Greg Rucka - Critical Space

"You gave me your word. You will keep it."

"Lady Antonia, it's not that we don't want to, it's that…"

"I didn't come here to listen to your excuses, Orin, and I didn't come here for a contact high. I'm explaining to you the way it will be. You will write me my song, it will be bloody brilliant, and you will have the track recorded and ready for the album before the end of August."

Orin shook his head, angry and hurt. "I don't care if you are a sodding peer. You don't talk to your friends like that, eh? You don't push me around like that."

"This isn't about friendship." She was furious, and her voice dropped, and she took a step forward, and for a moment I wondered if I was going to have to restrain her. Moore, standing at her other arm, still holding the CD, was motionless. "It's about work."

"You can't force us…"

"I can." She took another step closer to him, and there was no friendliness in the approach. "Now, you'll give me my song. Or else you had better start asking for proof of age from every groupie who offers you a blowjob, Orin. Because I promise you, if just one of them is underage, I'll find out about it, and I'll make sure everyone who has ever even heard of Together Now knows how much you love children."

The threat turned Orin pale. Judd had gotten to his feet, looking as shocked as his brother. Digger was snoring.

"My PA will expect a call from your manager in the morning." Lady Ainsley-Hunter turned on her heel and headed for the door so briskly I had to scurry to catch up.

Moore followed a second later, mumbling an apology and a thank you. When I caught his expression out of the corner of my eye, I knew that Lady Ainsley-Hunter had humiliated him as much as she had Orin.

"It's always about the children," he muttered as we made our way back to the dance floor.

Three days later, everything went to hell in a handbasket.

It actually started the night before, with me getting in late, cranky and hungry and with a headache. I'd made a bowl of oatmeal and finished the orange juice in the pitcher, and that had taken the edge off by the time I fell asleep.

All the same, when my alarm went off at a quarter of five my head felt thick, my muscles ached, and I knew I was moving slowly. A look at myself in the mirror when I'd finished shaving confirmed the worst. The bags under my eyes looked packed for a long trip, and my tongue was coated. I was coming down with something.

In the kitchen, I popped a handful of the assorted vitamins that Bridgett kept in the cabinet with the canned goods, made a fresh quart of juice from concentrate, then used most of it to chase the pills down. I dressed in one of my nicer suits, hooked my radio and gun to my belt, and stumbled downstairs. It was still dark outside, and I nearly tripped over Midge, my downstairs neighbor, who was stretching against the doorframe in preparation for her morning run.

"You should be in bed." Midge said it in the same perky way she said everything, no matter how sad or depressing or tedious the observation might be. Everything about her was perky, from the sweats to her permed blond hair.

"Gotta work," I told her.

"You look like you have a fever."

I nodded and made my way down the block to the corner of Third Avenue. Midge followed me, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"Haven't seen much of Bridgett for the last week. You're still friends?"

"She's been working out of town," I said. When Midge had first moved into the building, Erika had been living with me, and she had assumed Erika was my sister. Erika, in turn, had implied that our relationship was far more intimate than that, and it had taken several months before Midge realized the joke. As a result, Midge was careful in how she referred to Bridgett, always as my "friend," although given the lack of insulation between floors there was not a doubt in my mind that she knew what the relationship was.

Midge helped me hail a cab on the corner, and as I climbed in she wished me a good day and headed off in the direction of the East River. I told the cabbie that I wanted to go to the Edmonton. The traffic was still light, and the cabbie sped enthusiastically. He had to wake me up when we reached the hotel, and I paid him and headed through the lobby, and maybe it was the extra ten minutes of sleep, but I felt significantly better.

Moore let me into the suite after making the appropriate checks through the spyhole, and as I passed him, he echoed Midge.

"Christ, you look like warm shite."

"Fuck you very much. Is there coffee?"

"Cart just came up."

He followed me into the sitting room, where Chester was working at the desk. I could hear a shower running in Lady Ainsley-Hunter's bedroom, and I used my head to indicate the door, which was a mistake, because the headache – that had been just waiting for an excuse – took that as its cue to make a grand entrance.

"Natalie in there?"

"Of course." Moore grabbed the cup out of my hand. "Tea for you, mate."

"Coffee's fine."

"Tea is better for you." He took a fresh cup and used the second pot on the cart to fill it, then squeezed the juice from a lemon wedge into the tea.

"You're so British," I grumbled, taking the cup and a seat. " 'Morning, Peter."

" 'Morning, Tinkerbell," Chester said. "You do look a sight."

"I look worse than I feel."

Moore had been having eggs and hash browns and sausage, and a bowl of oatmeal, and the sight of it made my stomach look for a place to hide somewhere behind my liver. I averted my eyes as he wolfed down a couple of forkfuls.

"We should move me off the perimeter today," I told Moore. "Give it to Natalie."

"It takes a wise man to admit it when he can go no farther," he said. "Though I'm inclined to tell you to just head the hell home and get some sleep."

"My head's clear and I'm moving fine. We'll just swap me with Natalie today, and I'll back you up on the close support."

Moore appraised me like I was a recruit on his parade ground. Then he grunted. "We'll run with it. But if you start to head south, you notify, understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant." I finished the tea and stood to refill the cup. "Shall we get to business?"

Moore wiped his mouth with the napkin, nodding, then pushed his plate away. "Fiona, you want to come over here?"

Chester moved from the desk to the couch, bringing one of the typed sheets with her. "Her Ladyship's schedule for the day, gentlemen. She begins with an appearance on Talk New York! at ten, but the show's producer has asked we have her at the studio no later than nine to give him time to go over the questions she'll be asked. She's been invited to stay for the whole hour, after which Her Ladyship is free until one this afternoon, when she will lunch with the lieutenant governor and members of his staff at the Four Seasons. At two-thirty she has promised to attend a benefit auction for the International Red Cross in Scarsdale. The rest of her afternoon is free until six-thirty, when she will speak at NYU on grassroots political action as a means of fighting child exploitation. The lecture is supposed to end at eight, but in all likelihood, Her Ladyship will want to entertain questions as long as she can. When she is finished, however, she has promised to join some of the students for drinks at a local pub – excuse me, local bar."

While she spoke, Moore and I consulted our notes, checking off each item as it was listed.

"Scarsdale is new," I said.

"It was added last night, after dinner," Chester said, nodding. "The invitation was presented to her in person, just before we left."

"Checked it already," Moore said. "It's up-and-up."

"Well, it's a problem," I said. "It'll take an hour, probably longer, to get from that lunch midtown to Scarsdale. That's without serious traffic."