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great, good bye.’”
    “Where does the money come in?”
    “I take the cut of what it would have cost to buy the food and drink and cabs. In the early days it’s nickel and dime, I admit, but wait till it gets into the upper floors. I’ll make a pile. What do you think?”
    “I think it’s a crock of shit,” I said, laughing. “Even worse than the mugging service.”
    “You could be right,” he admitted, grinning. “But you didn’t come here for this—you can wait for my autobiography. What can I do for you, boss man?”
    “Has the word gone round?” I asked, knowing the answer.
    “The word has gone round and around and met itself coming back. ‘Jack’s in town. Everyone beware.’”
    “Not anymore,” I said. Howie looked at me soberly.
    “I know,” he said. “And I have to admit, that’s not what people are saying. You were spotted out in the Portal, that’s all.” Howie lit a cigarette and looked at me closely. “How are you doing, Jack?”
    I knew what he was asking. I wasn’t ready to go into it yet, not even with him. Possibly not ever, with anyone.
    “I’m okay,” I said. “But I’m in very deep shit.”
    “That I will believe. What can I do for you?”
    I reached into my pocket and brought the chip out. It was a small oblong of clear Perspex, about four centimeters by two, and five millimeters deep. Along one of the short edges was a row of tiny gold contacts designed to interface the unit to the motherboard of a computer. The number “128” was printed matter-of-factly on the chip’s front. I’d found it in my bag after we’d left the Farm. I hadn’t put it there, which meant Ratchet must have done so. Howie took the chip from me, peered closely at it, and sniffed.
    “What’s this?”
    “I think it’s one-twenty-eight gigs of RAM,” I said.
    “Don’t recognize the make. Where’s it from?”
    “A friend gave it to me.”
    “You’re in luck,” he said. “The market’s volatile, and this week it’s up. I can probably give you about eight for this without fucking myself up too badly.”
    “I’m in kind of a hurry.”
    He reached under the chair and brought up a large metal cashbox. He placed it on the table and opened it, revealing bundles of dirty notes. All of the money in New Richmond is dirty, figuratively at least. There can’t be a dollar bill which hasn’t been involved in something illegal somewhere down the line, hasn’t been handed over in a suitcase at some stage in its life. Howie counted off eight hundred dollars in fifties and held it out to me between two fingers of one hand. “You want a loan too?”
    I shook my head. “Thanks, but no. Don’t know when I’ll be this way again. Maybe never.”
    “So pretend I’m your friend and call it a gift.”
    I smiled and stood up, slipping the notes into my inside pocket. “You are and I’ll be okay.”
    Howie pursed his lips. “You know there’s a whack out on you?”
    I stared at him. “Already? What, an old one?”
    Howie shook his head. “Don’t know, but I think it’s new. Heard twenty minutes ago.”
    “How much is it for?”
    “Five thou.”
    “That’s insulting. Let me know if it goes above ten,” I said. “Then I’ll start seriously watching my back.”
    At the door, Dath stepped to one side to let me out. I paused, and looked up at his face. Dath looks like your basic worst nightmare, except he wears expensive clothes and gets a nice close shave. There’d always been a rumor that before working for Howie he’d been a made guy in Miami: starting at the bottom, in the mail room, before deciding to specialize as a hitman. The word was he’d worked his way up the ladder in the old-fashioned way, beginning by being cutting to people: for a hundred dollars he’d march into someone’s place, look them up and down, and go “Yeah, great suit,” in a really ironic way, and then leave. His specialty was the “overheard conversation” hit. Wherever the target went—in a