely cause. Now that the dump had been cleaned up, maybe her cough would go away. Maybe.

It would be impossible for the county inspectors to prove anything from the few chronically ill people who remained around the dump. Besides, these people were habitually ill, weren’t they? No telling where the girl’s family had acquired their coughs. Probably south of the border. Likely as not, the little girl’s parents were illegals. Huddy grinned. They’d no more talk to a government official than they’d take a union job. His attention went back to the trail.

“Hey mon, if you not from welfare,” the older boy persisted, “then what you doin’ here?”

“I’m going to visit a friend.” He pointed toward the surprisingly neat little house not far beyond the dead-end barrier. “Does Mr. Pickett live in that house?”

“Pickett?” The eldest boy frowned while his gang clustered close around him.

“He means el magico hombre,” one of the other boys finally said, “stupido.”

“Who you calling stupido, Victor?” He started to push the younger boy, then thought better of it. He still wasn’t sure this stranger with the nice car was harmless.

“Yeah, that’s his place, I guess. He not in any trouble, is he? You sure you not from welfare?”