Chapter 5: Badger
The bar was called The Rusty Nail, which told you everything you needed to know about its clientele. Sticky floors. A jukebox that only played songs from before the Bush administration. Beer that was cheap enough to be suspicious and strong enough that no one cared.
Badger was already there when I arrived, hunched over a Budweiser and talking animatedly to no one in particular. That was Badger—perpetual motion machine of conversation, always narrating his own experience whether or not anyone was listening.
"Pete! My man!" He spotted me and waved enthusiastically, nearly knocking over his beer. "Get over here, dude. You gotta hear about my cousin Clovis. This shit is crazy."
I slid onto the stool next to him and signaled the bartender. "Beer. Whatever's coldest."
"Clovis, man." Badger shook his head. "Got busted last week. Cops pulled him over for a busted taillight and found, like, an ounce in his glove compartment. An ounce! In the glove compartment! I told him, dude, you gotta be smarter than that."
"What's happening with him now?"
"Looking at eighteen months. Maybe twelve if his lawyer's not a complete ass." Badger's face shifted—something harder underneath the perpetual goofiness. "But here's the thing, right? They offered him a deal. Name some names, walk with probation. And you know what he said?"
"What?"
"Nothing. Said absolutely nothing. Took the full sentence like a man." Badger tapped his chest. "Family don't rat. That's the rule. You rat, you're not family anymore. You're just... a thing. A piece of shit wearing a person's face."
The bartender set a beer in front of me. I took a long drink, watching Badger over the rim of the glass.
Network Building was pinging something. Not a warning—an opportunity. Badger's loyalty to family, his cousin's refusal to snitch even facing prison time, the way he spoke about the code like it was religion. These weren't just personality traits. They were qualifications.
"That's real," I said. "Most people talk about loyalty, but when it costs something? They fold."
"Not Clovis. Not anyone in my family." Badger puffed up a little. "We've got history, you know? My grandpa ran with some serious people back in the day. Not like, cartel shit, but... he knew things. And he never said a word. Died with secrets in his head."
I filed that away. Badger's family had criminal connections. Not major players, but part of the ecosystem. People who understood the rules.
"What about you?" I asked. "You ever been tested like that?"
Badger's face went serious—a rare occurrence. "Not yet. But I know what I'd do. It's not even a question, you know? Some things matter more than staying comfortable."
"Yeah." I nodded. "I get that."
We drank in silence for a moment. The jukebox switched from Springsteen to something country. A couple at the pool table argued about who'd scratched on the eight ball.
"So what about you, Pete?" Badger turned on his stool to face me. "Jesse said you've been acting different lately. Getting healthy and shit. What's that about?"
"Just tired of feeling like garbage," I said. "Decided to make some changes."
"Changes like what?"
This was the opening. I'd been waiting for it, planning how to position the offer so it didn't sound like recruitment. Because Badger wasn't ready for full commitment—not yet. He needed to see value first, trust second, then purpose.
"I've been doing some consulting work," I said casually. "Nothing major. Just keeping my eyes open, noticing things, passing useful information to people who pay for it."
Badger's eyebrows went up. "Like, spy shit?"
"More like... observer shit. You know how dealers are always worried about their spots getting hot? Cops watching, rivals moving in? Well, information about that stuff is valuable. Someone pays me to watch, I tell them what I see, they stay ahead of the problems."
"Huh." Badger processed this. "And that's, like, legal?"
"It's not illegal. It's just talking to people." I shrugged. "No product, no violence. Just information."
"That's actually kind of smart." He sounded surprised. "How much does it pay?"
"Depends on the information. But I made two hundred bucks last week just for noticing when some corners were getting watched."
Badger's eyes went wide. "Two hundred? For watching stuff?"
"For watching stuff and being right." I took another drink. "The key is, you gotta be accurate. People don't pay for guesses. They pay for certainty."
"Man." He shook his head admiringly. "You really have changed. Old Pete would never have figured something like that out."
Old Pete would have been too high to notice the sun coming up, I thought. But I just nodded.
"If you ever see anything interesting," I said, "let me know. I've got people who pay for tips. Good money for solid information."
"For real?"
"For real. Nothing risky—just observations. Who's moving where, what's changed in different neighborhoods, anything that seems off. The kind of stuff you notice anyway just walking around."
Badger's grin spread across his face. "Dude, I notice everything. I'm like, hyper-observant. One time I saw this guy—"
"Save it for when it's worth something." I cut him off before he could launch into an irrelevant story. "But yeah. If you see something useful, text me. We'll see if it's worth cash."
"Hell yeah, man. I'm in." He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. "Badger, professional observer, at your service."
"Just keep it quiet, alright? This isn't something to brag about. The whole point is staying invisible."
"Invisible. Yeah, totally. I'm like a ninja."
I doubted that very much. But Badger didn't need to be a ninja. He just needed to be reliable, loyal, and present in places I couldn't be.
One thread in the network. One more person who might become something more.
The conversation drifted after that—Badger's theories about Star Trek, a girl he'd been trying to impress, the proper way to roll a joint for maximum efficiency. I let him talk, nodding at appropriate moments, while my NZT-enhanced mind processed the strategic implications of the evening.
Badger was an asset, but he needed management. His enthusiasm was a double-edged sword—useful for information gathering, dangerous if he started talking too loudly about his new "consulting" role. I'd need to establish boundaries, give him structure, channel his energy toward useful ends.
But that was future work. Tonight was about connection, about establishing myself as someone Badger would follow when the time came.
Around ten, he insisted on playing the jukebox. "You gotta hear this song, man. It's like, the worst thing ever recorded, but in a good way."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Trust me."
The opening notes of "Mambo No. 5" filled the bar. Badger's face lit up with unholy glee.
"See? It's terrible! But you can't not listen to it!"
I started laughing. Genuine laughter—the kind that comes from somewhere real, not performed for social purposes. The kind Marcus Gilbert had forgotten how to produce somewhere around his twenty-ninth birthday.
"You're insane," I said.
"Certifiably." Badger raised his beer. "To being insane in a boring world."
I clinked my bottle against his. "To that."
The song played on. Bad music. Good company. A small moment of something like happiness in a world that was about to get very dark.
I'd take what I could get.
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