SNOW CRASH

“You may not believe me,” he says, “but I simply wanted to thank you for delivering that pizza a few weeks ago.”

“Why shouldn’t I believe you?” she asks. She is amazed to hear nice, sweet things coming out of her mouth.

So is Uncle Enzo. “I’m sure you of all people can come up with a reason.”

“So,” she says, “you having a nice day with all the Young Mafia?”

Uncle Enzo gives her a look that says, watch it, child. A second after she gets scared, she starts laughing, because it’s a put-on, he’s just giving her a hard time. He smiles, indicating that it’s okay for her to laugh.

Y.T. can’t remember when she’s been so involved in a conversation. Why can’t all people be like Uncle Enzo?

“Let me see,” Uncle Enzo says, looking at the ceiling, scanning his memory banks. “I know a few things about you. That you are fifteen years old, you live in a Burbclave in the Valley with your mother.”

“I know a few things about you, too,” Y.T. hazards. Uncle Enzo laughs. “Not nearly as much as you think, I promise. Tell me, what does your mother think of your career?”

Nice of him to use the word “career.” “She’s not totally aware of it-or doesn’t want to know.”

“You’re probably wrong,” Uncle Enzo says. He says it cheerfully enough, not trying to cut her down or anything. “You might be shocked at how well-informed she is. This is my experience, anyway. What does your mother do for a living?”

“She works for the Feds.”

Uncle Enzo finds that richly amusing. “And her daughter is delivering pizzas for Nova Siciia. What does she do for the Feds?”

“Some kind of thing where she can’t really tell me in case I blab it. She has to take a lot of polygraph tests.”

Uncle Enzo seems to understand this very well. “Yes, a lot of Fed jobs are that way.”

There is an opportune silence.

“It kind of freaks me out,” Y.T. says.

“The fact that she works for the Feds?”