Of Death What Dreams

11

It was an unprepossessing front of ancient, natural stone, a hideous dull purple in color, with steep steps and a corroded iron railing. He rapped, waited. The door was opened by a small, bandy-legged, jug-eared man with a shiny scalp and the face of an intelligent Rhesus.

“Yes?” the man demanded, wiping at his face with a towel draped around his stringy neck.

Bailey showed a cred-card, almost fully charged.

“I want to see Goldblatt.”

“Looking at him.” The small man glanced up and down Bailey’s slight frame.

“Rehab case?” he asked doubtfully.

“No. I want a Maxpo course.”

The man jumped as if he had been jabbed in the kidneys. “You a kidder, Mister? What you think this is, Doose Center? I run a quiet house of physical fitness here, strictly on the flat—”

“I’ve got ten M’s that say differently,” Bailey cut in softly.

Goldblatt stared. “Out,” he said firmly. He put a surprisingly sinewy hand against Bailey’s chest. “You got the wrong Goldblatt.”

Bailey took his other hand from his pocket, showed the glossy blue of the One Category tag. “Don’t worry, it’s faked,” he said, as the gym operator jerked his hand back. “I’m showing it to you to convince you I’m in no position to call in the Bugs. I can pay for what I want.”

Goldblatt took a fold of Bailey’s tunic in his fingers and pulled him inside, closed the door quickly, hustled him through a frowsty room where a pair of sweating men pulled listlessly at spring-loaded apparatus. In a small office he said, “What’s this all about, mister?”

Bailey eased half a dozen full-charge cash cards from his pocket, fanned them out. “These tell it all,” he said. Goldblatt’s frown lingered on the green- and blue-edged plastics.

“You said… Maxpo? What makes you think I can help you?” He shot a sharp look over Bailey’s spare frame. “Or that you could handle the gaff if I could, which I’m not saying I can?”

“How I handle it is up to me.” Bailey placed the blue tag on top of the cred-cards, offered the stack. “You hold them until the job’s done.”

Goldblatt put up a hand, made a pushing motion. “Nix. Don’t show me a fixed tag, mister.” His hand reversed, became an open palm. “But maybe I could take a retainer while we talk about it.”

Bailey handed over the cards. “I want to start today,” he said. “How long will it take?”