Part 5 (1/2)
”It's not that easy any more, is it?” the third one said. ”Fellow's got your name, Les. 'Sbad.”
”Well, yes, of course I do,” Art said. ”But so what? You three are hardly nondescript. You think it'd be hard to pick your faces out of a rogues gallery?
Oh, and wait a minute! Isn't this a trade? What happened to the spirit of transatlantic solidarity?”
”Right,” Les said. ”Don't matter if you've got my name, 'cos we're all friends, right, sir?”
”Right!” Art said. He put the tattered wallet in his already bulging jacket pocket, making a great show of tamping it down so it wouldn't come loose. Once his hand was free, he extended it. ”Art Berry. Late of Toronto. Pleased to meetcha!”
Les shook his hand. ”I'm Les. These are my friends, Tony and Tom.”
”f.u.c.k!” Tom, the second one, said. ”Les, you stupid c.u.n.t! Now they got our names, too!” The hand he'd put in his pocket came out, holding a tazer that sparked and hummed. ”Gotta get rid of 'em now.”
Art smiled, and reached very slowly into his pocket. He pulled out his comm, dislodging Les's wallet so that it fell to the street. Les, Tom and Tony stared at the glowing comm in his hand. ”Could you repeat that, Tom? I don't think the 999 operator heard you clearly.”
Tom stared dumbfounded at the comm, watching it as though it were a snake. The numbers ”999” were clearly visible on its display, along with the position data that pinpointed its location to the meter. Les turned abruptly and began walking briskly towards the tube station. In a moment, Tony followed, leaving Tom alone, the tazer still hissing and spitting. His face contorted with frustrated anger, and he feinted with the tazer, barking a laugh when Art and Linda cringed back, then he took off at a good run after his mates.
Art clamped the comm to his head. ”They've gone away,” he announced, prideful.
”Did you get that exchange? There were three of them and they've gone away.”
From the comm came a tight, efficient voice, a male emergency operator. The speech was accented, and it took a moment to place it. Then Art remembered that the overnight emergency call-centers had been outsourced by the English government to low-cost cube-farms in Manila. ”Yes, Mr. Berry.” His comm had already transmitted his name, immigration status and location, creating a degree of customization more typical of fast-food delivery than governmental bureaucracies. That was bad, Art thought, professionally. GMT polezeidom was meant to be a solid wall of oatmeal-thick bureaucracy, courtesy of some crafty, anonymous PDTalist. ”Please, stay at your current location. The police will be on the scene shortly. Very well done, sir.”
Art turned to Linda, triumphant, ready for the traditional, postrhetorical accolades that witnesses of his verbal acrobatics were wont to dole out, and found her in an att.i.tude of abject terror. Her eyes were crazily wide, the whites visible around the irises -- something he'd read about but never seen firsthand. She was breathing shallowly and had gone ashen.
Though they were not an actual couple yet, Art tried to gather her into his arms for some manly comforting, but she was stiff in his embrace, and after a moment, planted her palms on his chest and pushed him back firmly, even aggressively.
”Are you all right?” he asked. He was adrenalized, flushed.
”*What if they'd decided to kill us*?” she said, spittle flying from her lips.
”Oh, they weren't going to hurt us,” he said. ”No guts at all.”
”G.o.d*dammit*, you didn't know that! Where do you get off playing around with *my* safety? Why the h.e.l.l didn't you just hand over your wallet, call the cops and be done with it? Macho f.u.c.king horses.h.i.+t!”
The triumph was fading, fast replaced by anger. ”What's wrong with you? Do you always have to s.n.a.t.c.h defeat from the jaws of victory? I just beat off those three a.s.sholes without raising a hand, and all you want to do is criticize?
Christ, OK, next time we can hand over our wallets. Maybe they'll want a little rape, too -- should I go along with that? You just tell me what the rules are, and I'll be sure and obey them.”
”You f.u.c.king *pig*! Where the f.u.c.k do you get off raising your voice to me? And don't you *ever* joke about rape. It's not even slightly funny, you arrogant f.u.c.king p.r.i.c.k.”
Art's triumph deflated. ”Jesus,” he said, ”Jesus, Linda, I'm sorry. I didn't realize how scared you must have been --”
”You don't know what you're talking about. I've been mugged a dozen times. I hand over my wallet, cancel my cards, go to my insurer. No one's ever hurt me. I wasn't the least bit scared until you opened up your big G.o.dd.a.m.ned mouth.”
”Sorry, sorry. Sorry about the rape crack. I was just trying to make a point. I didn't know --” He wanted to say, *I didn't know you'd been raped*, but thought better of it -- ”it was so...*personal* for you --”
”Oh, Christ. Just because I don't want to joke about rape, you think I'm some kind of *victim*, that *I've* been raped” -- Art grimaced -- ”well, I haven't, s.h.i.+thead. But it's not something you should be using as a G.o.dd.a.m.ned example in one of your stupid points. Rape is serious.”
The cops arrived then, two of them on scooters, looking like meter maids. Art and Linda glared at each other for a moment, then forced smiles at the cops, who had dismounted and shed their helmets. They were young men, in their twenties, and to Art, they looked like kids playing dress up.
”Evening sir, miss,” one said. ”I'm PC McGivens and this is PC DeMoss. You called emergency services?” McGivens had his comm out and it was pointed at them, slurping in their ident.i.ty on police override.