Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [34]
The judge tried once more, knowing he was doomed to failure. “Counselor, can you cite one single legal precedent in support of your arguments?”
“Your Honor,” Blumberg rang out, “every dog must have his day!” And he got perhaps the first standing ovation ever given in New York City night court.
The judge called me up to the bench, satisfied himself that I was the dog’s owner, and took us all back into chambers. He made a quick call to the ASPCA, informing a thoroughly cowed attendant of the potential liability they were facing if they killed my dog. Just to make sure, I typed a release order on engraved stationery from the secretary’s desk while the judge was being congratulated by Blumberg on his judicial wisdom. I picked up my dog and took him to the Mole at the junkyard, where he could join the pack. Nobody knows the name on the Mole’s birth certificate, but he lives under the ground and he’s reliable as death. I heard later that Blumberg picked up half a dozen cases from the gallery while I was gone. Most guys don’t even have the guts to reach back into themselves when they have to, but Blumberg actually had something there when he did.
While the Doberman’s successor prowled her rooftop, I set about making preparations for the coming hunt.
11
THE FIRST ISSUE was identification. If Wilson was really a Vietnam vet, he must be wise to the grab-bag of goodies Uncle Sam makes available. If he was scoring from the VA on a regular basis, for instance, he had to be using his righteous name. And that name would have to be connected to an address somewhere in the government computers. I knew a guy who specialized in that racket for a long time—a computer wizard who just liked to play with keyboards and telephones. He was the same guy who gave the Mouse the idea for his big social security scam (which, from my recent mail, was obviously still working). Unfortunately, finding that guy would be tougher than finding Wilson. He’d done me a lot of favors over the years, so when he came to me for help in disappearing, I showed him how to work the game and he vanished. He should have been satisfied making regular little scores, but he talked too much. One of the mob guys overheard him bragging in a singles bar about how he could get access to any government computer and approached him to get inside the Witness Protection Program. The mob guy wanted to find out the new identities of some of the informants who had been relocated by the government. It worked to perfection, but when people started turning up dead all over the place (especially in California—for some reason, most of the gangsters who opt for relocation have to try the Holy Coast), my friend decided to exit the stage. The mob made so much noise looking for him that they tipped off the feds—or maybe, in a touch of perfect irony, one of the mob guys leaning on my friend for information was a rat himself. Who knows?
Since the guy was a friend, I didn’t send him down the Rhodesian pipeline, but recommended Ireland instead. They’ve got no extradition treaty with the U.S., and he should be all right if he keeps his head down. Israel is another good choice, especially since my friend had such marketable skills, but those people are too serious and I don’t think they would have tolerated his nonsense. The guy had bad personal habits and no real sense of surviving by himself. Between the need to talk to the wrong people, which means any people, and the need for computer toys and telephones, he probably won’t last.
I sell a lot of identification, mostly to clowns who want the option to disappear but never will. The stuff looks pretty good—all you need are some genuine state blanks, like for drivers’ licenses, and the right typewriter. IBM makes a special typing element—one of those things that looks like a studded golf ball—designed for computer reading. They call it an OCR element and you can’t buy it over the counter but this is something less than