Music hath Charms

By

Dawnwind

Chapter 2

We were escorted into a fancy restaurant on the Marina that was leagues out of my price range. Of course, Burger King is the top limit on my price range. Since we were in the presence of a bonifide cash cow, the maitre d' was practically bowing at our feet in his effort to please.

We did have the whole restaurant to ourselves, but then again, it was nearly midnight. Having eaten five hours ago should have satisfied me, but I was starving and tucked into the antipasto spread with gusto. Champagne was poured for everyone but Ashley Breeana, who made do with a Coke, and a good time was had by all. Sherida captured it all on film for posterity, and by the time the linguini with clams was served, even Hobbes was in a mellow mood, laughing privately with Claire at a corner table.

The couples had paired off quickly after all the chairs at Miles' table had been claimed, leaving me kind of odd man out, since my date had joined Ashley Breeana, Ms. Viceroy-Wong and Farzimah at the table of honor. I was stuck with Dr. Div, still trying to make time with Sherida, who wasn't giving him the time of day. Miles gave me a 'what can I do, have to please the fans' grin and went back to making small talk with the women surrounding him. The little Asian guy, who turned out to be Miles' business manager, just hovered, directing Sherida's camera angles and making a nuisance of himself.

Circulating waiters were bringing out more wine, topping off my glass before I'd ever finished the last, or just setting down a fresh one with a different vintage beside the others. I really didn't know how much alcohol I'd had. You'd think after I faked my way around Paris as a wine taster that I'd know the difference between Californian and imported wines, but it all tastes like fermented grape juice to me. And, without a doubt, very expensive grape juice at that.

So, by the time I was on the third course, and umpteenth glass of vino, I wasn't exactly paying attention to the comings and goings of the wait staff. There seemed like an inordinate number of them to me, but maybe they all wanted a chance to wait on Miles Verbage, how was I to know?

I stood up to stretch my legs, leaning over to comment on what Miles was chatting about to Melissa. Everybody was laughing and having a great time, even Miss Quantum Physics. I guess we weren't a match made in heaven after all. Farzimah seemed to take all the adulation of Miles in stride, sitting prettily on his left without a trace of jealousy. She knew who had his heart, and I had a feeling that they'd be together for a long time.

The busboy, clearing away plates, jostled one of the wine servers, who swore violently, jerking out of the busboy's way. That was the only sense of something out of order before bullets were spraying the room.

With a mighty shove, I pushed Miles and Farzimah under the table, trying to duck bullets by shear willpower. Ms. Viceroy-Wong had similarly pulled a shrieking Ashley Breeana to safety. Behind me, I could already hear the retorts from an entirely different gun, one I'd recognize in my sleep--Bobby Hobbes'. Guess I was starting to get the hang of weaponry after all. My heart rate was galloping like a horse straining to win the Preakness and it was all I could do to maintain my visible form. I could feel the Quicksilver starting to flow and took quick panting breaths to try and calm down. Would not help my supposedly top secret status to go invisible in a room full of witnesses, one of whom was a camera bug.

A white-hot pain slammed in my skull and for a moment I wondered if I was going Quicksilver Mad, before I remembered that couldn't happen anymore. I ducked another hail of bullets, going down under the edge of the tablecloth to find myself next to Melissa. Even in my present more than half drunk state I could tell she was dead.

Things got pretty confusing there for a while, but the gist of it was an Arab guy with one of those common names like Mohammed, had tried to kill Miles. When the busboy had bumped into him, he'd lost his aim, hitting Melissa Beatten instead, sitting to Miles' right. Nobody else was seriously injured, thank God. I was more than a little surprised when Claire gaped at me in astonishment and tried to pull me down into a chair so she could examine my head. I'd been trying to cover Melissa up with a tablecloth while simultaneously comforting Ashley Breeana who was still screaming. Strangely enough, I could barely hear her, although I knew she must be loud.

Hobbes was manning the troops, organizing the security guards who'd been on the outside of the restaurant, watching for a perimeter breach. Always worse when the danger comes from the inside. They had the gunman surrounded completely, but he was screaming obscenities in whatever language he spoke, and pressing a hand over his bleeding shoulder wound. Bobby had winged him, but like a good agent, left him alive to be questioned.

Everyone else was huddled into little groups, either in shock or trying to help out. Miles had both arms around Farzimah like he was never going to let her go. She was cuddled against his shoulder, her black eyes rimmed with red. Ms. Viceroy-Wong looked catatonic, swaying. Mike Kim came rushing in from the outside like he hadn't a clue what had just happened. I've never even noticed he'd left the room.

"Claire, Ashley Breeana needs help…" I said inanely, patting the poor little girl's arm, which didn't seem to be very effective. Besides, my voice sounded like it was on the lowest volume setting.

"Darien, you've been shot!" Claire shouted at me. That I heard.

Once Claire pointed it out, I realized I was bleeding like a stuck pig. Just the sight of my blood on the napkin she dabbed to my head wound made me woozy.

Through a bleary haze I watched Hobbes jerk Mohammed to his feet and drag him along to some police who'd materialized at the door of the restaurant. The little Asian manager was back in everybody's way, trying to get control of the situation, his voice high pitched and agitated. My hearing was still fading in and out like an old radio. I'd hear snatches of conversation but lose key words here and there, so it took me a minute to understand what Claire was telling me.

"You were standing so closely in front of the gunman, one of the bullets grazed above your ear." She explained, looking professional, but her face was wiped of color, "Your hearing should improve in the next few hours."

"Melissa's dead." I kept looking over at the tablecloth draped body, my belly wanting to expel all the good food and drink I'd just consumed.

"I know." Claire nodded, her lower lip trembling, but she was a consummate professional, she didn't break down in public.

We were stuck in that restaurant for hours while the police investigated the crime, interviewing every one involved and carting away Melissa's body. Even after she had been taken away, her presence still lingered, the gruesome outline on the floor a vivid reminder of what had happened. Bobby wanted to go with the police to question Mohammed, since he'd been the one to capture him, but they apparently weren't in a sharing mood and hauled the gunman off to jail.

Finally Ashley Breeana's parents were allowed to take the poor girl home. She'd worn herself out with all the screaming and fallen asleep with her head pillowed on Miles' jacket by the time her father came to collect her. That was some sort of a signal for the rest of us to start leaving, only a phalanx of press had surrounded the building, making escape without police escort nearly impossible. While the detectives were trying to round up some patrol officers for that duty, Miles walked over to us, his face grave. To tell the truth, I really had never gotten to talk to him the whole evening. I began to wonder exactly who this guy was. Despite Hobbes' whole paranoia about fans coming after rock stars, Miles wasn't all that big. Would some crazy really try to shoot him just for the publicity? And why a presumably Muslim man? Wouldn't it make more sense--what little sense there could be in a case like this--for it to be a woman? Like the fan club president who'd killed that Latin singer, I forget her name. None of this made any sense at all, and thinking about it was just adding to the already splitting headache I was suffering from.

"Hobbes, Darien, can I talk to you guys in private?" Miles asked.

I glanced around, there were still upwards of twenty people in the room. Private was kinda out of the question.

"Maybe we can take it into the restaurant manager's office," Hobbes suggested as if he knew what Miles had in mind.

"Excellent," Miles agreed with a shake of his blond mane. We closeted ourselves in the tiny office, away from the mob scene in the front room. I was still having some trouble following conversation, but true to Claire's word, the volume control had adjusted itself and my hearing had improved vastly in just a few hours.

"Geeze, I gotta thank you guys for the amazing job you did out there," Miles started, glancing down at his hands. He had fine tremors in both and clenched them together. "Man, D., I'm so sorry about Melissa. She was a smart lady. I'm gonna do everything I can to give her a good send-off. But without you two, we'd all have been road kill out there."

"The guy was spraying bullets around like a maniac," Hobbes said. "But it looked like he was aiming for you. Melissa was standing right next to you."

"What was his motive?" I asked, mostly rhetorically, because I really didn't expect an answer.

"That's why I need to talk to you two," Miles sighed. "You're not in textiles, are you? You're…I dunno know, Private eyes, police? Something like that, but how Fawkes got a job like that with his record…"

"Hey, just because I don't go blurtin' my prison time to all the gossip rags," I retorted.

"We're with the government," Hobbes said shortly.

"Spies?" Miles asked in surprise, his blond eyebrows disappearing up under his bangs.

"Agents," I corrected.

"When I saw how fast you guys reacted…" Verbage trailed off, still obviously in shock from the shooting. "Darien, you saved Farzimah's life, pushing us down like that. I'm in your debt, man."

"Tell us all you know about the gunman," Hobbes answered. We'd all been questioned by the police, but apparently Hobbesy felt Miles hadn't revealed all.

"I think…" Miles stopped for a moment, "The gunman wasn't after me, but really aiming for Farzimah."

Okay, to me that made even less sense than some whacked out fan going after Verbage.

"She's a member of the Kharistan royal family, isn't she?" Hobbes commented, his voice deadly serious.

"How do you know this stuff?" I demanded but I'd spoken too quickly and too loudly. My whole head protested by doubling the pain ratio. Staggering back, I located a chair and sank into it, closing my eyes just to get a measure of control back.

"Darien?" Miles sounded far away and very concerned.

"Fawkes?" Hobbes, my watchdog, as usual sounded close to panic, which was kind of funny after everything else that had happened that night.

"I'm okay, I'm fine." I lied, slitting my eyes open. Some major narcotics would help a lot, but that would have wait until later. "Just got the mother of all headaches."

"You were shot…" Miles was all apology, "They should'a let you go to the hospital."

"Claire took care of it." I smiled through the guns of Naverone reverberating in my head. "Farzimah is royalty?"

"Uh, yes-Hobbes, you got it in one. How DID you know?"

"I read a lot. Watch CNN," He deadpanned. "Got to keep up with foreign affairs."

"I'll bet," I said out of the side of my mouth. Hobbes used to travel the world in the CIA. He'd probably had several foreign affairs.

"Quiet, Fawkes." He snapped.

"Farzimah's brother, Amahl, is the crown prince of Kharistan," Miles explained. "He's also getting his masters in advanced engineering at University of California San Diego. That's where I met him-only a year and a half ago I was still an unknown, playing college campuses and being put up in a spare room in the dorms. Amahl was next door to me and we got to talking. Most of his family is here in California, and they're very westernized, so eventually I met Farzimah. The rest is history."

"But why would anyone want to kill her?" I asked stupidly. That's what I'm usually there for, to ask the stupid questions.

"Factions in their country do not want Amahl in power," Miles said very softly.

"They may be trying to get to him through her."

"Has anything happened before?" Hobbes asked.

"Only things that seem stand out after the fact," Verbage shrugged. "Farzimah's car was broken into, so was my dressing room. Strange flower arrangements were delivered backstage…"

"Strange how?" I queried.

"They were funeral arrangements. One had a large black banner over the front that said 'In memoriam'."

"Who knows about all this?" Hobbes got straight to the point.

"Only you two. Well, Mike Kim knows about Farzimah's car, cause he had to go pick her up and Randy was there when my dressing room was broken into-he discovered it. Lots of people saw the flowers before we tossed 'em out." Miles twisted his hands in his lap as if he wanted to wrestle with something large, "All the rest, we keep it really under the radar about Farzimah's family. The less publicity about that the better, and so far, most of the magazines have only focused on me and taken our cover story about her at face value."

"That is?"

"She's a pre-med student, which is true, from a Muslim family living in the US," He grinned suddenly, looking over at me. "Easiest to remember a lie that's mostly the truth, huh, Darien?"

In more ways than one, I wondered if I should tell him any part of the truth about how I got this job. "What do you want us to do for you, Miles?"

"I want to hire you as Farzimah's bodyguards."

"Doesn't she already have some?" Hobbes pointed out. "Those two goons who followed us in an unmarked blue Ford. One stood outside the restaurant, the other one was in the kitchen."

I'd never noticed them. Shows you why Bobby Hobbes is the trained, senior agent around here.

"I'm not sure I trust either of them anymore." Miles pursed his lips. "But it would look suspicious to get rid of them after all this, so I want it to look like you're guarding me."

"The ol' bait and switch." I'd laugh, but my head hurt too much.

"The ol' bait and switch," Hobbes echoed. "Do you have any idea who exactly is out to get Amahl? Names? Who'd this anti-royalty faction in Kharistan?"

"I'm not sure, I've just heard Amahl talking about them. Ask that man, Mohammed, he must be working for them!" He said with agitation, raking his fingers through his hair, so it stood on end almost as wildly as mine did.

"The cops here weren't impressed by my badge," Hobbes growled. "But the Fat, uh, our boss, can cut through some red tape and hopefully I'll get to interrogate him in the morning."

"I can't thank you guys enough. I don't know what I'd do if they'd shot…" Miles had tears in his eyes, probably imagining Farzimah under that tablecloth instead of Melissa. I had to blink back some wetness in my eyes too, but that was probably because I had such a headache. "Call me in the morning." He wrote a phone number and address on the back of one of the restaurant's cards and handed it to Hobbes. "I really want you two to come work with me, get to the bottom of this…"

"Before anyone else gets killed," Hobbes sounded fatalistic.

By late the next morning I probably could have handled that fasting sugar test Claire had wanted the day before. Bobby had dropped me off at my apartment at six thirty, just as the sun was coming up and I was literally swaying on my feet by the time I'd made it to bed. Went to sleep fully dressed, only to wake up at ten thirty when a siren went screaming by outside my window. Even thought it's been a couple of years since I was arrested, my heart rate still can't handle the scream of a police car in full pursuit mode. I had to shake Quicksilver off my arms as I came to full consciousness.

Oh, geeze, my head.

And my stomach.

Everything hurt and my stomach had decided on a no food policy in the foreseeable future. Getting cautiously out of bed to creep over to the bathroom, I was kind of frightened by the man who stared back at me in the medicine cabinet mirror. He looked a little like me, but with a bandage over the left ear and gruesome bruising that extended beyond the gauze and around my eye. Not exactly the man-about-town image I usually liked to maintain. After finishing my business in the bathroom I had to locate my discarded leather jacket for the bottle of painkillers Claire had pressed into my hand just before we'd parted company.

She'd insisted on taking me back to the Keep for a more thorough examination of my head after we'd left the restaurant. The usual blood letting, plus a bandage and prescription were the price I had to pay before she'd let me go home to sleep. None of us were doing very well by six a.m., but Claire made Bobby promise to take me home and pick me up at noon for a return trip to the Agency.

I had to coax some tea and dry toast into my stomach before it would tolerate the painkillers. After taking them with a glass of water and sitting really still watching 'The View' ladies interview Drew Barrymore, who really grew up looking pretty hot after being a little rugrat in 'E.T', I began to feel like a human being again. While Star Jones chatted up a guy who was suing some airline for making their seats too narrow for the horizontally challenged, I took a shower. Idly I wondered if I could sue an airline for being unfair to those of us with long legs. Worth a shot, I suppose. Maybe I'd get to be on 'The View', too.

The midmorning news followed, a perky Asian girl in a lime green sweater-set looked grave as she described the scene at Delmonico's the night before. Footage taken when Miles and Farzimah had exited was featured prominently, and a sound bite of the Mr. Up-and-Coming-Rock-and-Roll saying how lucky they were to be alive was the extent of the coverage, although the fact that the gunman was a man of some Arab descent was mentioned. In this post September 11th climate, that was big news and there was bound to be wild speculation in the newspaper as to whether Bin Laden or any of his co-horts were behind this. Probably not, in my opinion. I was more likely to wager on the explanation that Miles had given, some anti-western faction in Kharistan wasn't too keen on having Farzimah's brother in power. At least I hoped that was the explanation.

Just as the weatherman finished giving the projected temperatures for the rest of the week, Hobbes knocked on the door.

"Coming!" I called a trifle too loudly for my still aching head, in case he got worried I'd died or something and tried to break down the door.

"Hey!" Hobbes greeted, flicking a finger at my 'Sandstorm Tour '02' tee. "Where'd you get the shirt, and how come I didn't get one?"

"Guess I got more friends in high places," I snickered. In actuality, Sherida Jefferson had given me several right before we'd left the restaurant. I silently handed Hobbes' his, keeping one for Claire.

"More like low ones," Hobbes chuckled, nodding his thanks. "But that Miles rates way above every one of your friends I've ever met."

"And how many is that?"

"Well, for one, that nozzle who framed you for the job he pulled. Oh, and your fans in Cabrillo prison. Then there's Liz…."

"Okay, I know how you feel about her." I was surprised to realize Hobbes had met several of my old acquaintances. I'd met relatively few of his.

"How's your head?" He asked, wincing at the sight of my Technicolor face.

"Claire said I'm either the luckiest or unluckiest person on the planet, she hasn't made up her mind yet," I shrugged. "How's yours? Got a hangover?"

"That red wine gets me every time," He grimaced. "C'mon, Lucky, back to the Keep with you." He cocked his head a moment as if listening to internal music. "Isn't there a Brittany Spears song by that name?"

"Yeah, except that Lucky's a girl." I pulled my apartment door closed behind me, locking both locks for Hobbes' benefit. I figure, thieves are gonna get in if they want to, why make it harder for them than it already is? For me, a couple of locks just made it more of a challenge. My apartment's been broken into before, it'll happen again. I'm getting used to it.

"Hey, Luke and Laura on 'General Hospital' got a son named Lucky."

"On a soap opera, he needs all the luck he can get. They're always getting' shot, hit on the head, kidnapped…"

"It's really unbelievable," Hobbes agreed. "You remember that Ice Princess story back in the '80's? With super spy Scorpio? I kinda liked that guy."

"Hobbes, I was like--twelve. I didn't watch soaps then, but my Aunt Celia did. I do remember Scorpio, but I liked his wife Anna DeVane better."

"But you weren't really watchin', huh?'" He unlocked the van's doors and we both climbed in. "She was a babe, and that British accent."

"You really get off on those British girls," I teased. "I gotta tell Claire you go for Finola Hughes."

"Is that her name?"

"Far as I'm aware."

"Cause I saw her on All My Children th'other day."

"Bobby, when do you have time to watch soaps?"

"When you were off getting your hair styled at the beauty shop." Hobbes took a left which pointed us in the direction of the Agency.

"It wasn't a beauty shop, it was a hair emporium."

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes, Einstein, there is."

"Then I stand corrected," Hobbes said in a totally unconvincing voice.

After Claire reassured herself that I was still among the living and I hadn't succumbed to some virulent, rare strain of bacterial infection in the wound, she finally let Bobby and me go on up to the Official's office for a debriefing. A slightly cock-eyed one, since the 'Fish didn't know as much about the situation as we did.

"He asked us to be the Princess' bodyguards." Bobby concluded with the tale of last night's activities at Delmonico's. I was content to let Bobby have the floor since I wasn't feeling like I had both oars in the water, if you know what I mean. Those painkillers would make a good profit on the street. They left me aware but really disconnected in a very happy, perky way. I had to ask Claire what kind they were, cause morphine makes me sick. These made me feel just fine.

"Did he give you a specific time limit?" Charlie Borden asked

"I figure he expects us to catch the bastard behind the assassination attempts."

"Attempts?" Eberts, the Official's official lap dog, echoed sharply.

"Yes, Eee-berts," Hobbes sneered the name. I was getting so I had to force myself not to say it the same way. The name just lent itself to sneering. I wonder if the late Gene Siskel ever had this problem with film critic Roger Eberts. 'It was the worst movie of the entire decade, Eee-berts!' Okay, my mind was really wandering away from the subject at hand, and I mentally turned a corner to refocus my hearing on what Hobbes was talking about. "…funereal floral arrangement," Bobby concluded.

"Did you get the name of the florist?" Eberts asked with interest.

"Shut up, Eberts," The Official shushed, obviously thinking he should have been the one to ask such a vital question. "Get on the trail of those flowers. Sounds like the best lead." He steepled his fingers, resting his jowls on the tips, "But first, I want to know what we could get out of this, Agent Hobbes?" he asked. The man was always looking to make a buck, or find the hidden perks.

"Improved relations with the government of Kharistan," Bobby explained. "We save the Crown Prince and Princess, the U.S. government will be lookin' pretty good to the royal family after that. In this political climate that could be really important with the way things are in Pakistan and all those countries out that direction."

"India," I put in to show I'd been watching the news. Frankly, I didn't watch very often. All that talk about nuclear weapons over there totally freaks me out.

"This could be a real feather in your cap with the state department," Hobbes smiled proudly.

"You don't have to lay it on so thick, Agent Hobbes," The Official said sternly. "Follow the flower trail."

"Follow the yellow brick road." I put in brilliantly.

"Follow the yellow brick road?" Hobbes teased with a question in his tone.

"There really is a wonderful wiz, if ever a wiz there was," Eberts grinned, and I swear it was the evilest grin a man with his sweet face could manage.

"You the wiz, Ebs," I agreed. "Find out what florist sent flowers to Farzimah Abdullah at Miles Verbage's dressing room."

"Right on it." He sat down at the computer terminal, his fingers flying over the keys. "On what date did this delivery occur?"

"I'll need to make a phone call." Hobbes put a hand on the receiver on the Official's desk, then pulled it back like he'd touched fire. "May I, sir?" he asked politely.

"Go ahead. Now I'm interested in this case," The Fat Man grumped. "Then when you find that address, get out of my office."

A quick phone call connected him straight to Miles himself. I guess we were really on the 'A' list now. The black draped flowers had been sent two weeks previously when Miles was playing the Hollywood Bowl up in Los Angeles but they were the third suspicious bouquet. The first two hadn't been funeral arrangements but they were rare, expensive black roses. And all the bouquets had been received in different locales and different cities. Eberts looked momentarily floored by this because it multiplied the number of florists he had to check with exponentially. But then, with sudden insight, he tapped in the URL to It took no time at all for him to find a back door into the web site and access their mailing list.

"The credit card used to purchase the flowers belongs to a Mohammed Hassem," Eberts reported after hacking onto several different protected sites.

"That's the schlemiel we arrested last night," Hobbes growled. "He's probably just a henchman, not the one in charge. Any chance we can get a crack at him, sir?" He addressed the Fat Man, "Or at the very least, a copy of his statement."

"Get on it, Eberts," The Official ordered, but as usual Eberts was way ahead of him, talking on the phone while still surfing the web. The Official looked momentarily non-plussed until he turned his grumpiness in our direction. "You two need to get over to guard that princess."

"Darien isn't going anywhere." Claire sailed in with her blue lab coat billowing out behind her.

"Claire!" I whined, but was secretly glad she'd intervened. On these drugs I was as likely to suspect a cocker spaniel of wrong doing as I was to recognize a real threat.

"Bobby can manage on his own for one day."

"Sure thing, no problem. You take care a' yourself, Captain Technicolor," Hobbes teased. "But you get all the standin' around tomorrow."

"Never fear, Boy Wonder."

"Boy Wonder goes with Batman, an' I ain't no boy."

"Would you prefer Rainbow Brite?" I joked in return, "If I'm Captain Technicolor…"

"My niece used to love Rainbow Brite!" Claire piped up. "She had these bands of red, orange, yellow…"

"I think we can all picture it, Doctor," Charlie Borden silenced her chatter. "Now all of you get out!"

Hobbes skedadled pronto, leaving me standing in the hall with Claire. Since I had nothing better to do I followed her back to the Keep and sprawled in the demented dentist's chair. I felt very disconnected and would suddenly jerk back to real time every once in a while but for the most part I just zoned out for a couple of hours under the watchful eye of my private physician.

"Are you hungry, Darien?" Claire's voice sounded sweet and sharp like that strange concoction Brits put on their toast in the morning, orange marmalade. My Grandma Madeline used to make it from the oranges that grew in the grove outside her house, but I never quite liked it. For some inexplicable reason I suddenly craved some.

"Got you some orange chicken from Red Lantern." Claire waved the container under my nose, the tantalizing aroma doing more to wake me up than my alarm clock ever did. Maybe I should get one that smelled like Chinese food.

"Man, Claire," I stretched as much as possible without falling off the narrow chair, feeling 50 better than I had that morning. "Didn't mean to fall asleep on you there." I took the characteristic Chinese food container from her, poking at the fried chicken in orange sauce with a chopstick.

"You obviously needed it." She sat down nearby with a container of fried rice and a cup of tea. "How's your head?"

After swallowing the food in my mouth I replied, "Lots better, but don't give me any more of what ever you gave me. Those things are like mini vacations to the uncharted territories. But you could make a tidy profit selling them as recreational hors d'oerves at a rave."

She laughed, losing the worried look she'd had when I woke up, "I shouldn't laugh about illegal drug use, but I may have to keep that as plan B if The Official doesn't increase my supply budget."

"He giving you a hard time?"

"No more than usual. You'd think now that I don't have to make counteragent every week, we'd have thousands more in the coffers, but apparently that isn't the case."

"Which then begs the question, how come you always use such BIG honkin' needles? Wouldn't smaller ones be cheaper? Other doctors have smaller, plastic ones."

Claire was laughing so hard she nearly choked on her rice, but after taking a sip of tea she composed herself, "I told you he keeps me on a tight budget. So I have to shop at the hospital surplus store."

"There's a hospital surplus store? That's just wrong. Those needles you get must be from the Roosevelt era."

"Hmm, possibly, but they were perfect for counteragent. The syringe volume held exactly the correct dose."

"And now you've got a lot left over?" I chopsticked some rice into my mouth and savored the tangy sweetness of the crunchy chicken against the more subtle taste of the rice.

"And now I've got a lot left over." She held one up with a wicked gleam in her eye. "Just in case anyone else needs a needle in the bum."

"Claire!"