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    Smarties that were into the retrowave style approved; those that weren’t reacted with disgust and dismay. To them, it was the equivalent of a black man running around dressed like a lawn jockey and acting like Stepin Fetchit.  
    Kovacs just wished there was an off switch.
    Kovacs heard the click-clack of heels on pavement. He peered into the gloom. There never used to be fog, before the Blister. It made him feel like he was on a stakeout for Jack the Ripper.
    A form materialized. At first, he could only make out that she was small, around five-one. She moved with the confident strut of a professional. Then she got closer, and the blood leeched from Kovacs’ face.
    A reeb. A fucking reeb.
    Yousef hadn’t told him. Probably because he knew Kovacs would’ve nixed the gig. It went deeper than the sight of a whore who looked seventeen but could be fifty. No, what got to him were the dull eyes, the jaded patina of world-weariness from years under the fist of hard drugs. Nothing in the world was more dangerous than someone with nothing to lose.
    Drone humped over the armrest into the backseat. She slid into the car, tiny on the wide seat. She pulled the door shut.
    “You Kovacs?”
    He snorted. “You better hope, now that you’re in my car.”
    “You’re him. Yousef said you’d be a fat cop in a Desoto.”
    Drone twittered. Kovacs ground his teeth.
    “I’m Loretta,” the whore said. “So what’s the rumpus? I’m supposed to throw you a freebie or what?” She looked at Drone. “I won’t do him, though.”  
    It took Kovacs a moment to realize that she was kidding.
    “I have a message from Yousef,” he said.
    Her blithe smile faltered. Kovacs cringed inside. She looked so fucking young!
    “You didn’t frisk her,” said Drone from the back.
    The thought of touching her made his flesh crawl. “You packing, Loretta?”
    “Hell. Where would I put it?” She smiled, arching her penciled eyebrows. “But you can frisk me if you like.” She slid forward on the seat, her legs coming apart, the fringed flapper’s skirt riding up her thighs. Her rolled stockings were held fast above the knee with pretty elastic garters. There were needle tracks on the bruised flesh beneath.
    “You should lay off the hop, Loretta.”
    “And you should lay off the crullers, John Law.”
    Another snicker from Drone. Ferocity arced inside him, and quite suddenly Kovacs had reached his limit with both of them. His hand swept across the car. Loretta’s head snapped into the window with a crack. Her hair leapt against the glass, a momentary halo, then settled in a shroud over her face.
    Drone freaked. “Oh shit!”
    Loretta looked back at Kovacs, and the submission he’d hoped to see wasn’t there. Only defiance and finger-shaped redness creeping across her cheek.
    Fine. Get it over with and get the fuck out of here . “No more side tricks! You hear me, bitch?” He grabbed her, fingers sinking into the young flesh of her shoulders, and shook her back and forth. She didn’t resist, just let herself be tossed around like a broken marionette. “Any trade you tumble to, Yousef gets his piece, or I come back for a piece of you. You get me?” He threw her against the door, panting. Loretta slowly straightened the strands of hair that had fallen across her face. She smiled. There was lipstick on her front tooth.
    “Sure, John Law. I get you. I’ll be a good girl.”
    Kovacs stared at her. He’d just threatened her goddamned life. Was she that far gone?
    “I don’t think you’re taking me seriously, Loretta.”
    “Serious as a heart attack, John Law.” She leaned across the seat and rested her tiny hand on his thigh.
    “What—”
    His voice cut out uncertainly on him. Her hands drifted deeper, searching, finding. As she manipulated him through his trousers, Kovacs discovered two things that were surprising. The first was that he could respond to a reeb. But here he was, his breath getting labored, his mind clouding.
    The