AGENTS BAYLISS AND NELSON SAT IN A VAN ACROSS from a sandwich shop just up the block from the Grande Old Tyme. The van had PG&E logos on the doors outside and smelled like vodka inside. Bayliss was at the window, looking through the one-way glass, adjusting her binoculars. All the vans with state-of-the-art surveillance gear were already out in the field or in for servicing, so she and her partner were stuck with this Flintstones hunk of junk. Bayliss was sure it was Nelson’s fault. He’d pissed off someone in the motor pool, or more likely everyone. She sighed and adjusted the binoculars until the image was crystal clear.
“Is that him?” said Nelson.
“No,” said Bayliss. “It’s Mr. Rogers back from the dead.”
“No. It’s Mr. Rogers,” said Nelson in a high squeaky mocking voice.
Bayliss, the junior agent, in her off-the-rack jacket and knock-off Gucci shoes, looked at him. Nelson wore an expensive suit and tie, but his white shirt was wrinkled like he’d had it on for a couple of days. Been sleeping in his car again, thought Bayliss.
“Are you drinking already?” she said.
“I couldn’t be talking if I was drinking.”
Bayliss watched the jailbird and the crook eat. Nelson was quiet for a moment, then said, “There. You heard that silence a second ago? That was drinking.”
Bayliss ignored him. “He’s with someone I don’t recognize.”
“Let me see.”
Nelson took the binoculars, got them tangled in Bayliss’s hair for a second, then pulled them free. Nelson took his sweet time adjusting the lenses. Bayliss was sure he did it to spite her.
Finally, Nelson said, “That’s his asshole buddy, Morton something. The one who ratted him out.”
He handed her the binoculars and sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the inside of the van.
“Why isn’t that in the briefing folder?” said Bayliss.
“Why should it be? I just told you who he is.”
“What if your liver committed suicide and you died? No one else would have that intel.”
“Guess you better pray I don’t die.”
“I pray for your good health every night. More than world peace, I pray for your continued, sparkling existence.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” said Nelson. He got up, swayed a little, and dropped into the passenger seat, gazing vaguely out the window.
“You’re a less than admirable human being,” said Bayliss.
“Want a drink?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Good. I wasn’t in a sharing mood.”
“Then why did you offer?”
“It was a test. You passed.”
Bayliss lowered the binoculars and frowned at Nelson. “I don’t really pray for you, you know. I pray for you not killing us and me ending up on the mook squad.”
Nelson snort-laughed at that.
“You don’t have to die for that,” he said between sips from a leather-clad flask. “You’re already a zombie. A toe-the-line, follow-all-orders, fake-Armani-wearing zombie.”
“Oh? And what are you?”
“The one wearing real Armani . . . and watching our target. He’s on the move.”
Bayliss looked back out the window.
“Oh, crap,” she said, scrambling into the driver’s seat.
Nelson snort-laughed again.
“You even curse like my grandma.”
“I really hate you sometimes.”
“You’re the wind beneath my wings.”
Bayliss pulled out into traffic, following the two men. Staying with them, but a little behind so they wouldn’t spot the tail.
Nelson hummed tunelessly. At the light, Bayliss jammed the brakes. Nelson spilled vodka down the front of his creased trousers.
“Nice,” he said. “Very mature.”
“What’s this mature you speak of? We zombies don’t understand that concept.”
Nelson wiped the front of his pants with a silk handkerchief as wrinkled as his shirt.
“Just drive.”