She walked to the window and opened it, breathing in Market Street, breathing out cops. No green Olds parked in front, just a throng headed up Kearny for the Rice Bowl Party.Crowds poured around Lotta’s Fountain, brushing fingers on the ornate metal work, one or two giving the bronze an affectionate pat. In a rare gush of sentiment, Miranda’s father once told her she’d taken her first drink of water from it. Then he proceeded to quote Shakespeare and take another shot of brandy. Not his first.She shut the window hard, displacing a morgue of dead flies. Sank into the chair behind the desk and pulled the bloody bandage out of her bra. The marijuana cigarettes were still intact, and she poked at them with a pencil, smelling them, then sealed them in an envelope. The bandage she set aside, along with the package from Mike Chen.She was reaching for the phone when the receiver jangled, and she jumped, letting it ring three or four times. Grabbed the receiver and held it to her ear in a single motion of decision.“Answer your damn phone, Miranda.
