Eastern Standard Tribe | Page 7

"Assholes!" she was hollering. "I could have a goddamn spinal injury! You're not
supposed to move me!"
"Look, Miss," one porter said, a young chap with the kind of fantastic dentition that only
an insecure teabag would ever pay for, teeth so white and flawless they strobed in the
sodium streetlamps. "Look. We can leave you in the middle of the road, right, and not
move you, like we're supposed to. But if we do that, chances are you're going to get run
over before the paramedics get here, and then you certainly *will* have a spinal injury,
and a crushed skull besides, like as not. Do you follow me?"
"You!" she said, pointing a long and accusing finger at Art. "You! Don't you watch where
you're going, you fool! You could have killed me!"
Art shook water off his face and blew a mist from his dripping moustache. "Sorry," he
said, weakly. She had an American accent, Californian maybe, a litigious stridency that
tightened his sphincter like an alum enema and miraculously flensed him of the impulse
to argue.
"Sorry?" she said, as the porters lowered her gently to the narrow strip turf out beside the
sidewalk. "Sorry? Jesus, is that the best you can do?"

"Well you *did* step out in front of my car," he said, trying to marshal some spine.
She attempted to sit up, then slumped back down, wincing. "You were going too fast!"
"I don't think so," he said. "I'm pretty sure I was doing 45 -- that's five clicks under the
limit. Of course, the GPS will tell for sure."
At the mention of empirical evidence, she seemed to lose interest in being angry. "Give
me a phone, will you?"
Mortals may be promiscuous with their handsets, but for a tribalist, one's relationship
with one's comm is deeply personal. Art would have sooner shared his underwear. But he
*had* hit her with his car. Reluctantly, Art passed her his comm.
The woman stabbed at the handset with the fingers of her left hand, squinting at it in the
dim light. Eventually, she clamped it to her head. "Johnny? It's Linda. Yes, I'm still in
London. How's tricks out there? Good, good to hear. How's Marybeth? Oh, that's too bad.
Want to hear how I am?" She grinned devilishly. "I just got hit by a car. No, just now.
Five minutes ago. Of course I'm hurt! I think he broke my hip -- maybe my spine, too.
Yes, I can wiggle my toes. Maybe he shattered a disc and it's sawing through the cord
right now. Concussion? Oh, almost certainly. Pain and suffering, loss of enjoyment of life,
missed wages..." She looked up at Art. "You're insured, right?"
Art nodded, miserably, fishing for an argument that would not come.
"Half a mil, easy. Easy! Get the papers going, will you? I'll call you when the ambulance
gets here. Bye. Love you too. Bye. Bye. Bye, Johnny. I got to go. Bye!" She made a kissy
noise and tossed the comm back at Art. He snatched it out of the air in a panic, closed its
cover reverentially and slipped it back in his jacket pocket.
"C'mere," she said, crooking a finger. He knelt beside her.
"I'm Linda," she said, shaking his hand, then pulling it to her chest.
"Art," Art said.
"Art. Here's the deal, Art. It's no one's fault, OK? It was dark, you were driving under the
limit, I was proceeding with due caution. Just one of those things. But *you* did hit
*me*. Your insurer's gonna have to pay out -- rehab, pain and suffering, you get it. That's
going to be serious kwan. I'll go splits with you, you play along."
Art looked puzzled.
"Art. Art. Art. Art, here's the thing. Maybe you were distracted. Lost. Not looking. Not
saying you were, but maybe. Maybe you were, and if you were, my lawyer's going to get
that out of you, he's going to nail you, and I'll get a big, fat check. On the other hand, you
could just, you know, cop to it. Play along. You make this easy, we'll make this easy.
Split it down the middle, once my lawyer gets his piece. Sure, your premiums'll go up,

but there'll be enough to cover both of us. Couldn't you use some ready cash? Lots of
zeroes. Couple hundred grand, maybe more. I'm being nice here -- I could keep it all for
me."
"I don't think --"
"Sure you don't. You're an honest man. I understand, Art. Art. Art, I understand. But what
has your insurer done for you, lately? My uncle Ed, he got caught in a threshing machine,
paid his premiums every week for forty years, what did he get? Nothing. Insurance
companies. They're the great satan. No