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DEMIRO

fifty

"The whole business makes me sick," Rita declared. "You know, sometimes it's like I'm working for the Mafia or something. They say that the quotas we allocate are figured on the basis of best-interests need as figured by the Economic Coordination Bureau in Washington. But that's bullshit. The corporations get the quotas that they're prepared to pay for. Our people are raking it in all down the line. Everybody knows it. Nothing happens." She popped the cork from another bottle of wine and came back from the kitchen area to refill the glasses.

The door and frame that had been torn off the wall were fixed at last and the police had stopped bothering her with questions, but things were hardly back to anything that could be called normal. Having a fiancé rematerialize from the dead wasn't exactly something that happened every day, and now he'd disappeared the authorities were trying to make out it had never happened. All the people she talked to simply went back as far as the same records that said he was dead, and the line ended right there. Nobody knew, or wanted to know, of anything beyond that. She'd talked to a lawyer, but when it got as far as establishing that she had no money, he'd lost interest. Margaret, her roommate, and the other friends who knew about it were supportive and let her talk as much as she wanted to if it helped. But what could they do?

"I think the Mafia's better," Bruce said from the couch. "Like, on a scale of one to ten for ethics, the Mafia scores higher."

"I know. I've heard it," Sandy said, next to him.

"Tell me then," Margaret invited from the chair by the window.

Bruce nodded to Rita as she topped up his glass. "It's like this. If a guy gambles on horses, or does drugs, or wants to pay for his women, then he knows that a slice of the action goes to the firm, okay? But it's his choice. If he decides to have nothing to do with any of that, then they leave him alone. They don't send hit men with guns around to his place telling him he has to pay what they say he owes, and he doesn't get to say anything. . . . But that's not true with the IRS. So I say that on a scale of ethics, the Mafia scores higher."

"True," Margaret agreed, sipping her drink. "Did you hear they're talking about bringing in the same law here that they've got in California, to take it straight out of your bank? I mean, why don't we all just work for the Fed direct in the first place, and be done with it?"

Rita sat down to join them again. "I already do, remember?"

"I thought you were state," Sandy said.

"It's more or less the same thing these days."

"No, I meant make work for them obligatory," Margaret said. "You know, whether you want to or not, at whatever they say. It's getting that bad, isn't it?"

"That's what I meant," Rita told her. "They're saying I'm up for reassignment to Cleveland. What kind of present is that, less than two weeks before Christmas?"

"Do you have to take it?" Sandy asked.

"They've got you so tied up with benefits they can make you do anything they want," Rita replied. "Either cooperate, or don't eat."

"So, does that mean you'll be looking for someone else to share this place?" Bruce asked, looking at Margaret.

"I guess so. Know anybody?"

"Not off the top of my head, but I'll mention it around."

"Thanks. That'd help."

"We'll miss having you around, Rita," Sandy said.

"Yeah. Me too. You'll have to come and visit when I get settled in."

"We'll do that. Do you have a date yet?"

"Not yet. Probably it won't be until the new year now."

A wail went up on the far side of the bedroom door. Sandy glanced at the clock. "There's Wretch, right on time. Excuse me. I'd better go take care of it." She got up and went through.

There was a short silence. Margaret reached for the plate of cheese slices, crackers, and pickles, and passed it around.

"What's on TV?" Bruce asked.

"Garbage," Margaret said. "I don't know why we bother paying the license."

"Then get rid of it," Rita said simply.

"Although there was a movie the other day that wasn't bad," Margaret went on. "Did you see it? What was it called?" She looked at Rita. Rita shrugged. "From way back . . . one of those old romantic things. It was about a woman doctor and a police detective in Africa, when they had the trouble there. But they were on opposite sides, like in Romeo and Juliet."

Bruce shook his head. "Not my kind of stuff."

"Oh, I think it's nice to see people acting parts that actually project qualities you want to admire for a change," Margaret said. "You know, instead of all the—" The front-door buzzer interrupted her.

"I'll get it," Rita said, rising.

Margaret carried on talking behind her, to Bruce, "You know, nothing but morons who can't take charge of their lives, having to be straightened out by counselors and programs all the time. Never any real friends who know anything, or family like people used to have. No wonder everyone's turning into sheep."

Rita opened the door to find a bearded man in a tweed hat and a parka standing there. She frowned, knowing that she knew the face but failing to place it instantly, and then gasped in surprise.

"Hello again, Rita," Josef said quietly.

"You! . . . Is it about . . . ?" She left the question -unfinished.

"Can we talk?" Josef said. "Privately?"

Rita looked back over her shoulder uncertainly. "Well, not here. We've got company."

"Outside then. It's something important. I won't keep you long."

Still in a daze, Rita nodded mechanically. "Who is it?" Margaret asked from inside.

"It's somebody for me. Look, could you guys excuse me for a minute? I'm just going out."

"Is everything okay, Rita?" Bruce asked, craning forward to try to see who it was.

"Oh, sure. We just need to talk."

"Bring a coat," Josef suggested. "It's bitter out there."

Rita took her tan raincoat from the hook behind the door and went down with him to the street. The night was starry and clear, with a moon casting pale light on the mounds of frozen snow cleared from the sidewalk, and the houses opposite. They began walking.

"Do you remember when Scipio and Kay were here?" Josef said, speaking in a low voice, his eyes constantly alert. "You used to talk about how you dreamed of going offplanet one day." He stopped for a moment and looked up, then glanced at her with a quick grin. "You wanted to go to Luna."

That was an opening Rita hadn't expected. She turned her head and looked at him bemusedly. "Yes, I did. What about it?"

"How soon could you be ready?" Josef answered. "A message came down through Pipeline yesterday. They want me to get you out."

 

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Framed