“No,” he smiled, “you don’t.”
Track Suit was one of Zane’s muscle guys, not important, but not used to being contradicted. “I know you’re the boss’s new pet, but—”
“Listen carefully.” Still smiling. “You try to pat me down, I’m going to break your arm.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You serious with that?”
“Yep.”
Track Suit took a step forward, favoring his left leg.
“Joey.” The mechanic was out from under the car. A smudge of grease stained one cheek. “He’s okay. Besides, he’s not kidding about your arm.”
“But—”
“Take him to Zane.”
Joey hesitated for a moment, then turned and said, “This way.”
“This way” turned out to be to the back of the warehouse, where a metal staircase ran to a loft. Joey moved heavily, grunting as though each step was a task to cross off. A short hallway ran to a door, and Joey knocked. “Mr. Zane? He’s here.”
It had once been a foreman’s office, with windows that looked not out at the world but in and down to the warehouse floor. Since then it had been cleaned up and decorated. Twin sofas sat atop a lush oriental rug. The lighting was tasteful and low. A tri-d ran CNN, the volume muted.
Robert Zane had come from the street, and neither the Lucy Veronica cashmere sweater or the two-hundred-dollar haircut could change that. He radiated an ineffable sense of dangerous slickness, and around his eyes and in his posture there always lingered a hint of the days when he’d been bad old Bobby Z. “Mr. Eliot.”
“Mr. Zane.”
“Drink?”
“Sure.”
Joey closed the door behind them as Zane walked to a sidebar. “Scotch okay?”
“Fine.” The rug was thick beneath his shoes. He set the briefcase flat on the table, then sat down. The couch was too soft. He leaned back with his hands in his lap.
“You know, I wasn’t sure you were serious. What you were offering? Nobody can get hold of that kind of newtech.” Zane took ice cubes from a mini-fridge and dropped them into the glasses, then poured two inches into each. His movements as he walked back were light and balanced, a fighter’s posture. He passed a glass and then sat on the couch opposite, legs crossed and arms outstretched, every bit the man of leisure. “But here you are. I guess I shouldn’t have doubted, huh?”
“Doubt’s good. Makes you careful.”
“Amen to that.” Zane lifted the glass in a toast. On the tri-d, a reporter stood in front of the White House. The ribbon at the bottom read, BILL TO MICROCHIP GIFTED PASSES HOUSE 301–135; PRESIDENT WALKER EXPECTED TO SIGN. The reporter’s breath steamed in the cold air, rippling toward them, artifacting a little where it reached the limits of the projection field. “So.”
“So.”
Zane nudged the briefcase with his toe. “You mind?”
“It’s your case.”
The other man smiled, leaned forward, and thumbed the locks. They gave satisfying pops as they opened. Zane lifted the lid. For a moment he just stared. Then he blew a breath and shook his head. “Goddamn. Ripping off a DAR lab. You don’t mind my saying, you are one crazy son of a bitch.”
“Thanks.”
“How did you pull it off?”
Eliot shrugged.
“Okay, sure, professional secret. Let me rephrase that. Any trouble?”
—a finger of flame shattering the glass, shards raining sparkling down, the squealing of the alarms lost behind the roar of another explosion, the truck’s gas tank going—
“Nothing that will come back on you.”
“Goddamn,” Zane repeated. “I don’t know where you came from, but I’m sure glad you’re here. People can say what they like about your kind, you get the job done.” He closed the case slowly, almost gingerly. “I’ll have the money transferred, same as before. That okay?”