That wasn't hardly the end of the interview, Holdaway had warned. It seemed Larry had passed what had been termed 'an inspection of temperament', and was told that he need only sit tight until he was contacted again.

"Another meet-n-greet, probably. You say the big cat took a shining to you? Don't mean shit."

Larry had scowled out at his half-refurbished apartment, shifting the bright blue plastic of the phone receiver to pin between shoulder and ear. "What? It means something; it's gotta."

"Nope. I seen the friendliest, most cordial motherfuckers ever turn around and stab their best friends for a bigger take of the cut. Just 'cos he's laughing, don't mean he's happy." Holdaway sighed, and Larry could almost see the cigarette smoke brushing down the phone. "Just 'cos you all chummy doesn't mean you're off the hook. Far from it. We're reaching the point of radio silence, you and I, did you know that?"

Larry was a little lost at Holdaway's change of reference. "Uh," summed up his thoughts.

"You'll still be making the reports, and I'll have agents dressed as customers for your product drop by and pick them up, but with Cabot, man... They'll do everything. They'll check for phone taps, search your persons for a wire, have you followed. If this job's so big that he's gonna put you through the ringer, and pull some cat-in-a-mask no-names shit, hell. I might as well start typing up your fake juvie record right the fuck now. They'll go that deep."

"Things a little more intense between cops an' robbers on the west coast?"

"You're damn fucking straight they are. It's James-Bond shit. It's a war, man. You're infiltrating ze Reds."

Larry chewed that over, falling into the couch with a rustle of dustcloth. "Christ, Holdaway. It's not like I'm going in blind,"

"Yeah, yeah, but I'm gonna worry for your stumpy ass anyway. You got their favor a little too easy, in my time-honored fucking opinion."

Larry's laugh was explosive. "It weren't easy! Not for me! But they told you I was good, didn't they? Back east, they told you as much."

"Pride is the hubris of -- "

Larry snorted. "Priiiide. What is that shit, it's not pride if it's just a plain fact. I do a good crook. I'm good at it. Relax."

"I'm not making any promises, and I know you'll do good. It's my job to worry, and your job to stay the fuck alive. Anything smells like so much fresh garbage to you, I want you out. So much as a whiff of a stale pizza box, I'm serious, stop giggling you proud little cocksucker, and listen to me."

Larry sobered. "All right, Holdaway, alright. I love you too. Send nana my regards."

"You got the balls, man. You got 'em. Might even have the brains too. There is a such thing as having too much of both. Be as confident as you want; whatever helps you sleep at night, but remember that your character doesn't have the reputation to be pulling any John Wayne horseshit. I want you to do that for me, okay? Larry the White Russian don't have any friends up this coast. Just keep that in mind. Try humility for once."

Larry had kicked his feet up on the arm of the couch, scratching a rib. "I'll take that to heart. When do you think the blackout's going to start?"

"Depends on how fast they get back to you. I'll meet you at the usual spot for your report of the encounter, and then you'll be flying solo. Stake-out team across the street only a radio buzz away, but your badge and radio and weapon better be in that floor safe if you ever wanna bring your new colleagues over for beers or some shit."

"Okay, ma. Anything else?"

"Yeah. You should use eggshell insteada papyrus for the kitchen. Papyrus makes it too dingy, but a nice bright paint gonna make that small space open right up."

Larry hung up with an expletive, and a laugh.