Conversation lulls as they pull off 65, and at the exit there’s a man with a sign. He doesn’t even bother to check out their car. They keep their eyes straight forward; Larch signals left.
“See, that’s where the minimum wage can actually hurt people,” mutters Gina.
“Oh please,” retorts Larch. “That’s about as widely obeyed as the speed limit. I wonder if the immigrant walkout guys, lobbyists like that, if they consider food or cash under the table–not that he was getting either–”
Judd just fidgets. The WILL WORK FOR BANDWIDTH on his shirt feels heavy, hot and flat.
Chicago shows up at Grand’s, triumphant, smelling like rye.
“Nobody takes precautions,” she enunciates, lying back with her feet in the pool. “Nobody changes the factory password. Nobody locks both drawers in a desk.”
“Nobody expects a fifteen-year-old to be snapping pictures,” says Grand, amused, “through the glory hole in the storage closet.”
“Will now.” Chicago shrugs, wiggling her shoulders against the warm concrete. “Tooo laaate.”
“Tell me which of your victims is which someday,” says Grand, lighting a roach in its clip. He inhales, then proffers it.
“No way,” says Chicago, standing, swaying. “That shit’s bad for you.”