Tricks of the Trade by Laura Anne Gilman Page B

couldn’t pinpoint anything specific to call him on.”
    â€œWhat does he do?” I asked, prepared to hear banker, or lawyer, or CEO of a pharmaceutical company.
    â€œOwns a national rental car franchise,” she said. “I wouldn’t rent from them even if I knew how to drive.”
    Huh. “What did Venec say?” I asked. I knew he was lurking in the back office; even with my walls up I could feel him, the way you feel a storm coming, the static in the air almost a solid, living thing. He must have just finished debriefing them.
    â€œHe told us that lack of trace was a roadblock not a disaster, the client was probably an ass but he was still the client. And to get the hell out of the office, clear our brains, and let the investigation wait until the morning.” Sharon had an odd look on her face, and the more I looked the less it seemed like annoyance, and more like she’d bitten into what she thought was a lemon and gotten a peach, instead. “I don’t think he’s taking this case seriously.”
    Nifty pointed out the logic-fail in that. “Venec takes everything seriously.”
    Sharon rubbed at her face, and nodded. “Yeah, I know. I just… The client’s an idiot, the house is trashed but nothing of serious value was taken…. I’m not sure I’m taking it seriously, either.”
    Sharon, like Venec, took everything seriously. I was starting to wonder about this case. It was almost enough to be thankful for a floater. Almost.
    â€œScrew it.”
    I looked over at Pietr, who had spoken far louder than his norm. “It’s not like we’re getting anywhere with this, either.” He scowled at our piles of so-far-useless paperwork. “Any trace there might have been was washed by the river. You know it, I know it, even the cop knew it. We could stare at files all night and get nowhere, and it’s not like the NYPD will appreciate our exhaustion.”
    We dealt with the weird shit in an exchange of favors, keeping the unspoken lines of communication open, but nobody ever took formal notice of anything; he was right.
    â€œAnd it’s not like the stiff’s in any rush. So I say screw it. We have birthdays to celebrate, anyway.”
    â€œWe do?” That was news to me; we’d just celebrated Sharon’s, and I couldn’t think of anyone else….
    Pietr closed his own file, and stood up. “Someone, somewhere, is being born. That calls for a drink.”
    It was tough to argue with that logic. So we didn’t.
    Â 
    The after-work crowds at Printer’s Devil, down by Port Authority terminal, was the usual mix of depressed-looking newspaper geeks and overly cheerful tourists who’d gotten lost off Times Square. I couldn’t remember why we kept coming here, except for the fact that it wasn’t convenient to anyone’s place, and therefore was neutral ground. Also, they made the best damn spicy empanadas north of Miami.
    We’d gotten one of the high narrow tables in the back and crowded around it. With six of us, there was barely enough room for our drinks and elbows, but it beat the hell out of trying to stand in that crowd. Nick, on hissecond mojito, was waving his arms, retelling a story that we’d all heard three times already. “I swear, I thought the conductor was going to blow something out his ear. And Lou’s sitting there, looking at him…”
    Lou rolled her eyes, not saying anything. She was still figuring out how to fit in with us, but when you get razzed by Nick you can’t really get annoyed, because he takes it so cheerfully when the tables are turned.
    But it was maybe time to step in. “Oh, come on, that one wasn’t her fault,” I said.
    â€œYeah, but she thought it was!”
    Nick cracked up as he delivered the line, and even Lou smiled a little. He was right; that had been what made it so funny.
    We were all still wound up, but it