Bubba worked like one possessed, dashing back and forth between the computer and the maker. When the resistance to draw got a little too close to the red line, Bubba was right there making the adjustment. He intuitively knew when he was going to run out of glue and made sure the attendant pulled up the cart early. When the tipping paper broke again, Bubba spooled it back through the air channel, up into the feed rollers, threaded it into the garnisher and hit reset in a record thirty-one seconds.
When the paper broke another time, he realized he had dull knives in the cutting head and summoned a fixer to take care of the problem. Bubba sweated through more lost minutes and worked even faster to make up the time. He ran three hours without another mishap, without stopping, and by four A.M., the production report on the computer screen showed Bubba was only 21,350 dual-rods, or less than two minutes, behind Bay 5.
Production supervisor Betty Council monitored quality and oversaw fixers and electricians, and coordinated shifts. She had been keeping her eye on Bubba for weeks because he seemed to have more technical problems than any of the other operators. Gig Dan had told her he was getting fed up with him.
‘How are we doing?’ she called out to Bubba as the vacuum in the maker sucked blended tobacco down, and rods formed almost faster than the eye could follow.
Bubba was too busy to answer.
‘You don’t have to kill yourself,’ said Council, who was on her way to being promoted again because she was smart, hardworking, and several months ago had increased production three percent by encouraging competition among the bays.
‘I’m fine,’ Bubba said as rods were glued, cut, plucked into the transfer drum, carried to another knife and flipper, then to another drum. Plugs from the plug hopper were cut and married to the rods.
‘I’m absolutely amazed,’ she yelled above the roar and strike of machines. ‘You and Smudge are almost neck and neck.’
Brazil stepped on the gas in pursuit of the kid half-falling and zigzagging on the side of the road. It was commonly accepted in policing that if a subject was running, usually there was a reason. Brazil rolled down his window.
‘What’s going on?’ he called out as he drove and the kid continued to dash about.
‘Nothing,’ the kid gasped, the whites of his eyes showing all the way around as fear propelled his Nikes.
‘Something is, or you wouldn’t be running,’ Brazil called back. ‘Stop so I can talk to you!’
‘Can’t.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘Uh-uh.’
Brazil pulled off the road ahead of him and jumped out. The kid was exhausted and intoxicated. He was wearing a Bulls jersey and looked vaguely familiar, even in the dark.
‘Leave me alone!’ he screamed as Brazil grabbed him by the back of his jersey. ‘I didn’t do nothing!’
‘Whoa,’ Brazil said. ‘Calm down. Wait a minute. I’ve met you before. You’re that kid at Godwin, the artist. A different sort of name. What was it… ? Week? Wheeze?’
‘I’m not telling you nothing!’ The kid was heaving, sweat shining on his face and dripping off his chin.
Brazil looked around, wondering, listening. He didn’t see anyone else. There was no burglar alarm hammering anywhere, the road dark, the night silent.
‘Weed,’ he suddenly remembered. ‘Yeah, that’s it.’
‘No it ain’t,’ Weed said.
‘Yeah, it is. I’m sure of it. I’m Andy Brazil.’
‘You’re that cop who came to school,’ Weed accused him.
‘Something wrong with that?’ Brazil asked.
‘So how come you’re out here in a BMW?’ Weed demanded to know.
‘A better question is how come you’re drunk and running like a maniac?’
Weed looked up to where the moon would be, were it not covered in clouds.
‘I’m taking you home,’ Brazil said.
‘You can’t make me,’ Weed defied him, his words slurring and knocking one another down.
‘Sure I can.’ Brazil laughed. ‘You’re drunk in public. You’re a juvenile. You can either come downtown or I’m taking you to your house, and if I were you, I’d choose the latter and take some aspirin and go to bed.’