In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition Read Online Free Page B

keeping with the grey people slumped on sagging furniture.
    The clerk sat behind a chicken wire cage. His eyes were the same sepia as his nicotine-stained fingers. “Help you?”
    “Need a place.”
    “A real place, or something for a secret identity?”
    “Huh?” Damn, this is the worst jetlag ever.
    “Supposed to be hush-hush, I know.” He grinned at me, his teeth all colors and shapes not found in nature. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot, pal, we do this all the time. I got real rooms, and I got your lairs. Lairs are easy. You bring me a box of gear, I dummy up a room. Cops come in, take forensic evidence that proves you live there, they don’t look no further, okay? That’s two hundred a month, in advance.”
    “Got it.”
    He gave me the once over. “You need fake ID to go with that?”
    “Sure.”
    He lowered his voice, took a drag on a raggedy, hand-rolled cigarette. “My brother-in-law works down to the CCRC. He’ll do you something nice.” He pointed to the clock above his cage. “Look there.”
    I did, unable to help myself.
    “I’ll pull stills from that. Nice dopey look. It’ll fool the cops.”
    “How much?”
    “That’s a grand. Hey, it’s worth it. He puts a hold on the information search which tips me to set up the dummy room. You don’t have to worry about nothing.”
    “Okay. I still need a room.”
    “Four Reagans a week, first and last now. No fighting in the room, no testing out your gear or nothing. The closets all have a secret compartment for your uniform and kit. For an extra Reagan a month, the cops forget how to find the switch.”
    “Okay. How long do I have to get you the money?”
    “An hour.”
    “Discount for cash?”
    The clerk flashed that smile again. “Untraceable. Nice. Give you some free advice. Pop the sim-chip out of that uTiliPod. They can track you.”
    “You know someone who can get me one that can’t be tracked?”
    “Maybe I know someone who can hack the data to make you hard to track.”
    “Done. An hour, then.”
    “Done. I’m Bennie.”
    “Smith.”
    “Not when your new ID comes in. You like Murphy. Rick Murphy?”
    “Good as any name, I guess.”
    “The maid’ll have your room made up in an hour, Mr. Murphy.” Bennie’s laugh suggested the maid would stay for another Reagan.
    I headed back out to the street. I couldn’t trust Bennie further than I could throw him, but I’d be safe as long as he thought I was a cash cow to be milked. Keep a low profile, pay my bills, get sleep and information, and I’d be good. I’d get another place fast and would forget Bennie even existed.
    I walked back down the street and headed into the corner market. In the back I thumbed enough Reagans off a stack to cover what I owed Bennie, then added another. I grabbed a bottle of milk, a loaf of bread, some jam and looked for peanut butter. No particular reason excepting I hadn’t had it in a long time.
    A very long time. Twenty years.
    Okay, maybe it was comfort food. Didn’t matter. I’d hit the wall somewhere down in the CRAWL. I had enough brain juice left to stalk and kill a PB&J sandwich, but that was about it.
    “May I help you, sir?”
    “Yeah. I can’t find the peanut butter.”
    The young man–East Indian by coloration, but totally domestic by voice–held his hands up. “Please, sir, not to be so loud.”
    I frowned. “Is something wrong?”
    He glanced left and right, then made his way to me through the crowded store. His voice picked up in volume. “You know, sir, it is illegal to sell or possess peanut butter.”
    “Really, since when?”
    My surprise clearly shocked him. “For years, sir. Many years.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Who said you could get peanut butter here?”
    I took a chance. “Bennie.”
    He rolled his eyes.
    I shrugged.
    He waved me over to the cleaning supplies and handed me a jar of Brookfield Creamy Silver Polish. “I believe this is what you want, sir.”
    “Thank you.”