From: Lester <maxim@netcom.com>
Date: Sat, 18 Oct 1997 19:55:38 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: The Logo Fyles #6
Message-id: <Pine.3.89.9710181917.A24849-0100000@netcom9>
He needed to find the ready for nacket and coffee, as well as for the subway, unless he intended to walk from Soho to Zimmer's. The CIAOS office was through a door marked "Faine Claims Adjusters" in the back of the 96th Street epicier. It had been months since he'd had to go there.
Most days, getting around town cuffo was not a problem. He would flash a forged credendum at the token seller and step through the gate. Today, he decided, was not the day to risk it.
He got out of bed. Fossicking through the wadded up shalwars on the floor of his closet turned up a brace of rivelled twenties. He kissed the bills. "Come on boyos, let's go frappe les trottoirs."
He got to Zimmer's exactly at three. Zeriba gave him a knowing look, said "Hi," in that insinuating voice. Brond came around behind her, feigning fascination with her ornate desk. "Is this a genuine vargueno?" Their shoulders were touching.
She poked him away with an elbow. "Feeling nostalgic?"
Before he could answer, the big door opened. Skudler stared disapprovingly. His feldgrau eyes, thought Brond, were the exact color of a nazi air cadet's uniform.
Brond stared back at him. It was Skudler who broke the impasse. "Whenever you're ready, Brond," he said, his voice ashake with repriefe.