My backpack was annoyingly heavy, slung over my right shoulder, so I dropped it by my feet, taking care that it didn’t land on the part of the cracked cement that was darkened by rain. The storm had quieted some, the thunder gone, but the late afternoon rain drummed on the old metal canopy like it had no intention of ending the concert. I was hoping there wouldn't be an encore, and just barely managed to squelch my own urge to holler, “Freebird!” Batten stood like a meat monolith beside me, glowering at the shrubbery, whose leaves were dancing in the deluge. “Well,” I agreed. “That shit ain’t right.” “Ya think?” It was ironic that my very first official client was former FBI Special Agent Mark “Kill-Notch” Batten, star of many of my self-directed Marnie After Dark fantasies, and the man who doubted my entrepreneurial skills more than anyone else. He flipped the bird passionately, first at me and then at the source of his distress, a honeysuckle plant currently invading his postcard-sized yard, as if his hand gestures actually had any magic outside the bedroom or the gun range.
