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that turnaround in Guatemala over the summer. Went against all the models for guerrilla conflict that we had. It was a real coup for Shorn.”
    “Congratulations,” said Chris.
    “Ah.” Makin waved it off. “That was last season. Can’t live off things like that indefinitely. It’s a whole new quarter. Time for fesh meat. Another new appoach. Speaking of which, Chris, ahn’t you the guy who let a pomotion challenger off the hook at Hammett McColl last year?”
    Probably imagination, the way the whole table was suddenly listening to this sharkish young man with the carefully masked speech impediment. Probably. Chris’s eyes flickered to Bryant. The big blond was watching.
    “You heard about that, huh?”
    “Yeah.” Makin smiled. “It seemed kind of. Odd, you know.”
    “Well,” Chris offered, making a stiff smile of his own, “you weren’t there.”
    “No. Lucky for Elysia Bennett that I wasn’t, I’d say. Isn’t she still awound somewhere?”
    “I assume so. You know, Nick, I tend not to worry too much about the past. Like you said, it’s a whole new quarter. Bennett was two years ago.”
    “Still.” Makin looked around the table, apparently to enlist some support. “An attitude like that must make for a lot of challengahs. Shit, I’d dive against you myself just for the expewience if I thought you’d have a sentiment attack like that after the event. If I lost, that is.”
    Chris realized abruptly that Makin was drunk, alcohol-fueled aggressive and waiting. He looked at his glass on the table.
    “You would lose,” he said quietly.
    By now it wasn’t his imagination. The buzz of conversation was definitely weakening as the executives lost interest in what they were discussing and became spectators.
    “Big words.” Makin had lost his smile. “Fom a man who hasn’t made a kill in nearly four years.”
    Chris shrugged, one eye on Makin’s left hand where it rested on the tabletop. He mapped options. Reach down and pinion the arm. Snap the little finger of that hand, take it from there.
    “Actually,” said a husky voice. “I think they’re quite small words from the man who took down Edward Quain.”
    The focus of attention leapt away across the table. Liz Linshaw sat with one long-fingered hand propping her tousled blond head away from the back of her seat. The other hand gestured with a cigarette.
    “Now that,” she continued, “was the mother of all exemplary kills. No one ever thought Eddie Quain was coming back to work. Except maybe as lubricant.”
    Somebody laughed. Nervous laughter. Someone else took it up, more certainly, and the sound built around the table. Bryant joined in. The moment passed. Chris gave Makin one more hard look and then started laughing himself.
    The evening spread its wings under him.

A N UNCLEAR SPACE of time later, he was relieving himself in a scarred porcelain urinal that reeked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in a week. Yellowed plaster walls crowded around him. Sullen, gouged graffiti ranged from brutal to incomprehensible and back.
    PLAISTOW GANGWITS IN YER SOUP
    YOUR RAGS SUIT THEM
    FUCK OFF MARKEY CUNT
    MONEY MAKES THE WORLD GO BROWN
    EMMA SUCKED MY PRICK HERE
    U SUCKED IT USELF
    ZEK TIV SHIT
    BRING THE OMBUDSMEN
    FUCK THE UN
    PISS ON YOU TOO
    MEAT THE RICH
    It wasn’t always clear where one message ended and the other began. Either that, or he was very drunk.
    He
was
very drunk.
    Bryant’s idea, as numbers in the hotel bar began thinning: carry the party over into the cordoned zones.
    “They may be shit poor over there”—voice blurred as he leaned across the table—”but they know how to have a good time. There’s a couple of places I know you can buy all sorts of interesting substances over the counter, and they’ve got floor shows you wouldn’t believe.”
    Liz Linshaw wrinkled her sculpted features. “Sounds strictly for the boys,” she said. “If you gentlemen would excuse me, I’m for a cab.”
    She kissed Bryant on the lips,