It Hurts Me Just Right (1/1)
Title: It Hurts Me Just Right
Fandom: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?/The Wild Wild West
Rating: K+/PG
Word Count: 4,356
Main Characters: The Dying Informant/Scott, Snakes Tolliver, Sean, Elliott, Barry
Summary: The Dying Informant has to get some information from another informant, a strange character who both mocks his position yet seems to respect it in some way.
By Lucky_Ladybug
The casino was expensive, modern, and rather gaudy, as many casinos were. The young man in the black trenchcoat and matching fedora hat wandered amid the machines and tables, passing people who were gambling away their month’s pay or their life savings. It wasn’t among his favorite places to be, but right now he didn’t have much choice.
Finally he caught sight of the person he was supposed to meet. The strange character was dressed for a bygone age, his bluish-purple pinstripe suit and red-violet string tie standing out amongst more contemporary attire. Complete with his wide-brimmed black hat, he looked like he would be so very much at home on a Mississippi riverboat.
He was also just finishing up a poker game. Catching sight of his observer, he started to get up from the table. “And I’m done,” he said. “I’ll get Marty to replace me.” He waved over another dealer before casually heading off and out a side door.
When the other man followed, he winced to hear the sound of a lighter. A small flame lit up the night and was held to the tip of a cigar. “Are you Scott?”
“Yeah,” was the uneasy reply.
“The Dying Informant.” The man dressed for another time spoke like a Southerner and sounded rather mocking in his assessment.
“That’s what they call me. And you’re Snakes Tolliver?”
“That’s me.” He clicked the lighter shut. “Are you bothered by my smoking?”
“You can smoke if you want,” the Dying Informant answered, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Eh. You know what? I think I’m bothered by it. I was supposed to be getting pretty good at breaking this habit. Seems like I always go back to it when I’m nervous.”
“It’s a good cover for why you’re outside, at least,” the Dying Informant said, shifting his position. “There’s nothing to be nervous about; I’m the one taking the big risks. Just tell me what you saw.”
“Okay.” The Southerner took the cigar out of his mouth and held it between two fingers. “This character you’re looking for, that Vic guy? He was in here a couple of hours ago, just like I told your friend with the crazy hair. He dropped a bundle at the craps table and then tried to ask me if I knew of any fences who’d buy rare books. I said No and he left. That’s all I know.”
The Dying Informant sighed. “Okay. Thanks.” He paused. “Do you know any fences in the area at all?”
Snakes looked annoyed. “Look, I’m a gambler, and an honest one now. I never knew of any fences in L.A. The only ones I knew about were in the states along the Mississippi River, and that information wouldn’t be any help to you for more reasons than one.”
“Okay, okay.” The Dying Informant pushed away from the wall, but then paused. “Vic really didn’t mention anything else, like where he might go next?”
Snakes paused. “I heard him stop another dealer and ask how far it was to . . . Long Beach, I think.” Annoyance flashed in his eyes again. “I don’t know why he only asked me about fences. And now you too. What, do I look like a criminal or something?”
Now the Dying Informant had to admit to a bit of embarrassment and guilt. “No,” he said slowly. “I guess I came here with a preconceived idea of what you were like after my friend described you.”
That brought a sneer. “After he described my scar, you mean.”
“Well . . .” The younger man flushed. “No, that wasn’t entirely it. We heard that you had kind of a mysterious, checkered past, and then the scar was just kind of an additional thing. . . . I’m sorry; it’s just that . . . oh, nevermind.”
“You wonder why I don’t fix it? You figure only gangsters and poor people would just leave something like that on their face?”
The Dying Informant looked embarrassed.
That was enough of an answer for Snakes, who turned to the left side and allowed the moonlight to catch the grisly scar that ran the length of his face in a haunting S shape. “The thing gave me my nickname. I’ve been Snakes so long it’s hard to think of being anything else. I don’t think I want to get rid of something that’s a trademark. Anyway, I’ve always pretty much given the finger to society and opted to just be myself. I shouldn’t have to change anything about me just to fit their standards.”
“That’s a good way to feel, just as long as it doesn’t take you down a criminal path,” the Dying Informant said.
Snakes chuckled. “It did, but that was a long time ago. Now, since you’ve more or less asked me something, I’d like that same privilege.”
“What do you want to ask me?” the Dying Informant frowned. “We shouldn’t stand out here for too long.”
“Just this. It seems to me that you’ve got a trademark too, also something you’re not anxious to do away with. This unofficial nickname you’ve got-the Dying Informant. I’ve heard a lot about you. You go on missions tracking these crooks around the world. And somewhere along the way, you always seem to have the bad luck to be found out by them. You go limping back to your headquarters to report with your dying breath, over and over. I can’t begin to know how you’ve managed to bounce back from that every time. I’m not even sure I want to. But I’ll tell you, I’m no stranger to coming back from certain death. I wish I were. I’d never choose to go into a career where I’d be facing it every day. I think anyone who does is both brave and nuts. But you’re right here and I’m talking to you, so I want to know: why do you think what you do is worth it every time? Why don’t you just up and quit and go into a safer line of work?”
The Dying Informant paused in surprise, definitely put on the spot by the strange interviewer. “I could give you the short answer or the long answer,” he said. “Or an answer in between.”
“Give me any answer,” Snakes retorted. “Tell me any reason at all why you think being something called the Dying Informant is worthwhile.”
“Because the information I get helps keep the other agents on the criminals’ trail,” the Dying Informant replied. “Because I don’t want to be partially responsible for the crooks causing a lot of misery for everyone, maybe even for the people I care about.”
“Maybe the people you care about would rather you left it up to someone else,” Snakes remarked.
“I can do the job. I don’t want to pass the buck.” Now the Dying Informant felt defensive.
“Maybe you’re worried that if you don’t do it, it’ll fall to one of your friends?” Snakes mused. “I guess that’d be a logical reason. But I’m sure it hurts them every time you come back on your last leg.”
The Dying Informant’s eyes flickered. “What’s it to you anyway?” he retorted.
“Nothing, really,” Snakes admitted. “Just that when you have friends, it seems to me that your top priority should be making sure you’re there for them. But when you’re all agents and you’re all looking out for each other, I guess that’s exactly what you are doing.”
“You’re darn-tooting it is,” the Dying Informant retorted. “We all knew the risks, but we decided to go ahead with it anyway. And even though I’ve been in so many bad spots that people at ACME and V.I.L.E. alike think of me as the Dying Informant, I wouldn’t trade what I do.”
“Well, good for you then,” Snakes grunted. His expression softened just slightly. “I still think you’re crazy to want to put your life on the line like you do. I probably always will. But this world would probably be a lot more messed-up than it is if there weren’t people like you and your friends around.”
“I agree.” The Dying Informant paused. “You don’t act like someone who makes a habit of looking out for anyone but yourself. But if you respect what we do even a little, are you really such a self-centered person deep down? You did agree to inform on Vic, after all, and you’re not getting paid for it.”
Snakes stabbed out the cigar, running his left hand over the twisted skin on his right. “Maybe that sort of altruistic thing is exactly why I feel the way I do, Pal,” he said. “I’ve been at death’s door for all kinds of reasons and it ain’t no picnic. Like I said, I’d never choose it as a career.”
“Maybe not, but maybe you’d do it anyway if you felt it was the right thing to do,” the Dying Informant surmised. “You were worried about the possible danger to you if you informed, but you still did it.”
Snakes didn’t acknowledge that. “Well . . . you’ve got your tip, so you’d better stop psycho-analyzing me and head off.”
The Dying Informant nodded. “I’ll do that. And thank you for your information.” He touched the brim of his hat and turned to go.
“Stay safe,” Snakes said. “If you can. I don’t want to turn on the news and hear that this was your last case.”
“Me either,” the Dying Informant sighed. “Goodbye, Snakes.”
“Goodbye, Dying Informant.” Snakes turned, heading back into the casino.
****
Scott was deep in thought as he went back to his hotel room and unlocked the door. Elliott, who was looking over the newspaper, looked up in some surprise. “Hey,” he greeted. “How did it go?”
“I’m not sure.” Scott sat down, taking off his hat. “I got the information; it sounds like Vic’s trying to fence the stolen books and is going to Long Beach to look around. We’d better get down there quick ourselves. But the guy I was talking to got me thinking again about how dangerous our jobs are.” He looked to Elliott. “Do you ever want to get out of this business?”
Elliott frowned and leaned back, pondering on the question. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “We’ve all had a lot of rough times and I hate that. Sometimes I’ve been really bitter. I know Sean has, too. But we’re doing a lot of good. In the end, I always come back to that.”
“That’s how I feel, too,” Scott admitted. “That’s kind of what I told Snakes.”
“Did he go for it?” Elliott asked.
Scott paused, thinking on that. “I don’t know. He acted cynical, even kind of mocking, and yet he seems to have a certain respect for us and what we do. I was surprised.”
Elliott didn’t look too surprised. “Well, he is a strange one. According to the top-secret information I got from U.N.C.L.E., he doesn’t even hail from this time. He’s a refugee from the 1870s who decided he preferred living here instead of in his own time. He ended up here when . . .” He trailed off, suddenly not sure whether he wanted to finish that thought.
“When what?” Scott blinked.
“When a mad scientist brought back him and someone else from the dead and the energy overload tore a hole in the space-time continuum?” Sean supplied, abruptly joining the conversation.
Scott jumped a mile. “Sean, are you kidding?” he exclaimed incredulously.
“Nope,” Sean answered, plopping down at the table. “That’s what the U.N.C.L.E. file says, anyway.”
“I kind of wish it had come in before I left,” Scott frowned. “Maybe it would have prepared me more for what he was like. It kind of felt like we had some kind of shared bond about death, but until now, that thought didn’t even make sense to me.” He reached for the folder on the table. “You don’t think the information is incorrect?”
“I don’t think so,” Barry grunted as he joined the others. “There’s nothing to prove that some mad scientist in the past couldn’t have learned the secret of power over death, anyway.” He didn’t say more, but the others knew he was thinking about Dr. Portman and her command over death in the present-day.
“I guess that’s true,” Scott consented. He opened the file, glancing over the information. “Samuel Tolliver. . . . Yikes, it sounds like he was a pretty bad character, a lot worse than I was even thinking.”
“The baddest of the bad,” Sean intoned. “An explosives expert and dishonest gambler who worked the Mississippi River beat. I don’t think the Secret Service ever found out exactly how many criminal operations he had going. Not to mention he was one of the six regional leaders chosen by Lucrece Posey for her 19th century crime cartel.”
Barry nodded. “She wouldn’t have picked just anyone, only the most wicked she could find.”
“In some ways she was a 19th century Carmen Sandiego, really,” Sean said. “With a gang just as kooky.”
Scott nodded too. “I remember hearing about her in some of ACME’s early files. She inspired Carmen Sandiego’s ancestor to go into crime.”
“And then Agnes Acme was inspired to create ACME Crimenet,” Sean supplied. “And when she and Carmen’s ancestor were friends, that must have been rough.”
Scott’s brow furrowed. “It would be. I can’t imagine having a friend turn into an enemy.”
“Luckily, that’s not something any of us will ever have to worry about,” Elliott put in.
Scott smiled. No, it wasn’t.
“. . . It’s still strange to think that Carmen once worked for ACME,” he remarked. “I wonder what it was like when she was in it.”
“The Chief could probably tell some interesting stories,” Sean said. “I wonder if she was the Chief then or if she was an agent.”
“Being the Chief was something passed on down through the family line,” Elliott said. “But I think all of them spent time in the field.”
“We’ve gotten way off the subject,” Barry prompted. “We were talking about Snakes.”
“And Lucrece Posey,” Sean added.
“To think it was one of Miss Posey’s board members that we just got information from in the 21st century,” Elliott remarked. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind talking with him about time-travel, if he’d be willing.”
“He probably wouldn’t understand any of the physics of it,” Scott said.
“Maybe not, but I’d like to know more of how it happened, what it felt like, that kind of thing.” Elliott’s eyes gleamed with his fascination.
Scott smiled a bit. Elliott would always be intrigued by science.
“Did you get to the part yet where it talks about how Snakes died in the first place because he tried to kill Miss Posey and she retaliated?” Sean asked.
“Yeah,” Scott frowned. “No one even knows why he did it. Or if anyone does, it isn’t documented here.”
“Power trip,” Barry grunted.
“Maybe,” Scott said. “Or maybe he even wanted out and didn’t know how to get out.”
“You could always ask him,” Sean said.
“We don’t really need to know,” Scott said. “Probably several of our non-ACME informants have shady backgrounds.”
“But this shady?” Sean returned.
Scott sighed. “No,” he had to admit.
“They’re probably more like Wonder Rat, weasely small-time crooks who just want to stay out of jail if they help us,” Sean said. “Snakes is in a whole other league.”
“It doesn’t sound like Snakes’ personality improved when he first ended up here, either,” Scott added as he read on. “Apparently he was so frightened of being killed again that he joined forces with a F.O.W.L. agent to get rid of Miss Posey and her gang. But the F.O.W.L. agent wasn’t trustworthy either, so he tried to get away from her. Then he pitted Miss Posey’s gang, F.O.W.L., and the Secret Service agents he knew against each other and hoped they’d kill each other off so they wouldn’t be after him any more.”
“Well, I guess his nickname really fits him,” Sean said.
“. . . But then it was when THRUSH tried to blow up the world at Christmastime a month later that Snakes nearly died to stop them. He was clinically dead when they pulled him out of the water.” Scott shook his head, stunned by what he had just read. That didn’t sound like the person he had talked to tonight. It certainly didn’t sound like the person in the folder. Yet on the other hand, in some strange way it seemed to fit. There was a good man behind that gruff exterior, just as Scott had started to surmise by reading between the lines during their conversation.
“He would’ve died too, if they’d had their way,” Sean said.
“He could have joined them,” Scott replied. “They were claiming that they’d spare anyone who joined them. He sounds like the type who would go for that. And instead he risked his life to destroy their device.” He shook his head. “That’s so strange to think about. He was so derisive about what we do.”
Sean remarked, “I knew he was a case when I met him earlier today.”
“Then tonight, he said he was trying to turn his life around now,” Scott mused. “He seemed sincere. He even acted like he was a little bit worried about me. Maybe I shouldn’t, especially after reading all of this, but I think I actually believe him.”
“Well, it did say that he was an unconvincing liar,” Sean said. “And I’m sure we all trust your judgment.” Elliott and Barry nodded in agreement.
Scott smiled a bit. “He must have always had good in him. Now he’s really trying to let it out more, even if he’s still kind of rough around the edges.”
“People really can change,” Elliott said.
“Sure,” Sean offered. “After all, look at us.”
“We were never really that bad, though,” Scott said. “. . . But I guess we could have been, if the Chief hadn’t taken us and Greg in.” A cloud passed through his eyes; that thought disturbed him.
The others sobered as well. “Yeah,” Sean said at last. “Who knows?”
Scott started to get up. “We’ll need to leave for Long Beach right away,” he said. “Maybe Vic’s even already left.”
“Probably not,” Sean said. “He’ll probably spend the night, at least. But yeah, we should get going.”
“I’d kind of like to see Snakes again before we leave the area,” Scott said. “Maybe if we catch Vic, I could drop in to let him know the danger’s past.”
“Sure,” Sean said. “That’s a nice idea. And I’m sure he’d appreciate knowing that he doesn’t have to live in terror of Vic coming after him.”
Elliott nodded and smiled. “We’ll plan on it.”
“Thanks, guys,” Scott said, picking up his hat from the end table. In here, with the people who cared about him, he was Scott. Out there, in the cold, hard world of catching criminals, he was the Dying Informant. He just hoped there wouldn’t be another instance where he would earn that title tonight.
****
Snakes wasn’t sure what he felt when late that night at his poker table, the Dying Informant staggered in and fell across it with a gasp of pain. One thing Snakes knew: he wasn’t really surprised.
“What happened?!” he demanded, abandoning the cards he was shuffling to try to turn the agonized fellow onto his side.
The Dying Informant flinched. “I . . . we . . . had a little trouble with Vic,” he gasped.
“And he got away,” Snakes surmised. He pushed back the dark trenchcoat, looking for any visible injuries.
“No. We . . . we caught him, thanks to your tip.” The Dying Informant groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. Seconds later, they snapped open again.
“Yeah, and you’re messed up thanks to my tip, too,” Snakes growled. Unable to find the source of the trouble, he gave up and looked around for a telephone.
The Dying Informant reached out, grabbing Snakes’ hand. “This . . . wasn’t your fault,” he insisted. “Anyway, there have to be sacrifices in this business.”
“Exactly why I don’t want any part of it,” Snakes shot back. “And let me call an ambulance! You clearly need it!”
“I just need to get home,” the Dying Informant mumbled. “The others are taking me.” He struggled to push himself off the table and stand upright, holding a hand to his abdomen. “I just wanted to tell you that Vic’s caught and you don’t have to worry about him coming after you. And . . . I also wanted to say that I . . . know where you really came from. That’s why you said the fences you knew wouldn’t be a help for several reasons.”
Snakes frowned. “So you know where I’m from,” he said. “Then you also know how I got here?”
The Dying Informant nodded. “You weren’t just at death’s door,” he said quietly. “You were on the other side of it.”
“You got that right. For three years I was on the other side of it.” Snakes was surprised by his admission. It was probably just because this guy already knew, but Snakes didn’t like to talk about what had happened to him even with those who knew. “And several other times I’ve nearly fallen through it again. Yeah, I can relate to you better than you might think.”
“It’s not everyone who can understand death so intimately.” The Dying Informant shuddered. “But . . . three years! That’s horrible!”
“No kidding.” Snakes hesitated. “All this information you have, even where I’m from. . . . I guess you also know who I really am.”
“I know some of who you were,” the Dying Informant emphasized. “A lot of it was pretty bad. I don’t really know who you are now, except that I was right that if you feel it’s necessary, even you will make a sacrifice. And seeing how you’re acting here, now, with me, you don’t seem like the kind of person who would take any pleasure in suffering.”
“No, that’s Little Pinto. Me . . . eh. Let’s just say I don’t like seeing people suffer who don’t deserve it,” Snakes said. “You don’t. Even though you’re crazy enough to have a job where you keep getting into it.”
The Dying Informant smiled, weakly. “I think you’re a good man now, whoever you are. Even in the past, you might have been better than most of our information made it sound.”
“Yeah?” Snakes said warily.
“I don’t think anyone starts out life bad,” the Dying Informant said. “And I think most people still have some goodness within them, even if they turn to wrong paths.”
Relaxing, Snakes laughed. “That’s an interesting theory, Pal.”
“And more recently, the world as we know it might not even still exist if it wasn’t for you,” the Dying Informant continued. “I’ve been thinking about it and I think I figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” Snakes retorted, now seeming defensive and suspicious.
“The reason you’re so derisive and yet you seem to respect us in spite of that.” The Dying Informant shakily folded his arms. “You know we’re right. You probably hate it, but you know it. You know it so much that you risk your life for others if there’s no other way. You act callous and mocking, and maybe you’re selfish and scared, but you care about people and you come through when it counts.”
Snakes scoffed but looked uncomfortable. “You’re an idealist. Blowing up that Doomsday device was really selfish; I figured I was going to die either way and it’d be better to die and let Posey’s gang live so we wouldn’t be stuck in the same place.”
“Maybe,” the Dying Informant replied. “But that doesn’t explain your concern for me. And it definitely doesn’t explain why you decided to turn your life around after leading such a diehard life of crime.”
“Do those things really need explaining?” Snakes shot back.
“No,” the Dying Informant smiled. “As far as I’m concerned, I have my answer. I’m proud to have worked with you on this case, even if only for a short time.” He held out a hand. “I hope we can work together again sometime.”
Snakes looked at him like he thought the strange fellow was nuts. At the same time, however, the words touched him. They were not said insincerely, not in the least. The Dying Informant wouldn’t have taken this detour to talk to him if he didn’t mean what he said.
“I hope that you’ll still be alive when you get home, regardless of whether we ever see each other again or not,” he said. He grasped the slightly trembling hand.
“I’ll be alright,” the Dying Informant answered with a smile. “I’m not dying today.” He laid his other hand over Snakes’.
“Good,” Snakes said gruffly. “Keep it that way.”
“Goodbye, Samuel,” the Dying Informant said, still smiling.
Snakes froze, not having expected that, either. But he supposed it was logical for ACME to have access to his real name. And somehow, it felt nice to hear it used now, by someone who cared even just a little about what happened to him.
He watched as the Dying Informant limped to where the others were waiting in the doorway, silhouetted in the overhead lights. They drew their arms around him, supporting him as they headed out.
It was nice, to have a strong network of friends.
“So long, Scott,” Snakes spoke quietly. “Take care of yourself and your friends. You all deserve a happier future than what you’re probably going to end up with someday. It’s always the good who suffer the most.”
He looked down again, gathering up the cards he had been shuffling. As a new group of poker players began to drift in his direction, he smiled the calm, self-assured smile of a dealer as he greeted them and welcomed them to the game.
Fandom: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?/The Wild Wild West
Rating: K+/PG
Word Count: 4,356
Main Characters: The Dying Informant/Scott, Snakes Tolliver, Sean, Elliott, Barry
Summary: The Dying Informant has to get some information from another informant, a strange character who both mocks his position yet seems to respect it in some way.
By Lucky_Ladybug
The casino was expensive, modern, and rather gaudy, as many casinos were. The young man in the black trenchcoat and matching fedora hat wandered amid the machines and tables, passing people who were gambling away their month’s pay or their life savings. It wasn’t among his favorite places to be, but right now he didn’t have much choice.
Finally he caught sight of the person he was supposed to meet. The strange character was dressed for a bygone age, his bluish-purple pinstripe suit and red-violet string tie standing out amongst more contemporary attire. Complete with his wide-brimmed black hat, he looked like he would be so very much at home on a Mississippi riverboat.
He was also just finishing up a poker game. Catching sight of his observer, he started to get up from the table. “And I’m done,” he said. “I’ll get Marty to replace me.” He waved over another dealer before casually heading off and out a side door.
When the other man followed, he winced to hear the sound of a lighter. A small flame lit up the night and was held to the tip of a cigar. “Are you Scott?”
“Yeah,” was the uneasy reply.
“The Dying Informant.” The man dressed for another time spoke like a Southerner and sounded rather mocking in his assessment.
“That’s what they call me. And you’re Snakes Tolliver?”
“That’s me.” He clicked the lighter shut. “Are you bothered by my smoking?”
“You can smoke if you want,” the Dying Informant answered, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Eh. You know what? I think I’m bothered by it. I was supposed to be getting pretty good at breaking this habit. Seems like I always go back to it when I’m nervous.”
“It’s a good cover for why you’re outside, at least,” the Dying Informant said, shifting his position. “There’s nothing to be nervous about; I’m the one taking the big risks. Just tell me what you saw.”
“Okay.” The Southerner took the cigar out of his mouth and held it between two fingers. “This character you’re looking for, that Vic guy? He was in here a couple of hours ago, just like I told your friend with the crazy hair. He dropped a bundle at the craps table and then tried to ask me if I knew of any fences who’d buy rare books. I said No and he left. That’s all I know.”
The Dying Informant sighed. “Okay. Thanks.” He paused. “Do you know any fences in the area at all?”
Snakes looked annoyed. “Look, I’m a gambler, and an honest one now. I never knew of any fences in L.A. The only ones I knew about were in the states along the Mississippi River, and that information wouldn’t be any help to you for more reasons than one.”
“Okay, okay.” The Dying Informant pushed away from the wall, but then paused. “Vic really didn’t mention anything else, like where he might go next?”
Snakes paused. “I heard him stop another dealer and ask how far it was to . . . Long Beach, I think.” Annoyance flashed in his eyes again. “I don’t know why he only asked me about fences. And now you too. What, do I look like a criminal or something?”
Now the Dying Informant had to admit to a bit of embarrassment and guilt. “No,” he said slowly. “I guess I came here with a preconceived idea of what you were like after my friend described you.”
That brought a sneer. “After he described my scar, you mean.”
“Well . . .” The younger man flushed. “No, that wasn’t entirely it. We heard that you had kind of a mysterious, checkered past, and then the scar was just kind of an additional thing. . . . I’m sorry; it’s just that . . . oh, nevermind.”
“You wonder why I don’t fix it? You figure only gangsters and poor people would just leave something like that on their face?”
The Dying Informant looked embarrassed.
That was enough of an answer for Snakes, who turned to the left side and allowed the moonlight to catch the grisly scar that ran the length of his face in a haunting S shape. “The thing gave me my nickname. I’ve been Snakes so long it’s hard to think of being anything else. I don’t think I want to get rid of something that’s a trademark. Anyway, I’ve always pretty much given the finger to society and opted to just be myself. I shouldn’t have to change anything about me just to fit their standards.”
“That’s a good way to feel, just as long as it doesn’t take you down a criminal path,” the Dying Informant said.
Snakes chuckled. “It did, but that was a long time ago. Now, since you’ve more or less asked me something, I’d like that same privilege.”
“What do you want to ask me?” the Dying Informant frowned. “We shouldn’t stand out here for too long.”
“Just this. It seems to me that you’ve got a trademark too, also something you’re not anxious to do away with. This unofficial nickname you’ve got-the Dying Informant. I’ve heard a lot about you. You go on missions tracking these crooks around the world. And somewhere along the way, you always seem to have the bad luck to be found out by them. You go limping back to your headquarters to report with your dying breath, over and over. I can’t begin to know how you’ve managed to bounce back from that every time. I’m not even sure I want to. But I’ll tell you, I’m no stranger to coming back from certain death. I wish I were. I’d never choose to go into a career where I’d be facing it every day. I think anyone who does is both brave and nuts. But you’re right here and I’m talking to you, so I want to know: why do you think what you do is worth it every time? Why don’t you just up and quit and go into a safer line of work?”
The Dying Informant paused in surprise, definitely put on the spot by the strange interviewer. “I could give you the short answer or the long answer,” he said. “Or an answer in between.”
“Give me any answer,” Snakes retorted. “Tell me any reason at all why you think being something called the Dying Informant is worthwhile.”
“Because the information I get helps keep the other agents on the criminals’ trail,” the Dying Informant replied. “Because I don’t want to be partially responsible for the crooks causing a lot of misery for everyone, maybe even for the people I care about.”
“Maybe the people you care about would rather you left it up to someone else,” Snakes remarked.
“I can do the job. I don’t want to pass the buck.” Now the Dying Informant felt defensive.
“Maybe you’re worried that if you don’t do it, it’ll fall to one of your friends?” Snakes mused. “I guess that’d be a logical reason. But I’m sure it hurts them every time you come back on your last leg.”
The Dying Informant’s eyes flickered. “What’s it to you anyway?” he retorted.
“Nothing, really,” Snakes admitted. “Just that when you have friends, it seems to me that your top priority should be making sure you’re there for them. But when you’re all agents and you’re all looking out for each other, I guess that’s exactly what you are doing.”
“You’re darn-tooting it is,” the Dying Informant retorted. “We all knew the risks, but we decided to go ahead with it anyway. And even though I’ve been in so many bad spots that people at ACME and V.I.L.E. alike think of me as the Dying Informant, I wouldn’t trade what I do.”
“Well, good for you then,” Snakes grunted. His expression softened just slightly. “I still think you’re crazy to want to put your life on the line like you do. I probably always will. But this world would probably be a lot more messed-up than it is if there weren’t people like you and your friends around.”
“I agree.” The Dying Informant paused. “You don’t act like someone who makes a habit of looking out for anyone but yourself. But if you respect what we do even a little, are you really such a self-centered person deep down? You did agree to inform on Vic, after all, and you’re not getting paid for it.”
Snakes stabbed out the cigar, running his left hand over the twisted skin on his right. “Maybe that sort of altruistic thing is exactly why I feel the way I do, Pal,” he said. “I’ve been at death’s door for all kinds of reasons and it ain’t no picnic. Like I said, I’d never choose it as a career.”
“Maybe not, but maybe you’d do it anyway if you felt it was the right thing to do,” the Dying Informant surmised. “You were worried about the possible danger to you if you informed, but you still did it.”
Snakes didn’t acknowledge that. “Well . . . you’ve got your tip, so you’d better stop psycho-analyzing me and head off.”
The Dying Informant nodded. “I’ll do that. And thank you for your information.” He touched the brim of his hat and turned to go.
“Stay safe,” Snakes said. “If you can. I don’t want to turn on the news and hear that this was your last case.”
“Me either,” the Dying Informant sighed. “Goodbye, Snakes.”
“Goodbye, Dying Informant.” Snakes turned, heading back into the casino.
****
Scott was deep in thought as he went back to his hotel room and unlocked the door. Elliott, who was looking over the newspaper, looked up in some surprise. “Hey,” he greeted. “How did it go?”
“I’m not sure.” Scott sat down, taking off his hat. “I got the information; it sounds like Vic’s trying to fence the stolen books and is going to Long Beach to look around. We’d better get down there quick ourselves. But the guy I was talking to got me thinking again about how dangerous our jobs are.” He looked to Elliott. “Do you ever want to get out of this business?”
Elliott frowned and leaned back, pondering on the question. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “We’ve all had a lot of rough times and I hate that. Sometimes I’ve been really bitter. I know Sean has, too. But we’re doing a lot of good. In the end, I always come back to that.”
“That’s how I feel, too,” Scott admitted. “That’s kind of what I told Snakes.”
“Did he go for it?” Elliott asked.
Scott paused, thinking on that. “I don’t know. He acted cynical, even kind of mocking, and yet he seems to have a certain respect for us and what we do. I was surprised.”
Elliott didn’t look too surprised. “Well, he is a strange one. According to the top-secret information I got from U.N.C.L.E., he doesn’t even hail from this time. He’s a refugee from the 1870s who decided he preferred living here instead of in his own time. He ended up here when . . .” He trailed off, suddenly not sure whether he wanted to finish that thought.
“When what?” Scott blinked.
“When a mad scientist brought back him and someone else from the dead and the energy overload tore a hole in the space-time continuum?” Sean supplied, abruptly joining the conversation.
Scott jumped a mile. “Sean, are you kidding?” he exclaimed incredulously.
“Nope,” Sean answered, plopping down at the table. “That’s what the U.N.C.L.E. file says, anyway.”
“I kind of wish it had come in before I left,” Scott frowned. “Maybe it would have prepared me more for what he was like. It kind of felt like we had some kind of shared bond about death, but until now, that thought didn’t even make sense to me.” He reached for the folder on the table. “You don’t think the information is incorrect?”
“I don’t think so,” Barry grunted as he joined the others. “There’s nothing to prove that some mad scientist in the past couldn’t have learned the secret of power over death, anyway.” He didn’t say more, but the others knew he was thinking about Dr. Portman and her command over death in the present-day.
“I guess that’s true,” Scott consented. He opened the file, glancing over the information. “Samuel Tolliver. . . . Yikes, it sounds like he was a pretty bad character, a lot worse than I was even thinking.”
“The baddest of the bad,” Sean intoned. “An explosives expert and dishonest gambler who worked the Mississippi River beat. I don’t think the Secret Service ever found out exactly how many criminal operations he had going. Not to mention he was one of the six regional leaders chosen by Lucrece Posey for her 19th century crime cartel.”
Barry nodded. “She wouldn’t have picked just anyone, only the most wicked she could find.”
“In some ways she was a 19th century Carmen Sandiego, really,” Sean said. “With a gang just as kooky.”
Scott nodded too. “I remember hearing about her in some of ACME’s early files. She inspired Carmen Sandiego’s ancestor to go into crime.”
“And then Agnes Acme was inspired to create ACME Crimenet,” Sean supplied. “And when she and Carmen’s ancestor were friends, that must have been rough.”
Scott’s brow furrowed. “It would be. I can’t imagine having a friend turn into an enemy.”
“Luckily, that’s not something any of us will ever have to worry about,” Elliott put in.
Scott smiled. No, it wasn’t.
“. . . It’s still strange to think that Carmen once worked for ACME,” he remarked. “I wonder what it was like when she was in it.”
“The Chief could probably tell some interesting stories,” Sean said. “I wonder if she was the Chief then or if she was an agent.”
“Being the Chief was something passed on down through the family line,” Elliott said. “But I think all of them spent time in the field.”
“We’ve gotten way off the subject,” Barry prompted. “We were talking about Snakes.”
“And Lucrece Posey,” Sean added.
“To think it was one of Miss Posey’s board members that we just got information from in the 21st century,” Elliott remarked. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind talking with him about time-travel, if he’d be willing.”
“He probably wouldn’t understand any of the physics of it,” Scott said.
“Maybe not, but I’d like to know more of how it happened, what it felt like, that kind of thing.” Elliott’s eyes gleamed with his fascination.
Scott smiled a bit. Elliott would always be intrigued by science.
“Did you get to the part yet where it talks about how Snakes died in the first place because he tried to kill Miss Posey and she retaliated?” Sean asked.
“Yeah,” Scott frowned. “No one even knows why he did it. Or if anyone does, it isn’t documented here.”
“Power trip,” Barry grunted.
“Maybe,” Scott said. “Or maybe he even wanted out and didn’t know how to get out.”
“You could always ask him,” Sean said.
“We don’t really need to know,” Scott said. “Probably several of our non-ACME informants have shady backgrounds.”
“But this shady?” Sean returned.
Scott sighed. “No,” he had to admit.
“They’re probably more like Wonder Rat, weasely small-time crooks who just want to stay out of jail if they help us,” Sean said. “Snakes is in a whole other league.”
“It doesn’t sound like Snakes’ personality improved when he first ended up here, either,” Scott added as he read on. “Apparently he was so frightened of being killed again that he joined forces with a F.O.W.L. agent to get rid of Miss Posey and her gang. But the F.O.W.L. agent wasn’t trustworthy either, so he tried to get away from her. Then he pitted Miss Posey’s gang, F.O.W.L., and the Secret Service agents he knew against each other and hoped they’d kill each other off so they wouldn’t be after him any more.”
“Well, I guess his nickname really fits him,” Sean said.
“. . . But then it was when THRUSH tried to blow up the world at Christmastime a month later that Snakes nearly died to stop them. He was clinically dead when they pulled him out of the water.” Scott shook his head, stunned by what he had just read. That didn’t sound like the person he had talked to tonight. It certainly didn’t sound like the person in the folder. Yet on the other hand, in some strange way it seemed to fit. There was a good man behind that gruff exterior, just as Scott had started to surmise by reading between the lines during their conversation.
“He would’ve died too, if they’d had their way,” Sean said.
“He could have joined them,” Scott replied. “They were claiming that they’d spare anyone who joined them. He sounds like the type who would go for that. And instead he risked his life to destroy their device.” He shook his head. “That’s so strange to think about. He was so derisive about what we do.”
Sean remarked, “I knew he was a case when I met him earlier today.”
“Then tonight, he said he was trying to turn his life around now,” Scott mused. “He seemed sincere. He even acted like he was a little bit worried about me. Maybe I shouldn’t, especially after reading all of this, but I think I actually believe him.”
“Well, it did say that he was an unconvincing liar,” Sean said. “And I’m sure we all trust your judgment.” Elliott and Barry nodded in agreement.
Scott smiled a bit. “He must have always had good in him. Now he’s really trying to let it out more, even if he’s still kind of rough around the edges.”
“People really can change,” Elliott said.
“Sure,” Sean offered. “After all, look at us.”
“We were never really that bad, though,” Scott said. “. . . But I guess we could have been, if the Chief hadn’t taken us and Greg in.” A cloud passed through his eyes; that thought disturbed him.
The others sobered as well. “Yeah,” Sean said at last. “Who knows?”
Scott started to get up. “We’ll need to leave for Long Beach right away,” he said. “Maybe Vic’s even already left.”
“Probably not,” Sean said. “He’ll probably spend the night, at least. But yeah, we should get going.”
“I’d kind of like to see Snakes again before we leave the area,” Scott said. “Maybe if we catch Vic, I could drop in to let him know the danger’s past.”
“Sure,” Sean said. “That’s a nice idea. And I’m sure he’d appreciate knowing that he doesn’t have to live in terror of Vic coming after him.”
Elliott nodded and smiled. “We’ll plan on it.”
“Thanks, guys,” Scott said, picking up his hat from the end table. In here, with the people who cared about him, he was Scott. Out there, in the cold, hard world of catching criminals, he was the Dying Informant. He just hoped there wouldn’t be another instance where he would earn that title tonight.
****
Snakes wasn’t sure what he felt when late that night at his poker table, the Dying Informant staggered in and fell across it with a gasp of pain. One thing Snakes knew: he wasn’t really surprised.
“What happened?!” he demanded, abandoning the cards he was shuffling to try to turn the agonized fellow onto his side.
The Dying Informant flinched. “I . . . we . . . had a little trouble with Vic,” he gasped.
“And he got away,” Snakes surmised. He pushed back the dark trenchcoat, looking for any visible injuries.
“No. We . . . we caught him, thanks to your tip.” The Dying Informant groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. Seconds later, they snapped open again.
“Yeah, and you’re messed up thanks to my tip, too,” Snakes growled. Unable to find the source of the trouble, he gave up and looked around for a telephone.
The Dying Informant reached out, grabbing Snakes’ hand. “This . . . wasn’t your fault,” he insisted. “Anyway, there have to be sacrifices in this business.”
“Exactly why I don’t want any part of it,” Snakes shot back. “And let me call an ambulance! You clearly need it!”
“I just need to get home,” the Dying Informant mumbled. “The others are taking me.” He struggled to push himself off the table and stand upright, holding a hand to his abdomen. “I just wanted to tell you that Vic’s caught and you don’t have to worry about him coming after you. And . . . I also wanted to say that I . . . know where you really came from. That’s why you said the fences you knew wouldn’t be a help for several reasons.”
Snakes frowned. “So you know where I’m from,” he said. “Then you also know how I got here?”
The Dying Informant nodded. “You weren’t just at death’s door,” he said quietly. “You were on the other side of it.”
“You got that right. For three years I was on the other side of it.” Snakes was surprised by his admission. It was probably just because this guy already knew, but Snakes didn’t like to talk about what had happened to him even with those who knew. “And several other times I’ve nearly fallen through it again. Yeah, I can relate to you better than you might think.”
“It’s not everyone who can understand death so intimately.” The Dying Informant shuddered. “But . . . three years! That’s horrible!”
“No kidding.” Snakes hesitated. “All this information you have, even where I’m from. . . . I guess you also know who I really am.”
“I know some of who you were,” the Dying Informant emphasized. “A lot of it was pretty bad. I don’t really know who you are now, except that I was right that if you feel it’s necessary, even you will make a sacrifice. And seeing how you’re acting here, now, with me, you don’t seem like the kind of person who would take any pleasure in suffering.”
“No, that’s Little Pinto. Me . . . eh. Let’s just say I don’t like seeing people suffer who don’t deserve it,” Snakes said. “You don’t. Even though you’re crazy enough to have a job where you keep getting into it.”
The Dying Informant smiled, weakly. “I think you’re a good man now, whoever you are. Even in the past, you might have been better than most of our information made it sound.”
“Yeah?” Snakes said warily.
“I don’t think anyone starts out life bad,” the Dying Informant said. “And I think most people still have some goodness within them, even if they turn to wrong paths.”
Relaxing, Snakes laughed. “That’s an interesting theory, Pal.”
“And more recently, the world as we know it might not even still exist if it wasn’t for you,” the Dying Informant continued. “I’ve been thinking about it and I think I figured it out.”
“Figured what out?” Snakes retorted, now seeming defensive and suspicious.
“The reason you’re so derisive and yet you seem to respect us in spite of that.” The Dying Informant shakily folded his arms. “You know we’re right. You probably hate it, but you know it. You know it so much that you risk your life for others if there’s no other way. You act callous and mocking, and maybe you’re selfish and scared, but you care about people and you come through when it counts.”
Snakes scoffed but looked uncomfortable. “You’re an idealist. Blowing up that Doomsday device was really selfish; I figured I was going to die either way and it’d be better to die and let Posey’s gang live so we wouldn’t be stuck in the same place.”
“Maybe,” the Dying Informant replied. “But that doesn’t explain your concern for me. And it definitely doesn’t explain why you decided to turn your life around after leading such a diehard life of crime.”
“Do those things really need explaining?” Snakes shot back.
“No,” the Dying Informant smiled. “As far as I’m concerned, I have my answer. I’m proud to have worked with you on this case, even if only for a short time.” He held out a hand. “I hope we can work together again sometime.”
Snakes looked at him like he thought the strange fellow was nuts. At the same time, however, the words touched him. They were not said insincerely, not in the least. The Dying Informant wouldn’t have taken this detour to talk to him if he didn’t mean what he said.
“I hope that you’ll still be alive when you get home, regardless of whether we ever see each other again or not,” he said. He grasped the slightly trembling hand.
“I’ll be alright,” the Dying Informant answered with a smile. “I’m not dying today.” He laid his other hand over Snakes’.
“Good,” Snakes said gruffly. “Keep it that way.”
“Goodbye, Samuel,” the Dying Informant said, still smiling.
Snakes froze, not having expected that, either. But he supposed it was logical for ACME to have access to his real name. And somehow, it felt nice to hear it used now, by someone who cared even just a little about what happened to him.
He watched as the Dying Informant limped to where the others were waiting in the doorway, silhouetted in the overhead lights. They drew their arms around him, supporting him as they headed out.
It was nice, to have a strong network of friends.
“So long, Scott,” Snakes spoke quietly. “Take care of yourself and your friends. You all deserve a happier future than what you’re probably going to end up with someday. It’s always the good who suffer the most.”
He looked down again, gathering up the cards he had been shuffling. As a new group of poker players began to drift in his direction, he smiled the calm, self-assured smile of a dealer as he greeted them and welcomed them to the game.