Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd
never make it unless he somehow managed to
PICK A CRIME
By RICHARD R. SMITH
Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight.
"Hank said you wanted to see me," she said when she stopped besideJoe's table.
"Yeah." Joe nodded at the other chair. "Have a seat." He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. "I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes."
The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it."What's the job?"
"Tell you later." He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat.
"Hey. You trying to make yourself sick?"
"Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon." As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again.
"Trying to get drunk?" the girl inquired. "Are you crazy?"
"No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment."
It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks.
Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year.
The girl laughed. "If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else?"
As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies.
When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request.
"I'm sorry," the girl said. "I didn't know you were a DCT."
"And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger—"
On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor.
Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, "That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job!"
The girl's