Tricks of the Trade - By Laura Anne Gilman Page 0,19

communication open, but nobody ever took formal notice of anything; he was right.

“And it’s not like the stiff’s in any rush. So I say screw it. We have birthdays to celebrate, anyway.”

“We do?” That was news to me; we’d just celebrated Sharon’s, and I couldn’t think of anyone else... .

Pietr closed his own file, and stood up. “Someone, somewhere, is being born. That calls for a drink.”

It was tough to argue with that logic. So we didn’t.

The after-work crowds at Printer’s Devil, down by Port Authority terminal, was the usual mix of depressed-looking newspaper geeks and overly cheerful tourists who’d gotten lost off Times Square. I couldn’t remember why we kept coming here, except for the fact that it wasn’t convenient to anyone’s place, and therefore was neutral ground. Also, they made the best damn spicy empanadas north of Miami.

We’d gotten one of the high narrow tables in the back and crowded around it. With six of us, there was barely enough room for our drinks and elbows, but it beat the hell out of trying to stand in that crowd. Nick, on his second mojito, was waving his arms, retelling a story that we’d all heard three times already. “I swear, I thought the conductor was going to blow something out his ear. And Lou’s sitting there, looking at him... ”

Lou rolled her eyes, not saying anything. She was still figuring out how to fit in with us, but when you get razzed by Nick you can’t really get annoyed, because he takes it so cheerfully when the tables are turned.

But it was maybe time to step in. “Oh, come on, that one wasn’t her fault,” I said.

“Yeah, but she thought it was!”

Nick cracked up as he delivered the line, and even Lou smiled a little. He was right; that had been what made it so funny.

We were all still wound up, but it wasn’t quite so bad. Venec and Stosser had meant to make us efficient when they molded the pack, but it had also created a sort of safety zone. We knew the kind of shit we’d seen; we didn’t have to talk about it, to explain why we needed distraction.

“Don’t turn around, you’ve got an admirer,” Pietr said, leaning across the narrow table to shout in... my ear? Nifty’s? I couldn’t tell. So, of course, we both looked.

Speaking of distraction. Contrary to some people’s wet dream of bisexuality, I didn’t drool over everything that breathed. Pietr, yes. Venec, yes, even without the Merge. Sharon had piqued my interest briefly, but Nick, Nifty, and Stosser weren’t my type either physically or emotionally. This woman, on the other hand... .

She looked right back at me, and smiled, the kind of smile I recognized: Hi, it said. Will you smile back at me?

So I did. She was a redhead, the kind of shaggy strawberry that only comes naturally or with a lot of money, and her eyes were wide-set and light-colored, and she had a body that probably wouldn’t raise the pulse of any red-blooded American male, unless he recognized the lean and agile muscles flexing as she walked. Toward me. There was a god, and she was gracious.

“Once again, Bonnie scores, and the rest of us strike out,” I heard Nifty mutter, and I spared him a consoling pat on the hand. “You do all right for yourself, guy. But this one seems to be more about the girl parts.”

“I’m allll about the girl parts,” Nick said in a singsong falsetto, picking up the tail end of our conversation. I wasn’t looking at him, but from the solid whap-noise, I was guessing that someone – probably Sharon – had just slapped him upside the head to shut him up before my visitor made it to our table.

“Hi.” She had an ordinary but pleasant voice, blandly Northeast, and her smile was even nicer up close.

“Hi. I’m Bonnie.” I slid off my chair to move away from my usually-but-not-always-discreet coworkers, and tilted my head to better look at my new friend. She was taller than me, and her eyes were definitely hazel-green and very pretty.

“Joan.” She gave me her hand, and it was smooth and soft and strong, and...

I didn’t feel anything. Not even the shiver of anticipation that usually came when someone gave me that kind of once-over.

Oh, damn it. Just, damn it.

It wasn’t that I was in a guy-phase, either. I’d gotten hit on last week by a very nice example of my type, slightly scruffy and broad-shouldered,