were here to see this."
"Where is he?"
Roger shrugged, not taking his eyes from the sartorial splendor of Norman Birdwell. "Beats me. But he'll shit if he misses this."
Norman, conscious of eyes upon him, threw a bit more of a swagger into his walk. The chain hanging from his new black leather jacket chimed softly against the small of his back. He squinted down at the sterling silver toe caps on his authentic style cowboy boots and wondered if maybe he shouldn't have gotten spurs as well. His new black jeans, tighter than he'd ever worn before, made an almost smug shik shik sound as the inseams rubbed together.
He'd shown them. Thought he wasn't cool, did they? Thought he was some kind of a nerd, did they? Well, they'd be thinking differently now. Norman's chin went up. They wanted cool?
He'd show them cold. Tonight he was going to ask for a red Porsche. He'd learn to drive later.
"What the hell is that?"
Roger grinned. "Now aren't you glad you weren't any later?" he asked, shoving a friendly elbow into Bill's ribs. "Kinda takes your breath away, doesn't it?"
"If you mean it makes me want to gag, you're close." Bill sagged against his locker and shook his head. "How the hell is he paying for all of that?"
"So go ask him."
"Why not. . . ." Bill straightened and stepped away from his locker just as Norman passed by.
Norman saw him, allowed their eyes to meet for a second, then moved on, chortling silently to himself, "Ha! Snubbed you. Let's see how you like it."
The question of payment dead in his mouth, Bill stood staring until Roger moved up beside him and slugged him in the arm.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
Bill shook his head. "There's something different about Birdwell."
Roger snorted. "Yeah, new threads and an attitude. But underneath he's the same old Norman the Nerd."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." But he wasn't. And it wasn't something Bill could explain. He felt as though he'd reached under the bed and something rotten had squished through his fingers-a normal, everyday action gone horribly awry.
Norman, aware he'd made an impression-Norman, who in a fit of pique had decided he didn't care if a stranger had to die-Norman strutted on.
* * *
"Victoria Nelson?"
"Yes?" Vicki peered down at the young woman- girl, really, if she's out of her teens it's by hours only -standing outside her apartment door. "If you're selling something. . . ."
"Victoria Nelson, the Private Investigator?"
Vicki considered it a moment before answering and then said slowly, "Yes. . . ."
"I have a job for you."
The words were delivered with the intensity only the very young can muster and Vicki found herself hiding a smile.
The girl tossed unnaturally brilliant red curls back off her face. "I can pay, if that's what you're worried about."
As the question of money hadn't even begun to cross Vicki's mind, she grunted noncommittally. They locked eyes for a moment- Tinted contacts, I thought so. Well, they go with the hair. -then she added, in much the same noncommittal tone, "Most people call first."
"I thought about it." The shrug was so minimal as to be almost nonexistent and her voice was completely non-apologetic. "I figured the case would be harder to turn down in person."
Vicki found herself holding he door open wider. "I suppose you'd better come in." Work wasn't so scarce she had to take jobs from children, but it wouldn't hurt to hear what the girl had to say. "Another thirty seconds in the hall and Mr. Chin'll be showing up to see what's going on."
"Mr. Chin?"
"The old man who lives downstairs likes to know what's going on, likes to pretend he doesn't speak English."
Sliding past Vicki in the narrow hall, the girl sniffed, obviously disapproving. "Maybe he doesn't speak English," she pointed out.
This time, Vicki didn't bother to hide her smile. "Mr. Chin has been speaking English a lot longer than both of us have been alive. His parents came to Vancouver in the late 1880s. He used to teach
"Where is he?"
Roger shrugged, not taking his eyes from the sartorial splendor of Norman Birdwell. "Beats me. But he'll shit if he misses this."
Norman, conscious of eyes upon him, threw a bit more of a swagger into his walk. The chain hanging from his new black leather jacket chimed softly against the small of his back. He squinted down at the sterling silver toe caps on his authentic style cowboy boots and wondered if maybe he shouldn't have gotten spurs as well. His new black jeans, tighter than he'd ever worn before, made an almost smug shik shik sound as the inseams rubbed together.
He'd shown them. Thought he wasn't cool, did they? Thought he was some kind of a nerd, did they? Well, they'd be thinking differently now. Norman's chin went up. They wanted cool?
He'd show them cold. Tonight he was going to ask for a red Porsche. He'd learn to drive later.
"What the hell is that?"
Roger grinned. "Now aren't you glad you weren't any later?" he asked, shoving a friendly elbow into Bill's ribs. "Kinda takes your breath away, doesn't it?"
"If you mean it makes me want to gag, you're close." Bill sagged against his locker and shook his head. "How the hell is he paying for all of that?"
"So go ask him."
"Why not. . . ." Bill straightened and stepped away from his locker just as Norman passed by.
Norman saw him, allowed their eyes to meet for a second, then moved on, chortling silently to himself, "Ha! Snubbed you. Let's see how you like it."
The question of payment dead in his mouth, Bill stood staring until Roger moved up beside him and slugged him in the arm.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
Bill shook his head. "There's something different about Birdwell."
Roger snorted. "Yeah, new threads and an attitude. But underneath he's the same old Norman the Nerd."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." But he wasn't. And it wasn't something Bill could explain. He felt as though he'd reached under the bed and something rotten had squished through his fingers-a normal, everyday action gone horribly awry.
Norman, aware he'd made an impression-Norman, who in a fit of pique had decided he didn't care if a stranger had to die-Norman strutted on.
* * *
"Victoria Nelson?"
"Yes?" Vicki peered down at the young woman- girl, really, if she's out of her teens it's by hours only -standing outside her apartment door. "If you're selling something. . . ."
"Victoria Nelson, the Private Investigator?"
Vicki considered it a moment before answering and then said slowly, "Yes. . . ."
"I have a job for you."
The words were delivered with the intensity only the very young can muster and Vicki found herself hiding a smile.
The girl tossed unnaturally brilliant red curls back off her face. "I can pay, if that's what you're worried about."
As the question of money hadn't even begun to cross Vicki's mind, she grunted noncommittally. They locked eyes for a moment- Tinted contacts, I thought so. Well, they go with the hair. -then she added, in much the same noncommittal tone, "Most people call first."
"I thought about it." The shrug was so minimal as to be almost nonexistent and her voice was completely non-apologetic. "I figured the case would be harder to turn down in person."
Vicki found herself holding he door open wider. "I suppose you'd better come in." Work wasn't so scarce she had to take jobs from children, but it wouldn't hurt to hear what the girl had to say. "Another thirty seconds in the hall and Mr. Chin'll be showing up to see what's going on."
"Mr. Chin?"
"The old man who lives downstairs likes to know what's going on, likes to pretend he doesn't speak English."
Sliding past Vicki in the narrow hall, the girl sniffed, obviously disapproving. "Maybe he doesn't speak English," she pointed out.
This time, Vicki didn't bother to hide her smile. "Mr. Chin has been speaking English a lot longer than both of us have been alive. His parents came to Vancouver in the late 1880s. He used to teach
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