Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Seven

Sergio Diaz had certainly made the New York City mayor's office his own. A mahogany sideboard overshadowed the famed gilt-edged desk of Fiorello Laguardia, the sideboard's columns wrought with ornate mythical animals, smoky liquor bottles spread across its surface like chessmen. A portrait of Don Juan hung over the fireplace—a nod to the slur his opponent had made in the final desperate days of the campaign.

The man himself matched his furnishings' scale, 6'6", barrel-chested. A mane of jet-black hair without a speck of gray was tamed to a bullet atop his head. He charged out of his chair to embrace Quaid.

"Señor Diaz," Quaid said, using the salutation favored by the Sheikh—their longtime host in Ibizi, where they had jaunted often as rising stars in the Democratic party. "I come bearing bonhomie and wishes of opportune demographic trends in the outer boroughs."

"Nonsense." Sergio grinned. "Like everyone who visits me, you come for money."

"On the way, I couldn't help notice the crosstown shuttle running right on time."

The mayor grunted acknowledgment. Last spring, Quaid and Durwood had foiled an extortion plot that had shut down the subway for three days. "True enough. But I cannot pay you. The city is broke. These stoplight pranks are sending NYPD overtime through the roof."

"Slip us in as a discretionary item," Quaid said. "Who'd quibble over a measly $50K made out to Third Chance Enterprises?"

"Nothing is above quibbling when your approval numbers are in single digits." Sergio fished three pills from a thermos-sized bottle of Tylenol and dry-swallowed.

Quaid knew squeezing money out of NYC wouldn't be easy, but he had to try. This American Dynamics job was pay-on-completion, and their last pro-bono gig had nearly exhausted his funds. Guadeloupe. What a nightmare. The cause was just, resort workers whose dwellings had been flattened by hurricanes against a hotel chain that refused to help despite the fact that insurance had rebuilt their white-glove facilities inside four months. Eventually the guys had changed their mind by feigning a militant splinter faction of the island's hospitality union, but the job had been a struggle, over budget, Durwood grumbling the whole time.

"... raised scrubbing motel toilets with a toothbrush, need no unions ..."

He disliked the pro-bono jobs, which generally contradicted his beliefs and paid zilch. Durwood was a grinder, though: he could be stiffed more or less indefinitely. (Durwood refused to take an ownership role in Third Chance Enterprises, preferred "an honest wage" over equity, which left all finances to Quaid.) Molly was demanding her weekly $2K or else the blog went dark.

"This negative press about the Mice—if your PR people knew what they were doing," Quaid said, "they could turn it around. You shift the frame. It's not incompetence; it's a failure of civic infrastructure." He dropped his voice an octave. "Our reliance on technology has grown steadily, but our tech budgets haven't kept pace. We brought it on ourselves by scrimping."

Sergio agreed. "There's millions in pork to be had. Unfortunately, I will be jobless by the time any of it passes Albany."

Quaid pulled two tumblers from the sideboard. "Actually, I may be able to help. Part of why I'm here is those pesky Mice."

"Oh?"

"We're running a mission against them, and I'd like to know where law enforcement stands."

"You're not working in concert?"

"Not this time," Quaid said. They did do occasional public sector work, an old senator buddy of Quaid's serving as a regular conduit to CIA and NSA jobs.