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causing a small storm of whoops and yells, and left with a sideways grin at Chris. A couple of other women excused themselves from the group in her wake, and Mike’s expedition began to look in danger of fizzling out.
    “Oh, come on, you bunch of
pussies,
” he slurred. “What are you afraid of? We’ve got guns.” He yanked out his Nemex and brandished it. “We’ve got money, we’ve got this city by the balls. What the fuck kind of life is it when we own the fucking streets they walk on and the blocks they live in and we’re still fucking scared to go there. We’re supposed to be in
charge
of this society, not in hiding from it.”
    It wasn’t speech making of Louise Hewitt caliber, but he managed to rope in half a dozen of the younger men around the table and a couple of the harder-drinking women. Ten minutes later Chris was in the passenger seat of Bryant’s BMW, watching the emptied streets of the financial district roll by. In the backseat sat a nameless young male executive and an older woman called Julie Pinion—macho sales talk snarled back and forth between them. In the wing mirror, the following lights of two other cars. Shorn was descending on the cordoned zones in force.
    “Okay, you two keep it down,” Mike said over his shoulder as they turned a corner. Up ahead the lights of a zone checkpoint frosted the night sky. “They won’t let us through here if they think there’s going to be trouble.”
    He brought the BMW to a remarkably smooth halt at the barrier and leaned out as the guard approached. He was, Chris noticed, chewing gum to mask the alcohol on his breath.
    “Just going down to the Falkland,” Bryant called cheerfully, waving his Shorn Associates plastic. “Take in the late show.”
    The guard was in his fifties, with a spreading paunch beneath his gray uniform and broken veins across his nose and cheeks. Chris saw the cloud of vapor he made when he sighed.
    “Have to scan that, sir.”
    “ ‘Course.” Bryant handed over the card and waited while the guard ran it through his hipswipe remote and handed it back. The unit chimed melodically, and the guard nodded. He seemed tired.
    “You armed?”
    Bryant turned back into the car. “Show the man your peacemakers, guys.”
    Chris slid the Nemex out of its shoulder holster and displayed it. Behind him he heard the two backseat disputants doing the same. The guard shone his flashlight in the windows and nodded slowly.
    “Want to be careful, sir,” he told Bryant. “There’s been layoffs at Pattons and Greengauge this week. Lot of angry people out getting drunk tonight.”
    “Well, we’ll stay out of their way,” Bryant said easily. “Don’t want any trouble. Just want to see the show.”
    “Yeah, okay.” The guard turned back to the checkpoint cabin and gestured to whoever was inside. The barrier began to rise. “I’ve got to check your friends as well. You want to park just past the gate till we clear them?”
    “Be glad to.” Mike beamed and drove the BMW through.
    The second car passed muster, but with the third there was some trouble. They peered back and saw the guard shaking his head while suited forms craned from the windows front and back, gesturing.
    “The fuck is going on back there?” muttered Julie Pinion. “Couldn’t they even act sober for a couple of minutes?”
    “Stay here,” Bryant said, and climbed out into the night air. They watched him walk back to the third car, lean down, and say something to those leaning out. The heads disappeared back into the vehicle, as if on wires. Bryant put his hand on the guard’s shoulder and dug in his pocket. Something passed between them. The guard said something to the driver of the third car. A clearly audible whoop of delight bounced out of the windows. Bryant came back grinning.
    “Gratuities,” he said as he got into the car again. “Ought to be compulsory, the shit they pay those guys.”
    “How much did you give him?” asked