Trash Mountain. Bradley Bazzle
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“But don’t you work for Bi-Cities?”
The man eyed me suspiciously. He was onto me, I could tell, but I couldn’t stop talking. I said, “You don’t work here, do you?”
“Not in an official capacity.”
“So you work here off the books?”
The man said nothing.
“In secret?”
The man glanced over his shoulder.
“You’re there in secret?” I repeated, unable to contain my excitement. “Shit, man, you gotta tell me how you get in there.”
“I gotta go,” the man said, and before I could ask another question he was striding away from me across the landscape of trash. He moved quick for such a big fellow. I watched him disappear over a distant ragged hill, and I cursed myself for scaring him off like that, for blowing the opportunity to learn more about the inner workings of the dump. I had to get in there to sabotage it, and a contact on the inside could have helped, but would I ever see the man again? Grandpa once said if you shot at a puma and missed, you wouldn’t see the puma again until the night it crept up and killed you.
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