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just looked at me with an interested and inquiring expression. Timothy started washing up, whistling nonchalantly.
    “And what do you do with the money?” I asked. “Distribute it to widows and orphans?”
    “Operating expenses. Upkeep for enforcement activities isn’t cheap, after all. I know you think I’m made of money, but I’m not.”
    I didn’t think; I knew. Still, he had a point.
    “Let me think about it. I haven’t decided yet,” I said again, but of course I already had.
    If nothing else, I was getting curious about the situation. Victor continued to look at me with polite expectation. I gave up. “Goddamn it. You win.” Victor leaned back in his chair, satisfied.
    “That’s settled, then. But give it another day, just to make it look like you’ve really given it some thought before you call her. We don’t want to have her wondering what might have prompted your change of heart.”
    “We can do better than that,” Eli said. “How about if we stage a public disagreement between you and Mason, nothing serious, just some angry words. She’s had her eye on Mason; it’s bound to get back to her. That way, a change of heart on his part won’t seem so unlikely; Mason will obviously be needing a new source of income. But be cautious. Her reputation for astute calculation is not unwarranted, and I don’t think she’d take it well if she found out you weren’t being on the up-and-up with her. You’ll need to make your fight believable.”
    Victor and I looked at each other and both smiled at the same time, which was a rarity. Eli saw that and sighed.
    “Okay, I see that won’t be a problem. Just don’t get carried away, all right?”
     
    WE NEEDED TO FIND A PLACE WHERE OUR LITTLE tiff would be noted, and there aren’t that many places where practitioners hang out. Mostly we’re a solitary bunch when you come right down to it. But there is one bar over in Polk Gulch where you can usually find a practitioner or two. Most of the clientele are just normal citizens looking for a pleasant neighborhood bar, but the owner, Bill Gavagan, knew a lot of practitioners and always made them particularly welcome. And the occasional Ifrit, like Lou, was always treated as an honored guest, as well they should be.
    Both of Bill’s parents had been practitioners, which was why he knew so many of them. He had only the faintest trace of talent himself, if any, which was unusual. Talent sometimes appears in a family where there never has been any before, but the reverse is seldom the case. Just like two short people occasionally have a tall child, but two tall people seldom have a short child.
    But Bill didn’t really care about his lack of talent, or if he did, he’d come to terms with it long ago. He was a friendly and gregarious soul, born to run a drinking establishment. Which, naturally, he called Gavagan’s Bar—a joke of sorts, but appropriate in more ways than one.
    So that was where we all found ourselves later that night. Sherwood and Timothy came along—we hadn’t all had a night out together in a while, and besides, they both wanted to see the show. Sherwood’s an ex—a quite-awhile-ago ex. We also both had worked for Victor in the past, and we were still occasional work partners now.
    A few years ago, on a case, my lack of ability had gotten her killed. Except it wasn’t really my fault, and she hadn’t actually been killed, but that’s another story for another day.
    Bill was behind the bar when we came in and greeted Eli with a huge smile.
    “Eli! How long has it been? Mason, Victor. And ... Sheridan, is it?”
    “Sherwood. And this is Timothy.”
    Lou hopped up onto one of the high-backed barstools that ran the length of the bar, and looked at Bill expectantly.
    “Ah, yes. Lou.”
    He reached behind him, took a cocktail wiener out of a large jar, and offered it. Lou took all of half a second to dispose of it and looked up hopefully for another.
    “Enough,” I said. “Don’t be a