‘I don’t think this is about us being fish out of water or fish, period,’ Hammer stated.
‘Maybe we’re fishing for something, then.’ West wouldn’t let it go.
‘Like what?’ Brazil asked. ‘And you know, if you don’t mind, Chief, I think I’d like a beer.’
‘I don’t care.’
Brazil got up and went into the kitchen.
‘Fishing for clues? For crime patterns? For hot spots?’ West kept on.
‘This is nonsense.’ Hammer was pacing.
Niles slinked back into the dining room. Brazil was right behind him, sipping a Heineken.
‘Took the good stuff,’ he said politely to West. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’
That’s Jim’s good stuff, not mine.’
Brazil sat down and drained half the bottle in one swallow.
‘Andy,’ Hammer was thinking. ‘Is there any way to trace this fish-thing?’
He cleared his throat, his cheeks burning, his heart pounding irregularly and dully.
‘I doubt it,’ he said.
‘Let’s break it down for just a minute.’ Hammer stopped pacing and leaned closer to the brilliantly colored map on the screen. ‘Sector 219 is outlined in flashing bold red and there are one, two, three, four… , eleven bright blue fish inside it. Everywhere else we find just the usual icons.’
She looked at both of them.
‘Possible this could be a warning of some sort?’ she suggested.
‘Fish?’ Brazil thought about it. ‘There are only a few fish markets in 219. No lakes or reservoirs or even many seafood restaurants except Red Lobster and Captain D’s.’
‘What possible illegal use could there be for fish?’ Hammer explored. ‘I can’t imagine a black market in them, not unless there’s a proposed fish bill we don’t know about yet, a huge fish tax in the works and the lawsuits that would inevitably follow.’
‘Hmmmm.’ Brazil was willing to consider anything at this point. ‘Let’s just go down that path for a minute. Let’s say this is going on in the Senate and no one knows about it yet. Well, since one of the primary gateways is the Senate Judiciary Committee, and saying fish is a big issue, then could it be we somehow picked up some of their coding as our data passed through?’
‘I’m getting a headache,’ Hammer said. ‘And Virginia, would you please get your cat off my foot. He won’t move. Is he dead?’
‘Niles, come here.’
CHAPTER eleven
Weed tried to get to his feet and fell back on his butt. He crawled across the floor, his new tattoo throbbing. Smoke lit half a dozen fat candles and carried over several gallon jugs of water and a roll of paper towels. Weed started cleaning up his mess and would have thrown up again had anything been left.
‘Now, go outside and take your shirt and pants off,’ Smoke said.
‘What for?’ Weed barely asked as his stomach heaved like a small boat on an upset ocean.
‘You’re not getting in my car stinking like that, retard. So go dump water over yourself until you’re clean, unless you want to walk from here.’
Weed made his way carefully in wavering candlelight, stepping through the sliding glass door frames. He peeled off his shirt and jeans. It wasn’t as warm out as it had been, and he shivered uncontrollably as he dumped three gallons of water over himself, his slight body clad in nothing but soaked boxer shorts and Nikes that sloshed when he walked.
‘You got something for me to wear?’ Weed asked Smoke, who was throwing down vodka again.
‘What’s wrong with what you got on?’
‘I can’t go anywhere like this!’ Weed begged. ‘Oh, man, my head hurts so bad. I feel real sick and I’m freezing, Smoke.’
Smoke handed him a Dixie cup of vodka. Weed just stared at it.
‘Drink it. You’ll feel better,’ Smoke said.
He went behind cases of liquor and returned with a pair of folded Gottcha jeans, a black tee shirt, and Chicago Bulls jersey, windbreaker and cap.
‘Your colors,’ Smoke said proudly.
For an instant, Weed was happy and forgot his head throbbed. He felt important as he worked the relaxed-leg jeans over his soaked hightops and pulled the tee shirt and jersey over his head. He didn’t want any more vodka but Smoke forced it on him.