A minor professional tangle occurred that needed to be untangled this morning. I’ve been up since 7:00 and I just now got off the phone with the various parties. Sometimes it happens this way. So Gordon is editing the innkeeper installment. You should have it shortly.
I’m going to take a shower, which I’ve been trying to take since I got up. Also I can’t remember if I drank coffee. I will need to do that if I didn’t. After the shower.
Tiny bribe for the waiting.
Bernard’s was always full but never crowded. Housed in a massive English style mansion in the affluent northern neighborhood, Bernard’s was one of those places where you had to call in a reservation two weeks in advance. The food was beautiful and expensive, the portions tiny, and the patrons were the real draw. Men in thousand dollar suits and women in glittering dresses with shiny rocks on the necks and wrists mingled and had polite conversation in hushed voices, while sipping wine and expensive liquor. Curran and I walked into it in our work clothes: worn jeans, T-shirts, and boots. I would’ve preferred my sword, too, but Bernard’s had a strict no weapons policy so Sarrat had to wait in the car.
People stared as we walked to the conference room. People always stared. Whispers floated.
“Is that her?”
“She doesn’t look like …”
Curran turned toward the sound, his eyes iced over, his expression flat. The whispers died.
Who’s got her back? Curran’s got her back. Yeah! Okay, now shower.