Even with the floodlights off, it's getting warm in my dry suit with all my body heat being trapped. I'm looking forward to getting back into the cold water.
Winn has the gray rectangular lockbox pulled from the wall and set on the floor ready for the electronic-tumbler.
The lockbox is an older generation lock, without any biometric keying—our electronic-tumbler is overkill for it. But that's the risk Valle took in choosing an older, abandoned bank under a hundred feet of salt water.
I slip the long, thin wire into the keyhole and only have to wait one or two seconds before a light on the gray casing blips green. I give the wire a twist and the lock opens.
I smile at the contents. "Well, hello there, beautiful."
Inside the lockbox is a single pinky-finger-sized silver solid-state external drive.
"Well?" Winn asks.
"Quants," I answer. The preferred untraceable digital currency of privacy advocates, currency speculators, everyday citizens, and ne'er-do-wells.
Perfect.
CHAPTER THREE
QUANTS ARE a reclamationist's (and a whole bunch of other nefarious types) dream. Untraceable, easily laundered, and stable in value are all qualities to be admired in the currency.
My favorite quality? That you can fit a very large fortune on a pinky-finger-sized solid-state external drive that fits ever so neatly into a watertight bag placed in Winn's backpack. That's just damn convenient, thank you very much.
The return trip is quick and smooth. At least it feels that way, since I can't stop grinning and cracking jokes with Puo, both of us trying to see how hard we can make Winn blush.
Winn and I are out of the water and currently in the underground city climbing out of our dry suits. Our staging area is near a sewer entrance under the basement of Skyline Hotel, a boutique hotel near Seattle University on the Center Island.
I slide my legs out of the dry suit, remove it completely and set it aside to drain some before packing it away. In the process I catch a peek of Winn. He's facing away from me and pulling off a sweat-soaked white undershirt, his back muscles defined in a nice "V" shape.
We are alone here, I think. But no.
I towel off my straight, shoulder-length black hair and peek back at him— No. I shake my head. No, not right now.
The hotel is an ideal entry/exit point as there are always students moving around the campus at all manner of odd hours, and two people carrying luggage with them won't look the least bit out of place. But we don't want to draw any unwanted attention to ourselves. We want to be seen without being noticed, forgettable.
The staging area underneath the hotel smells musty from the dust of centuries layered over every surface and mingled in with the distinct scent of fire-glazed brick that surrounds the space. The gray concrete floor is rough under my bare feet, my toes faintly wet. A hot shower would be wonderful.
I empty out Winn's backpack of goodies and shove some of the smaller items into my empty helmet to pack away. I catch another glimpse of Winn. He's drying himself off with a light-blue cotton towel. He's not wearing anything else—and then I think: there are other ways to warm up.
"Puo," I say toward the comm-link on the ground that has an open channel back to him since we're out of the water and on land. "We're going to be a little late." I don't take my eyes off of Winn.
"Isa, no," Puo says. "I know that voice, you can't—"
I click the comm-link off on my way over to Winn.
What's life without a little risk, right?
* * *
Two hours later, with the solid-state external drive safely tucked away, Winn, Puo and I are at the Owl Hive, a nighttime lounge on the roof of Platt Tower on the Center Island.
The Owl Hive has become something of a regular hangout spot for us. It's on 8th Avenue, fifty-seven stories up and overlooking Elliott Bay. It's a great spot to watch the bay traffic weave around the tombs of empty skyscrapers sticking up from the water, which is exactly what attracted us to it.
There are other, much taller buildings in the area, but I like being closer to the water, and from the northwest corner (our regular spot) you can see through the gap between several buildings in the water to the area above Pacific View Bank on Western.
The lounge is nestled in with a rooftop arboretum. Soft, plush green grass carpets the wide center rooftop with cobblestone-paved walkways through the middle. Mature oak and poplar trees dot the space with soft summer string lights between them. Chic rectangular wooden tables with cushioned wicker chairs that sit four to six are scattered on the grass and under the trees.
We sit on the edge in the northwest corner at a smaller, circular table, but with thicker, more comfortable, brown leather chairs. I'm in a ivy lace halter-top and there's a cool, soft August nighttime breeze that brushes over my bare arms and shoulders. Scents of moist earth and sudsy hops from the nearly empty three-pint glasses in front of us carry on the wind. And I can smell the warm scent of Winn's cologne; there's a woody spice to it that I'm quickly coming to associate with contentment, a sense of ease.
The night is clear out over the bay to the west with the skylanes confined to the east. The moon is absent tonight, but the stars sparkle in the distance over the bay, mingling with the glow of the string lights, a halo of diamonds blanketing us. On full-moon nights, there’s just enough light over the bay to give the illusion of a silver ocean with long, solemn shadows from dead buildings jutting up out of the lonely sea.
And on top of all that, the beer is good. Really good, judging by how quickly that first one went down and the way I'm already waxing poetic.
Right on cue, our server, a brunette with a pixie cut, in a tight black leather skirt that you wouldn't want to unintentionally bend over in and white, closed-toe heels, clicks over. "Another round?" She stacks up the pint glasses with faint clinks and smiles at Puo and Winn.
I'd give her a "B" minus on the smile and leaning over the table with her cleavage. Nice technique, but Winn is mine. I haven't exactly pissed on him in public, but it's clear he's with me. I can tell she knows it so she doesn't linger there. And Puo doesn't go for girls. Which she apparently can't tell—hence the "B" minus.
"Yeah," I say to another round.
"The German Blond," she says pointing to me, "The Irish Red—" She points to Winn. "And a low-carb, half-calorie beer, for you." She turns on her greatest smile at Puo.
"Yes, please," Puo says, smiling back, flirting with her.
The server clicks off to put in our order.
"Why are you encouraging her?" I ask.
Puo lifts up his right forefinger. "One. Better service. Two—" He lifts up middle finger to make a peace sign. "I know it annoys you."
"No," I say. "What annoys me is you drinking that carbonated water the color of piss. How can you drink that crap?"
Puo drops his forefinger to hold up just his middle finger, and says smiling "One, I know it pisses you off. Two—" He doesn't lift up another finger. "—I know it really pisses you off—"
I return the gesture. "One, it doesn't piss me off. It embarrasses me. You drink like a freshman sorority girl. Two—" I also keep just the one finger up. "—At least with a freshman sorority girl we would get better service. And we wouldn't have to pay for our own drinks."
Puo leans forward with a conspiratorial grin. "We don't pay for our own drinks."
"Here, here," I say. "I'll drink to that."
The brunette server comes over with three full pint glasses. My German Blond is a Hefeweizen, a tasty wheat ale whose suds tickle the front of the tongue while a refreshing earthy taste settles on the back. Winn's Irish Red is a dark cloudy maroon with a thick head of foam—too creamy for my taste. Puo's colored piss really does look like carbonated water with a drop or two of yellow food coloring.
She sets the drinks down. "Can I get you anything else?"
I nod my head while taking a sip of my beer. "My friend here—" I motion toward Puo. "—is looking for a date."
P
uo sputters into his beer.
I continue, "Why else do you think he's watching his figure so carefully?"
"Yeah?" the server asks, turning her flirt on more. "What are you looking for?"
"A penis," I cut in.
Winn is watching the scene stoically. He's barely said anything or cracked a smile at all. What's with him tonight?
The server gives quick darting glances around the table to confirm, which Puo does with a semi-apologetic shrug. Her hips seem to deflate a little, the cracks in her persona come out. "Aren't we all, honey?" And just like that Puo goes from a potential penis with cash to spend, to just one of the girls. Now we'll be left alone more.
It's not that Puo is gay, he's more asexual than anything. But when he is interested in some company, it's with men.
The server makes another quick check to make sure we have what we need, and takes off to the next table, subtly slipping back into her persona as she walks away.
After the server leaves I turn to Winn. "What's with you tonight?"
Winn is lounged back in his chair. He cuts a nice figure in a dark brown crew shirt with cream colored pants; both are a light weave that settles onto his tall muscled frame nicely. He has just the right amount of stubble on his strong jaw, and his short curly black hair looks carelessly, meticulously groomed. But his blue eyes are distant.
"Hmm?" he asks.
I repeat the question, and start playing with the single-pearl necklace I'm wearing that Winn gave me. It's made of a thin metal chain with a large oblong natural blue pearl set in the middle. Though not the most expensive jewelry I've ever received, it is my favorite and by far the most useful.
I liked the necklace so much I went out and reappropriated one for Winn that he wears everywhere—it has a thin metal chain as well, with a small silver caduceus pendant (the medical symbol you see everywhere).
"Just thinking," he answers.
Winn was a laci not too long ago—a full-fledged law-abiding citizen. But a malpractice suit, falling into the grips of the wrong kind of criminal, and a happy encounter with me led to his change in fortunes. But he still has laci tendencies—like not living in the moment.
"It's a time to celebrate," I say. "Not be all contemplative and morose. We just pulled off the biggest job since we set up shop out here and in record time. We burned nearly all our capital setting up—we needed this. We're back on easy street again." At least until the next payment to the Citizen Maker is due for our modified citizen chips. "Enjoy it."
I keep playing with the necklace hoping to distract him.
But he misses it completely. He asks, "And then what?"
Not only was Winn a laci, he was an overachieving one—a surgeon. He never fully learned how to enjoy the comforts of leisure.
"Don't overthink it," I say. "What's next is we eat, drink, and be merry—" I drop the necklace and wink suggestively at him. "—at will, and find Puo a penis other than his own to play with. We'll worry about the other stuff later when the time comes."
Puo raises his glass of piss-colored carbonated water. "Mmm, yes. I think I rather like this plan." He looks appraisingly around the rooftop lounge.
I try to check the phase of the moon—it's not often Puo shows any interest. Must be all that low-calorie beer.
Winn sits up in his chair. His head stays focused on our table but his eyes are tracking someone past me. "Don't look now, Puo," he says, "but a penis is headed straight for you." There's no levity to the statement.
I turn to check out this potential mate for Puo, and realize Winn was being sardonic. "Shit," I say through clenched teeth.
Eli Hayes. The head of a local crew is walking over to us.
* * *
Hayes's is the best of the local crews, mostly specializing in big confidence games but pulling occasional heists.
He looks like a child star that grew up, but was forced to try to still look like a child as he aged—a stretched-out boy—except for the lines around his chestnut eyes and the gray just starting to peek into his short brown hair around his temples.
He smiles a greeting as he gets closer, his teeth underneath small and impossibly white. "May I join you?"
Even though we've never met, introductions aren't necessary on either side. All crews keep tabs on other crews—a natural parsing of the territory happens.
"Please," I say, and indicate another brown leather chair at nearby table that isn't being used.
He grabs the chair and pulls it over between Puo and I, the legs scraping against the cobblestones. "Interesting place," he observes, sitting down. "I like it."
The Owl Hive is a topside bar, meaning it's not a hangout for professionals or other criminal types—it's one of the reasons I like it. If a professional is here, then professional courtesy would dictate not acknowledging them—leaving them alone, lest they be on a job.
A courtesy Hayes did not extend.
Puo's on edge, tight. He shifts his beer to his left hand, the one closest to Hayes.
Winn is just as guarded.
"Yes," I say, "I find the air is fresher up here."
Korum's on 13th Avenue is the professional bar; it's a dank, smoky basement bar. You have to be known to get in. Most professional bars are on the ground, or basement floor—more exits available that way. But I hate it; makes me feel trapped with a bunch of scumbags.
"I see," Hayes says. "I had hoped to run into you there, to avoid this ... faux pas. But we need to talk."
A professional bar is where everything passes through. It's the nexus. If you want to talk to another professional, you either run into them there or leave word with the establishment owner to get to them. Reaching them at home is the fastest way to raise hackles and start a fight. And since I've been avoiding Korum's, I couldn't exactly get too annoyed with Hayes for showing up here.
"Not interested," I say. He's either going to ask to work together on something, or give some fluff warning about staying out of his territory—which I'm not interested in since I don't like to shit where I eat, and if I were going to eat there, a warning from little manboy here isn't going to stop me.
Hayes bobs his head. "Well, it's lucrative if you're interested. I imagine those baubles in your hands didn't come cheap—"
Citizen chips. And no, the modified ones with hacked CitIDs aren't cheap. The real ones cost something else entirely. Puo and I have never had one before this. We spent a large fortune on a down payment for three modified ones and financed an even bigger debt from the Citizen Maker. It's the whole reason we just rushed this solid-state job, and we still won't have the stupid things paid off. But at least now topside bars like The Owl Hive are open to us.
My hackles raise at the mention of the modified citizen chips. Winn sits up straighter. Puo clenches his beer glass.
It's a rude, dick play to reveal that you know that information. One, it tells us he's been watching us closely, digging into our past. And two, it says that he thinks his position is strong enough for him to come out and tell us that he's been watching us.
"—If you're interested," he says, standing up. "You know where to find me."
I watch him walking away. When he's far enough away, I get up and move the chair back to the original table, surreptitiously looking it over for anything "accidentally" left behind. I do the same for the area under the table where he sat when I get back.
"Winn, Puo," I say. "I want to know everything there is to know about manboy."
"You got it," Puo says.
Winn nods absently, staring at the tabletop in thought.
"Including what this lucrative job is," I say.
There's only one reason you ever reach out to another crew to do a job, and that's if you can't do it on your own.
If Hayes thinks he needs us to do this job, he'll be back.
CHAPTER FOUR
"HEY," I SAY sleepily to Winn, "What was with you last night?"
It's midmorning judging by the bright morning sunlight filtering in through our bedroom
bay windows. I couldn't resist the charm of an antique, Queen Anne style Victorian home on Queen Anne Island, just west of the Center island. It blew the rest of our capital forcing us to rush this recent job, but it was totally worth it. That's one of the perks of being in charge—I get to buy the stuff.
What aren't perks: my too-warm body, dry mouth, and beginning doldrums of a headache from last night.
"Mmm?" Winn asks, but this time the question is because he's sleeping and just starting to wake up, not off daydreaming about being a laci.
I arch my back, stretching it out and cracking it. Damn that feels good. I think that might be the best part of waking up, next to coffee. I repeat the question to Winn.
Winn rolls over, blinks several times and rubs at his eyes. He takes his time before answering.
I know that pause in men. He's deciding if he wants to tell me the truth or not. And if not, what answer will best resemble a plausible answer to keep me from prying.
He sits up in bed, leaning his bare back against the yellow pinstriped wallpaper. There wasn't enough capital left over to properly outfit the house, so we're sleeping on a bare king-sized mattress on a standard metal bed frame with plastic storage containers as nightstands.
"I was just ... " he starts, then regroups. "Haven't you ever wondered what we're doing?"
"What we're doing?" I repeat the question in a oh-not-this-existential-crap tone. I want to ask how old Winn is (he's thirty-four, for the record; I'm twenty-six), and why can't he trade his man-panties in for a sports hovercar like most men in their midlife crises, but I restrain myself. He already looks annoyed with me.
"We live one big score to the next," Winn says. "We blow through more money than I ever thought possible, faster than I thought possible. All while hoping we don't get arrested or rubbed out. For what? How does this end for us?"
"Well," I say, "It could've ended this morning with you getting one rubbed out—"
"Isa—" he says now fully annoyed with me, swatting away my hand.
The Solid-State Shuffle (Sunken City Capers Book 1) Page 3