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her day he had to waste on his dreary； humdrum job； on this humdrum bus ride； on this humdrum colorless suburb。 Every day he spent here was a day he wasn't there； lying in the sun； fucking the beach bunnies； drinking Cuba Libres and enjoying life。
His fantasy was there； waiting； and he was firmly and hopelessly planted here。 What made tile waiting so frustrating was the money he already had in the bank。 That he had mitted a variety of serious crimes to obtain the money troubled him not a whit。 He had never given it a moment's thought。 In fact； he felt exactly like all the other people who see a large sum of unearned money e their way…lottery winners； traffic accident victims； legatees； swindlers； personal injury lawyers and so on…the money was his by divine right。 Somehow； some way； the rulers of the universe had decreed that he deserved the good things and good times that big money will buy because he wasn't like all those schmucks who flog it eight to five。 He was different。 Special。 The money made him special。 The unique and wonderful emissions given off by large quantities of money made him tingle。
Perhaps because he felt so good about himself； Terry Franklin took the time this morning； the last morning of his life。 to smile at the bus driver as he boarded and to nod at a woman he recognized as he went down the aisle。
As the bus threaded its way through rush hour traffic； he watched the scenery roll by without seeing a thing。 He rode lost in reverie； already enjoying his fantasy。
The morning was spent cleaning and repairing a puter keyboard on which a secretary had spilled coffee。 She also had a taste for doughnuts and potato chips； he noted with a sneer as he worked with a toothbrush to rid the mechanism of soggy crumbs。 He could just picture her still young but already overweight； always dieting or talking to her fellow airheads about dieting as she munches yet another doughnut and swills yet another cup of coffee loaded with sugar。 She must have had at least three lumps in this stuff she spilled。 Lucy's clone。
He almost decided to tell the chief to trash tins keyboard； then changed his mind。 The chief had cut him a lot of slack these past three weeks： he should try to prove to the chief that he could still carry his share of the load。 He put more WD…40 on the keyboard and reattacked the sticky mess with the toothbrush。
Terry Franklin's last meal was a hot dog with mustard； catsup and relish； a small order of fries and a medium Sprite。 He ate it with another sailor from his section in the main cafeteria。 They discussed the new secretary in the division office…was she really a blonde； would she or wouldn't she； was it worth trying to find out； and so on。
The afternoon went quickly。 The chief sent him with one other man to work on a balky tape drive in the enlisted manpower section； and the afternoon flew by。 They had found the problem but had not yet repaired it when quitting time rolled around。
So he carried his tools back to the shop and exchanged guffaws with his shipmates； then walked to the bus stop outside and found a place in the usual line。
Had he known what was ing； one wonders what he would have done differently。 No doubt a larger man who knew the end was nigh might have lived his last day pretty much as he had all his others； but Terry Franklin was not a big man in any sense of the word； and he had e to realize that in the last three weeks； since the fiasco of the bungled drop。 He knew he was a coward； a weakling without backbone or character； but； he thought； only he knew； and so what？ Superman lives in Metropolis and Batman lives in Gotham。 The rest of us just try to get along。
Yet； given who he was and what he was； should he have known he might be approaching the end of his string？ The signs were certainly there if he had thought it through dispassionately； with some detachment。 He didn't； of course。
He used most of his last hour on earth to stare out the bus window and think about the feel of the sun on his back and sand between his bare toes； and to daydream of a hard young female body under him mingling her sweat with his。 She didn't have a face； this girl in his dreams； but she had firm brown tits and a flat stomach and long brown legs with taut thighs。
When he turned the key in the car ignition the radio boomed to life as the engine caught。 〃。。。like a bat outta hell； ba…dupe； ba…dupey。。。〃
He rolled the window down and fastened his seat belt and patted the steering wheel with his hands in time to the music。
The car in front of him turned right after four blocks； and the one behind turned left a block later。 Terry Franklin paid no attention。 He drove out onto an old boulevard now lined with small strip businesses and proceeded about a mile before he swung the car onto a side street。 He liked to drive through these quiet residential streets because they had so little traffic and he thought he made better time； though he had never clocked it。
At the first stop sign he came to； a little girl was crossing the street pushing a miniature baby carriage containing her doll。 That she had chosen to cross the street at just this time and place probably gave Terry Franklin another minute of life。
One minute was just about the time it took for him to wait until the little girl was clear； depress the accelerator and cruise down to the next cross street。 He glanced both ways； no traffic； and took his foot off the brake to roll on through。 〃。。。like a bat outta hell。。。〃
That's when the bomb underneath the vehicle； directly under the driver's seat； exploded。
Terry Franklin felt a concussive impact as his knees came up to smash into his chin； but that was the only sensation that he was conscious of in the thousandth of a second he had left to live。 The floor of the car came apart and the seat springs and fabric and padding were all forced explosively upward。 His skull popped like a ripe melon when this rising； accelerating column on which he sat smashed into the roof of the car and bowed it upward。 The windows exploded outward as the fireball continued to expand； showering the area with glass。 Fragments of springs and plastic and fabric were forced deep into Terry Franklin's now lifeless corpse； which began to sear from the intense heat
The car； still in gear and torn almost in two； moved like a wounded crab diagonally across the intersection and lightly impacted a parked vehicle。 Then the engine quit from fuel starvation。 The severed fuel line dumped its liquid into the molten mess in the center of the vehicle and the smoldering wreckage became an inferno。 In ten seconds the fire was so hot the fuel tank exploded。
ing around the corner four blocks away； FBI agent Clarence Brown saw the rising fireball from the exploding gas tank。 He grabbed the dash…mounted mike。 〃Holy shit； his car blew up。 It blew up！ The subject's car blew up！〃
The voice on the telephone had a hollow； metallic sound； like it was ing through a long pipe。 〃Little development I thought you would want to know about； Luis。 Probably nothing important。 Terry Franklin just went out with a bang。 His car blew up。〃
〃Anybody else hurt； Dreyfus？〃
〃Not another soul。 We had an agent following him； keeping tabs per your instructions； and he saw the gas tank go poof。 The lab guys are on the way。 The agent at the scene； Brown； says it looks like a bomb。〃
〃What time； exactly？〃
〃Sixteen fifty…seven。〃
Camacho looked at his watch。 Seventeen minutes ago。 〃Get a search warrant for his house。〃
〃Already doing the affidavit。〃
〃Send a man over to the house to watch it。 And you'd better alert somebody out in California that they'll have to do a next…of…km notification when we get a positive ID from the medical examiner。〃
〃The ID's gonna take a while。 The corpse is still in the car； roasted like a Christmas turkey。〃
〃Have the people in California quietly check to see that his wife sad in…laws are physically there。〃
〃You knew this was going to happen； didn't you？〃
〃I just follow orders； asshole；〃 Camacho snarled。 〃Why don't you do the same？〃 He slammed the phone onto its cradle。
Two minutes later it rang again。 〃Yes。〃
〃Dreyfus again。 Already we're getting calls from TV stations。 There's a chopper overhead now。 It's real visual with the smoke column and all。 Evening news for sure； distraught housewives and sobbing kids； the whole bit。 What's the official hot screaming poop？〃
〃We're investigating； cooperating with the local police。 Off the record； hint at drugs。〃
〃Roger hint。〃
〃Is local law on the scene？〃
〃Yeah。 Couple cruisers and a big red fire truck。〃
〃Don't let 'em touch anything。〃
〃Roger Wilco； over and out。〃
Luis Camacho pulled into his driveway at five minutes after midnight and checked the jury…rigged bulb in the hole in the door panel。 Still off。 Amen。
The night air retained some of the heat from the day。 The FBI agent stood in his shirt sleeves beside his car and breathed the deep； rich scent of the earth。
The neighborhood was quiet。 He could hear crickets。
All the lights were off in Harlan Albright's house。 Only a gleam of the hall light was visible through the window of his own door。 Camacho picked up the package on his front seat and locked his car； then used his key on the front door。 He shot the bolt behind him。
There was a note by the phone。 Albright had called。
Camacho poured himself a bourbon and added three ice cubes from the tray in the freezer。 He opened the kitchen door and stood there sipping his drink and looking at the shadows in the backyard。 The dog whined and wagged its tail。
Taking his time； Camacho strolled the length of the yard and seated himself in the tire swing hanging from the old oak。 He absently petted the dog and made forting noises as he sipped the liquor and let the alcohol take effect
It would be interesting to see how many of those servos were still in Albright's mad bomber kit。 And the batteries and fuses。
You sure had to take your hat off to Peter Aleksandrovich； a…ka good ol' Harlan； Terry Franklin's sudden end had been a nice tidy job。 No loose ends。 No secondary casualties that might fester into an eventual murder indictment that would make a spy swap impossible； should the worst happen and he get arrested by the FBI。 Terry Franklin had been very neatly and permanently silenced。 Scratch one asset…turned…debit。 Clean up that balance sheet。 Wipe off the red ink； and； mild！ we have a profitable enterprise； as anyone can plainly see。
Good ol' Harlan's house was as dark as a tomb。 The big maples in front shielded it from the streetlights and the oaks and beeches here in back performed a similar service with that little alley light。 So the house was just a looming black shape。
Camacho thought about the stairs up to the bedroom； pictured himself once again slipping up there； careful as a mouse； looking for booby traps； prying open the trapdoor to the attic…he shivered as he thought about it。 Good ol' Harlan would probably rig some more unpleasant surprises； tike plastique that goes boom when the someone ing into a room steps in the wrong place； or forgets to turn the light on and off three times in three seconds。 Good ol' Harlan would be just the man for a little rig like that。
Wonder if Harlan's found the blank film in the camera？ Had Camacho been careful enough with the operation？ Had he tripped a camera he didn't find？ If so； that bulb in the door would e on very soon。
His fatigue hit him all at once。 It was all he could do to walk back to the house； lock the door； and ascend the stairs。 He stripped off his clothes and fell into bed。
〃I don't want to ever get married；〃 Rita said。
〃Me neither；〃 Toad Tarkington agreed fervently。 〃Half the marriages fail； kids in single…parent households； everybody broke…who needs it？〃 It was a pretty Saturday morning and they were on their way to a restaurant for breakfast； with Toad at the wheel。
〃People should be free to have a relationship without being bound；〃 she said。
〃When two people break up they shouldn't have to hire lawyers to fight over the dog。〃
〃Marriage is an obsolete institution。〃
〃It's doomed；〃 Toad pronounced； sounding a good bit like Samuel Dodgers denouncing sin； which was probably unintentional。 But to prove he wasn't a bigot he