"I got guys working night and day on this," Mako said. "I got this mother moving frontways, sideways, up the kazoo. I got people don't do nothin' but package stuff, right? You don't got a package, you don't got shit. I got fag designers doing double overtime.
"I got ad dudes in New York, I got 'em in Chicago, and Butte. Jesus, what a bunch of dickheads those guys are. The jerks was going to dump us in the dirty magazines. I said, 'who the fuck you think you're talking to, we're going class on this.' I'm talking Elle and Vanity Fair. I'm talking fucking G.Q. Good-looking guys and skinny babes. We might be sayin' stuff in French. Moi-Guy, Moi-Gal. What d'ya think, the dudes come up with that. Hey, where are you, friend, you fuckin' out to lunch, you fuckin' listening to me?
"Uh, sure, right here, Mako," said Halloran Horn. "Good-looking babes, skinny guys, saying stuff in French. That's good. That's the sophisticated touch, that's the way to go."
"Yeah, right..."
Mako gave him a frosty gangster eye, a look that told Horn he wasn't off the hook at all.
"All this stuff, the stuff I 'm doin', it don't mean shit, you're not holding up your end, Horn. I don't like to be complaining, but you're dragging ass, pal. Science is dropping the fucking ball, you're letting down the team."
"We are making progress," Horn said, choosing his words with care, "we have made–definite inroads into the problem. I see growth. I see good indications, positive gains. I see breakthrough here."
"I see a lot of fuckin' talk. I don't see product, pal."
"I've got some charts–"
"Will you listen to this, you hear what you're saying to me? A guy's saying progress, he's sayin' he hasn't got shit."
"Now that is not true–"
"Fuck it's not." Mako got up, tossed Horn another killer look, just past injury, close to homicide.
"You want a drink? I got bourbon, I got beer and 7-Up, I got anything you want."
"No thanks," Horn said, "I'm fine."
"You want somethin' to eat?"
"No, I'm just fine."
"Hukka-Hump," Mako mumbled to himself. He walked past Horn, through the living room, through the kitchen door.
Horn let out a breath. Mako rattled glasses, worked the ice machine. Put a skillet on, tossed some bacon in. It's eight in the morning, Horn thought, greasy dishes on the table, whiskey in a glass, and he's having breakfast again.
Horn wondered what the hell to do. He'd stalled all he could. He was running out of high school science magic tricks.
He knew, if he ever told Mako there was no such thing as a portable fuck, Mako would likely kill him on the spot. He wouldn't remember it was his, Mako's idea, it would all be his fault.
It wasn't like he needed any hassle right now. Amy'd just heard about Europe, and wouldn't shut up until he took her over there. Someone broke in and took stuff out of his desk, which he hadn't told anyone about. The son of a bitch got onto the grounds, into Enchanted Mesa West, and that was supposed to be impossible to do.
Competition was fierce, and he'd done a little thievery himself. But stealing stuff–and sending it back? What kind of crazy shit was that?
If it wasn't for Mako, and Amy on a tear, everything would be fine. Business was good. Business, in fact, was fucking great. In the eighties, while the rest of Texas moaned and licked its wounds over bad oil prices, a real estate bust and scandals in the banks, Horn got richer by the day. He'd seen the storm coming and shifted his wealth to condom stock. Argentine bonds. Thai insurance and Idaho trout. Enchanted Mesa West. Lektra-Fide Security. St. Sarah Jean House and straight Laundromats. Crack snacks for pets. Drive-in brothels in Maine and Tennessee.
He was heavy into fat clinic futures and day-care centers for Czechs. High interest loans for the poor. Organ banks for the rich. Mako had him down for 19% of this Lease-a-Tot thing which was almost perfectly legit. The kids came from Waifland, Inc., thirty-nine branches of the St. Sarah Jean House scam. Waifland took in disadvantaged kids, and found them lovely homes at a very hefty price.
Lease-a-Tot did better than that. Lease-a-Tot rented out moppets and tykes to people who didn't want kids full-time. People who needed little cuties for family reunions, company picnics, Easter time at church. Horn liked the deal a lot. It was good for the grownups and good for the kids. He liked it most of all, because the sucker could go into franchise and bring in money by the pot...
He didn't mean to pry, but the papers on the corner of the table caught his eye. Mako was still in the kitchen, frying something up. Horn lifted a single page and peeked. What he saw sent a flutter through his belly, sent a tingle up his shorts.
The pictures were in terrible color. The women were innocent and nasty, pure and unsullied, totally corrupt. Lechery and Lust came to mind. Animals in heat.
He had seen it all before in movies and dirty magazines. He'd seen the same breed in a dozen topless bars. And, before his wife came along, when Amy was still Mrs. Wallace Pailey Marshall instead of Amy Horn, Halloran had tasted immoral flesh himself.
What it is, he thought, is seeing this stuff so early in the day. Sin seems a little out of place before ten. Which is why he'd reacted so strongly to an ordinary sight. That, and the fact that The Sound of Music had nasty overtones if you watched it at Mako Binder's place–
"Hey, caught ya!" said Mako, and Horn dropped the pictures quick.
"I was just–"
"Right, I know what you was doing, pal." Mako stood in the doorway and grinned. He was eating a fried egg sandwich, the yellow dripping down his chin.
"It's okay to look," Mako said, "you got a cut, you're in."
"I've got a cut of what?"
"SLUTTO. You got thirteen percent. We ain't talked about this? I'm pretty sure we did."
"I think I'd remember," Horn said.
"It's LOTTO with chicks. Your number comes up, you turn in your ticket, you get one of them."
Halloran was taken aback. "That isn't legal, is it, can we do that?"
Mako laughed again, a gangster guffaw this time, that sprayed a little egg on Halloran's shirt. "Shit, whatcha think? We don't sell tickets at the 7-Eleven store. You gotta know where to go, you gotta know somebody, okay?"
"Uh, so where do you–"
Mako's phone rang. Mako picked it up, put it on hold.
"I gotta take this. Get back to me, there's somethin' we haven't talked about. Get to the lab guys, tell 'em we're gonna need ethnic coloration on this. I don't give a fuck, but there's bozos out there every shade there is. This is something you got to do, this is science stuff."
"Do what?" Horn said, but Mako was off on a criminal adventure somewhere...