“We’re interested in doing business with you,” Simone said carefully. “I was told Mr. St. Michel was the one to talk to about exporting American antiques to Canada.”
“He’s in the john, you’ll have to talk to me.”
“Of course, it’s just that—”
“I handpicked everything in our inventory and know all our dealers,” Ms. Freth interrupted, “so don’t think I’m old and absentminded. I started this company with my husband, and I can still remember everything we’ve ever bought. I have a whole catalogue of our stuff up here,” she said, tapping the side of her head and giving Simone a hard look. Simone nodded, accepting.
Ms. Freth sat down at her desk and motioned for Simone to sit opposite her. Simone did so, her eyes scanning the room for the toilets, hoping St. Michel would show himself before she got in over her head.
“We sell to several major furnishing stores in Canada,” Simone said, “and several chains. American antiques are going to be the next big thing in Canadian interior design. Some of our stores want actual antiques to sell, but several are also looking for archetypal antiques from which to draw inspiration for products they design themselves for the virtual shops.”
“I see,” Ms. Freth said, blowing smoke out her nose. “And what furnishings, specifically, are you looking for?”
“One of our clients is most anxious for table lamps,” Simone said, “but most of the others are looking for basic furniture sets: couches, chairs, tables, and so on.”
From the back of the room came the sound of a door creaking closed and then Henry St. Michel appeared from behind a column, wiping his hands on his pants.
“Henry,” Ms. Freth said, “this is Ms…”
“Foyle,” Simone said, standing.
“She’s looking for antique American furniture.”
“Ah, good to meet you,” Henry said, stepping forward and extending his hand. It was still damp, but Simone shook it anyway, her face a mask of professional friendliness. “Has Lou been helping you?”
“She said she was told to speak to you,” Ms. Freth said, “but I talked to her anyway.”
“Ah, well, anything you would say to me you can say to Lou, here,” Henry said. “She’s my partner.”
“Right,” Simone said. With a flick of her thumb she removed the small bug from her inner sleeve and transferred it to her index finger. “Yours was just the name I was given,” she said, gesturing at Henry, her palm up. “I didn’t mean to cause any offense.” She closed her hands slightly, then opened them again, sending the small bug flying off her finger and landing on Henry’s jacket, where it quickly faded into the fabric. It was a good bug, fairly advanced, a clear circle that faded into fabric and then transferred sound up to fifty miles away for forty-eight hours, after which time it would dissolve.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Henry said, looking at Ms. Freth.
“No, you didn’t,” Ms. Freth said. “Now tell me more about what you’re looking for. What period antique, exactly?”
“Oh,” Simone said, “the 2090s, or thereabouts.”
“The nineties?” Ms. Freth said. “There’s a style I was hoping wouldn’t come back.” Simone smiled politely. “Everyone thought it was so cute, wearing rain boots all the time. My husband had a pair—bright blue with ducks all over them. Ridiculous.”
“Does he still have them?” Simone asked politely.
“He’s dead.” A thin curtain of smoke fell from her lips as she said it.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a few years. But thank you. Still don’t know why anyone would want to bring the nineties back. Rubber boots and umbrellas. Chairs made to look like rising waves. It would just be depressing now.” She sighed, as if the idea bored her. “Give us your information, and we’ll send you what we have on hand, and if you’d like, what we think we can get. Tell us what you want to look at and then we can set up a viewing.”
“That would be wonderful,” Simone said, as she took out her false IRID and touched her thumb to the thumb-scanner, releasing the information on the infrared chip into the local network. Lou glanced at the screen of her table briefly, then nodded. “Hope to hear from you soon,” Simone said standing. She gave them another cheerful look, pivoted, and walked out the door, not wanting to shake Henry’s hand again. In the elevator down, she tuned her earpiece to the frequency of the bug she had just planted.
“The nineties?” Lou Freth’s voice came in clearly. “I tell you, every time I think of retiring to Canada, they go and do something to make me want to stay right here.”
“More business for us, Lou,” Henry’s voice said. “Don’t complain.”
A small tone played over the bug’s feed, indicating a message in Simone’s cloud. Simone set the earpiece to record the feed from the bug and pressed another button. A sensually inhuman voice read her new message aloud to her: “To: Simone Pierce. From: Alejandro deCostas. Subject: Buildings. Text: It was a pleasure meeting with you today, Ms. Pierce. I look forward to exploring with you. As requested, here are two buildings I would like to examine: The Broecker Building and the Hearst Tower. See you tomorrow.”
Simone pressed a button, ending the message dictation. The Broecker Building she knew; it had been one of the last built when they still thought they could re-freeze the polar caps with the Mercury ice and lower the sea level again. Some developers had built a whole bunch of buildings like it in Long Island City, hoping to make the area the new business center of the city and partially succeeding. It was an office building, so getting in would be easy. Getting past the lobby would require some finesse. The Hearst Tower sounded older. She’d have to look it up. But not now. Now she wanted a drink.
It was approaching four, and the wind had picked up, the sky gone pewter. The fog would come down soon. She would find a nearby bar where she could listen to the bug feed and wait until Henry was leaving work. Then she’d follow him again.
THE BAR IN THE Icewater Hotel was clever. The building itself was huge, built in 2045 or so with a giant atrium. Twenty-one stories up, the large hole in the middle of the building that once looked down on the lobby now looked down onto the ocean. And not very far down. It was a clever aesthetic, not unlike having a koi pond in the middle of the room, but less tranquil. The management had opened up the rest of the twenty-first floor, so there was a small desk for a concierge and a very large bar. It was decorated in old-style deco, with rusted bronze finishes and statues of angels. On one side of the bar, a holographic rendition of a singer with long pink hair in a white dress sang in low, romantic tones. Over the bar hung a large, classical-looking painting of a woman in a pink dress sitting at a loom, cutting a piece of thread with her teeth while just beyond the stone wall behind her, men tried to get her attention, holding out flowers and gifts. Simone liked the bar and stopped by whenever she was in the area. It was as good a place as any to wait and listen in on Henry and Lou. She ordered a Manhattan and drank slowly, her earpiece tuned back to the bug.
The conversations at Above Water Exports/Imports were generally pretty dull, Simone discovered over the next few hours, and peppered with inside jokes she didn’t understand. Lou seemed to forever play the part of grump, while Henry was her doting, optimistic kid brother. Simone had just begun her second Manhattan when she felt a hand on her back and spun quickly.
“Get your hands off me, you—” She looked up into familiar eyes. “Peter.” Lieutenant Peter Weiss smiled at her.
“Hey soldier,” he said. “No offense meant, just saying hi.” He was handsome, of course, but it was his voice that always sparked the kindling. His mother was Anabel Acevedo, a lounge singer at The Blue Boat—not really famous, but New York famous—and he had her smooth intonations, her lilts and pauses like murmuring waves. His voice was as alluring as the ocean.