readings.
Since the training sessions didn’t begin until after ten every night, Ken and Sabini always worked until two, sometimes three, in the morning. It was a punishing schedule, made worse for Ken by the lingering soreness from his beating. And as hard as he tried, he could never get pasthow wrong it all was. It gnawed at him every minute of the day.
He couldn’t wait to be finished.
—
It was a slow night on the streets.
Hound Dog revved her Harley, cruising up and down the city’s major thoroughfares as her belt scanner crackled through the headphones. The scanner wasn’t picking up anything interesting—some minor fender-benders, a robbery, a bar fight, all of which were decidedly unphotogenic after the fact.
For the past couple of days she had racked her brain trying to remember where she had seen the woman in that newspaper photo. Maybe it was in a shot taken by another scanner geek.
She checked her watch. One forty-five A . M . It was a bit early for “lunch,” but since she was using more gasoline than film, it would probably be good to knock off for a while. At that hour, the best prospect was the Varsity, a cavernous fast-food restaurant located near the Georgia Tech campus. An Atlanta institution for over half a century, the establishment was geared toward high-volume traffic. The counter personnel always barked quickly, “What d’ya have, what d’ya have?!” and slammed the counter impatiently if the customers so much as hesitated to place their orders. This, of course, was nothing compared to the treatment in store if the patrons didn’t have their money out and ready to give. This was true if the restaurant was packed with over a thousand or just a scattered half dozen. The Varsity’s brand of customer relations reduced some to tears, but it added character to the place, and the food was delicious in its own greasy, artery-clogging way.
Hound Dog rolled up the ramp to the restaurant’s parking structure, cut the engine, and dismounted. She could already smell those onion rings.
After getting her food, she held the red tray, glancing around for a place to sit. There were several large rooms,each of which had a TV blaring. She spotted a group of five scanner geeks sitting in the newer wing. Normally this would have prompted her to walk the other way. Tonight, however, was different. She headed toward them and took a seat at their table.
“You must really be bored if you’re hanging out with us,” said Vince, a thin, spike-haired young man with wire-rimmed glasses.
Hound Dog shrugged. “Just as long as I don’t have to listen to you guys whine about how little sex you’re getting.”
Freddy, a portly man in his early forties, snickered. “What makes you think we’re not getting our share?”
“If you guys were getting laid, you wouldn’t be out doing this every night.”
Freddy leered at her. “So I guess that means
you’re
hard up.”
She shook her head. “No, I get plenty, and I
still
do this. Which means I’m sicker than any of you.”
She took a sip from her Frosted Orange as she pulled the newspaper photo of Myth from her camera bag. She tossed it onto the table in the center of the group.
“Any of you guys shoot her before?”
The men passed the picture around, making various “hubba-hubba” and panting noises, reminding Hound Dog why they were called scanner geeks rather than scanner enthusiasts.
“Where did you get this?” the smallest of the guys asked. His name was Laszlo, and his preppy appearance contrasted with the others’ grunge look.
“Sunday paper. She looks familiar to me. I thought one of you guys may have shown me her picture in your book.”
Freddy tossed a worn pocket-sized photo album on the table. “Speaking of which, I have something to show you guys.”
“You have her picture?” Hound Dog asked.
“No,” Freddy said. “But I have some awesome shots of that ambulance accident in Roswell the other night.”
Vince leaned
Since the training sessions didn’t begin until after ten every night, Ken and Sabini always worked until two, sometimes three, in the morning. It was a punishing schedule, made worse for Ken by the lingering soreness from his beating. And as hard as he tried, he could never get pasthow wrong it all was. It gnawed at him every minute of the day.
He couldn’t wait to be finished.
—
It was a slow night on the streets.
Hound Dog revved her Harley, cruising up and down the city’s major thoroughfares as her belt scanner crackled through the headphones. The scanner wasn’t picking up anything interesting—some minor fender-benders, a robbery, a bar fight, all of which were decidedly unphotogenic after the fact.
For the past couple of days she had racked her brain trying to remember where she had seen the woman in that newspaper photo. Maybe it was in a shot taken by another scanner geek.
She checked her watch. One forty-five A . M . It was a bit early for “lunch,” but since she was using more gasoline than film, it would probably be good to knock off for a while. At that hour, the best prospect was the Varsity, a cavernous fast-food restaurant located near the Georgia Tech campus. An Atlanta institution for over half a century, the establishment was geared toward high-volume traffic. The counter personnel always barked quickly, “What d’ya have, what d’ya have?!” and slammed the counter impatiently if the customers so much as hesitated to place their orders. This, of course, was nothing compared to the treatment in store if the patrons didn’t have their money out and ready to give. This was true if the restaurant was packed with over a thousand or just a scattered half dozen. The Varsity’s brand of customer relations reduced some to tears, but it added character to the place, and the food was delicious in its own greasy, artery-clogging way.
Hound Dog rolled up the ramp to the restaurant’s parking structure, cut the engine, and dismounted. She could already smell those onion rings.
After getting her food, she held the red tray, glancing around for a place to sit. There were several large rooms,each of which had a TV blaring. She spotted a group of five scanner geeks sitting in the newer wing. Normally this would have prompted her to walk the other way. Tonight, however, was different. She headed toward them and took a seat at their table.
“You must really be bored if you’re hanging out with us,” said Vince, a thin, spike-haired young man with wire-rimmed glasses.
Hound Dog shrugged. “Just as long as I don’t have to listen to you guys whine about how little sex you’re getting.”
Freddy, a portly man in his early forties, snickered. “What makes you think we’re not getting our share?”
“If you guys were getting laid, you wouldn’t be out doing this every night.”
Freddy leered at her. “So I guess that means
you’re
hard up.”
She shook her head. “No, I get plenty, and I
still
do this. Which means I’m sicker than any of you.”
She took a sip from her Frosted Orange as she pulled the newspaper photo of Myth from her camera bag. She tossed it onto the table in the center of the group.
“Any of you guys shoot her before?”
The men passed the picture around, making various “hubba-hubba” and panting noises, reminding Hound Dog why they were called scanner geeks rather than scanner enthusiasts.
“Where did you get this?” the smallest of the guys asked. His name was Laszlo, and his preppy appearance contrasted with the others’ grunge look.
“Sunday paper. She looks familiar to me. I thought one of you guys may have shown me her picture in your book.”
Freddy tossed a worn pocket-sized photo album on the table. “Speaking of which, I have something to show you guys.”
“You have her picture?” Hound Dog asked.
“No,” Freddy said. “But I have some awesome shots of that ambulance accident in Roswell the other night.”
Vince leaned
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