Hershie sat at the round formica table and commed Thomas.
"It's me," he said.
"What's up?"
He didn't want to beat around the bush. "I'm speaking at DefenseFest. Then I'm going on tour, six months, speaking at military shows. It pays well. Very well." Very, very well — well enough that he wouldn't have to worry about his pension. The US-based promoters had sorted his tax status out with the IRS, who would happily exempt him, totally freeing him from entanglements with Revenue Canada. The cheerful Texan had been glad to do it.
He waited for Thomas's trademark stream of vitriol. It didn't come. Very quietly, Thomas said, "I see."
"Thomas," he said, a note of pleading in his voice. "It's not my choice. If I don't do this, I'll have to give Woolley my secret identity — he won't give me my pension without my Social Insurance Number."
"Or you could get a job," Thomas said, the familiar invective snarl creeping back.
"I just told you, I can't give out my SIN!"
"So have your secret identity get a job. Wash dishes!"
"If I took a job," Hershie said, palms sweating, "I'd have to give up flying patrols — I'd have to stop fighting crime."