"You don't put much stock in this new meat irradiation movement?" Tracy asked.

"Hell, no," Kim said. "That's just the industry's way of copping out. Allowing meat irradiation is just an invitation for the industry to allow that much more contamination to get in during processing in the hopes it will all be killed with the gamma rays at the end. You'll notice even with irradiation the industry insists the onus is on the consumers to handle and cook the meat in a way the industry considers proper."

"That was Kathleen Morgan's position as well," Tracy said.

"It should be any thinking person's position," Kim said. "We've got to get the media to make people understand that contamination must not be tolerated even if it means the product will cost a little more."

"This is all a very tall order," Tracy commented.

"Hey, we might as well aim high," Kim said. "And it's not impossible. After all, meat and poultry weren't always contaminated. It's a relatively recent phenomenon."

In the distance, stockyards came into view. Consistent with its being a workday, herds of cattle could be seen milling about the muddy enclosure.

"It's kinda sad," Tracy said, looking out over the sea of animals. "It's like they're all facing the death penalty."

Tracy turned into the Higgins and Hancock parking lot. In contrast with their visit the previous morning, it was mostly full. A large proportion of the vehicles were aged pickup trucks.

"How about dropping me off near the front entrance," Kim said. "Then I suggest you drive over to the end of the building. You won't be so noticeable there and the entire plant will be well within two hundred yards."

Tracy pulled over to the curb. She and Kim looked at the building. The record-room window that Kim had broken was unboarded, and its missing glass and mullions were apparent. Standing in the flowerbed in front of the window was a man in overalls and a red plaid shirt, taking measurements.

"I feel like I should offer to help," Kim said.

"Don't be silly," Tracy said.

The front door opened. Tracy and Kim instinctively slid down low in their seats. Two men came out of the front door, engrossed in conversation. Then the pair walked away. The plant was obviously in operation.

Tracy and Kim straightened up. They looked at each other and smiled nervously.

"We're acting like a couple of teenagers preparing to pull off a prank," Kim said.

"Maybe we should talk this over some more," Tracy said.

"Time for talk is over," Kim said. He leaned toward Tracy and gave her a kiss. It was the first time they'd kissed for a longer time than either cared to remember. "Wish me luck," Kim added.

"I don't know why I agreed to all this," Tracy said. She looked out at the slaughterhouse with misgivings.

"You agreed out of civic responsibility," Kim said with an impish smile. "Hell, if we can pull this off, we'll be saving a million times more lives than I could with a lifetime of surgery."

"You know what I find the most amazing about all this?" Tracy said, looking back at Kim. "Within a couple of days, you've gone from a narcissist to an altruist, from one extreme to another. I used to be under the impression that personalities couldn't change."

"I'll let you psychologists worry about that," Kim said as he opened the car door.

"Be careful," Tracy admonished.

"I will," Kim said. He climbed out of the car but then leaned back inside. "Remember, I'm only going to put my earphone in my ear on rare occasions. For the most part this is going to be a one-way conversation."

"I know," Tracy said. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Kim said. "See ya!" He waved goodbye.

Tracy watched Kim saunter toward the door in character with his outrageous disguise. Despite her apprehensions, she had to smile. He had the carefree, brazen look of a punk-rock drifter.

With the car back in gear, Tracy drove down to the end of the plant as Kim had suggested and parked behind a van.

After rolling down the window, she put the antenna on top of the car. With the stereo headphones in place, she turned on the amplifier. After the experience that morning with the volume, she had the dial all the way down. Carefully she turned it up. When she did, she immediately heard Kim's voice with an overdone Spanish accent.

"I need a job, any job," Kim was saying, drawing out his vowels. "I'm flat broke. I heard in town you were hiring."

Tracy hit the start button on the tape recorder, then tried to make herself comfortable.

Kim had been both impressed and encouraged by the speed with which he'd been escorted into the office of the kill-floor supervisor. His name was Jed Street. He was a nondescript man with a slight paunch bulging his long white, bloodstained coat. On the corner of his desk was a yellow plastic construction helmet. In front of him was a large stack of cattle purchases receipts.

Jed had looked quizzically at Kim when Kim had first come through the door. But after a few moments, he'd seemingly accepted Kim's appearance and made no mention of it whatsoever.

"Have you ever worked in a slaughterhouse before?" Jed asked. He rocked back in his desk chair and played with a pencil with both hands.

"No," Kim said casually. "But there's always the first time."

"Do you have a Social Security number?" Jed asked.

"Nope," Kim said. "I was told I didn't need one."

"What's your name?" Jed asked.

"José," Kim said. "José Ramerez."

"Where are you from?"

" Brownsville, Texas," Kim said with more of a southern drawl than a Spanish accent.

"Yeah, and I'm from Paris, France," Jed said, seemingly oblivious to Kim's verbal faux pas. He rocked forward. "Look, this is hard, sloppy work. Are you ready for that?"

"I'm ready for anything," Kim said.

"Do you have a green card?" Jed asked. "When are you willing to start?"

"Hey, I'm ready to start right now," Kim said. "I haven't eaten anything for a day and a half."

"That's probably a good thing," Jed said, "considering you've never been working in a slaughterhouse before. I'm going to have you start out sweeping the kill-room floor. It's five bucks an hour, cash. With no Social Security card, that's the best I can do."

"Sounds good," Kim said.

"One other thing," Jed said. "If you want to work, you gotta work the three-to-eleven cleanup shift too, but just for tonight. One of the guys called in sick. What do you say?"

"I say okay," Kim responded.

"Good," Jed said. He got to his feet. "Let's get you outfitted."

"You mean I have to change clothes?" Kim asked anxiously. He could feel the gun pressing up against his thigh and the audio system's battery packs pressing against his chest.

"Nah," Jed said. "You only need a white coat, boots, hard hat, gloves, and a broom. The only thing you have to change are your shoes to get the boots on."

Kim followed Jed out of the supervisor's office and along the back corridor. They went into one of the store-rooms Kim had looked into Saturday night. Kim got everything Jed had mentioned except the broom. For the boots, he had to settle for elevens. They were out of ten and a halfs. They were yellow rubber and came to mid-calf. They weren't new and didn't smell good.

Jed gave Kim a combination lock and took him to the locker room off the lunchroom. He waited while Kim changed into the boots and stored his shoes. Once Kim had on the hard hat, the yellow gauntlet-length gloves, and the white coat, he looked like he belonged.

"That's quite a cut you got on your nose," Jed commented. "What happened?"

"A glass storm door broke," Kim said evasively.

"Sorry to hear that," Jed said. "Well, you ready for the plunge?"

"I guess," Kim said.

Jed led Kim out through the lunchroom and up the half flight of stairs to the fire door. There he paused and waited for Kim to catch up. He took something out of his pocket and extended his hand to Kim.