Mimmeo backtracked to the noodle shop, and placed an order at the window of the stall. He spun round, a red plastic number placard and two bombers of Tiger beer in his hands, to see Sophia standing there behind him.

"About time you showed up," she said, sounding about half serious.

He handed her one of the bottles, and they clanked them together.

"I know, I know," he said, trying to sound apologetic. "Had to see a man about a dog."

"Hope it was worth it. Now I only have about twenty minutes before I need to jet."

He shrugged, taking a tug from his bottle.

"Guess, we'll see."

"You have your meeting yet?" she asked.

"Yeah. That's where I was coming from when I called."

After a tepid protest, she took the lit cigarette Mimmeo was dangling toward her.

"And?"

"How'd it go?" he asked on her behalf.

She raised her eyebrows and leaned her forehead close to his, tucking the cigarette between his lips.

"I killed it," he answered, taking a drag. "I mean, they gave me another raise."

"You're kidding me."

"No. I'm not."

"How the hell'd that happen?"

"What can I say? I'm just that good, Soph," he said, pretending at vainglory.

"Seriously, though— the way you made it sound the other day, I was a little worried they were onto you."

"I managed to smooth things over," he said, right as their number was called.

Mimmeo stepped away to collect their food. He set the spring rolls on a nearby ledge, along with their phở, and a third bottle of beer he'd gotten for them to share.

"Oh!" he said, standing up again, "nước chấm..."

Returning with the sauce, he positioned himself beside Sophia, who took one of the rolls in her hand, before restarting the conversation.

"You were saying?"

"Right," Mim said. "Between returning the paintings I took from Salazar, and Anton blaming Cyberpix for having a mole problem — a brilliant bit of improv on his part, I have to say — I came off as the golden boy."

"They mention Veronica? Like you thought they would?"

"They did," he said, holding a clump of noodles beneath his nose with a set of chopsticks. "They definitely did."

"And?"

"And it probably helped me out more than anything, to be honest. I told 'em I'd do it, and then — almost immediately after — Sybil told everyone she had someone else in mind for the episode, and that Veronica'd have to wait."

"Seriously?" Sophia asked, finishing off her first beer, and moving onto the next. "Who?"

"Who do you think?"

"Fuck," she said, just catching a stream of soup from dribbling down her chin on a paper napkin. "How? Why?"

"Evidently they spent last night hacking into the Cyberpix servers. Fucked with the logo, the menu, removed a whole shitload of titles. Even left a calling card for 'em to find."

"She— they've always had a bit of a brash streak. Not to say it's a bad thing, but it can make things messy. Anyway," she said, leaning in, "what do you think you're gonna to do about it?"

"Well," he said, "when I heard what happened, I was really hoping all they had was the alias. But, after the meeting, Sybil kept me back. Explained to me who Marian was. Even gave me a last known address."

"For real?"

"Nail her to the fuckin' wall," he said, lifting his hands in mock seriousness. "Her exact words, as you mentioned."

"Shit. Yeah. And when're you supposed to go?"

"Tonight. I'm s'posed to go tonight. Thinking I might be able to push it a day, but—" he swallowed, "that's a big if. Probably best to assume it's happening tonight. Either way, I think we should meet up with them sooner, rather than later."

"Agreed," Sophia said, downing a mouthful of Tiger. "See what I can do."

"Cheers, love."

Upon looking down at her wrist, Sophia shot to her feet.

"I gotta get back," she said, planting a soupy kiss on his cheek. "Call you later?"

"Alright, you," he said, giving her a wave, then began clearing away their litter.

***

Feeling the beginnings of a humble buzz swirling within him, he thought about going home, but decided against it. Instead, he made his way over to The Monte, where he set up shop at the bar, drinking beer like he was being paid for it. Three beers and nearly an hour of mindless browsing later, he received a message.

SOPHIA: nothing yet from kw3rk
SOPHIA: been trying all afternoon

MIMMEO: ok keep me posted?

SOPHIA: [wink emoji]

As he sat there, drinking without any end in sight, he thought about kw3rk. He thought about what Sophia'd said about them. About how they'd been fired for trying to help others, about how they'd gone out of their way to fuck with the servers, ostensibly with nothing material to gain from doing so. He thought about what Sybil'd asked him to do, about the ire in her voice, and he knew (as much as he could know anything) that he simply couldn't go through with the night's episode without first making contact. He owed them that much.

Besides, he was intrigued. Sure, he was a thief, and having never had a better route at his disposal, always had been. But, kw3rk? They'd been somebody. They'd had a six-figure job with a major. They'd been important; celebrated, even — to hear Sophia tell it. To leave all that behind on principle? Now that, Mimmeo thought, fuck— that took grit. There was no way he'd go after someone like that, someone who'd shown time and again they were here to hold the Sybils of the world to account, unless they were bloody-well in on it too. On that, he was resolved.

Still, he worried what would happen if he slept on it — if he truly pissed off Sybil, pushed her too far. He really hoped Sophia would come through for him on this one. He thought briefly about texting Reuben about the likely delay, but thought better of it. Better to beg forgiveness, after all...

He ordered his fourth beer, and just as it was being delivered to him, he heard a chime, the kind that meant he had a new Lexmail message.

Dear "Mr. Thursby", it began, and his heart sank like a stone.

Thank you for your kind message. Must say I'm intrigued. When do we meet?

Obligingly Yours,

V.S.

Relieved at the tone of her note, he wrote her back without delay.

Dear Ms. Smythe,

Your reply is most welcome, let me tell you — and for that, I thank you kindly. I wonder... are you available later this evening? I'd be pleased to meet you at your convenience — only name the place and time, and most assuredly I'll be there.

And he signed off, this time acknowledging his use of an alias.

Faithfully Yours,

"Mr. Thursby"

Her response came less than a minute later. As expected, it was an invitation. She asked him to drinks later that evening at her home in Sebastopol, and though her message had been cordial enough, she had been certain to mention in it that she wouldn't be alone. Fair enough, he supposed. Moreover, he figured that sorted it. Sybil's vendetta against kw3rk would just have to wait a day.

***

He left The Monte after paying his tab, and as he headed back on foot toward his apartment to prepare for the evening, it occurred to him that perhaps he ought to stop off to buy a gift for his host. He thought of bringing a bottle of wine, or maybe a fancy cordial of some sort, but decided that somehow felt both boring and for some reason inappropriate all at once. He thought of flowers, but that, too, he thought, seemed to him less than propitious, and considering the circumstances, might appear a little untoward, if not overtly romantic.

Mimmeo had continued to ponder the issue as he climbed his way through Japantown, and he struggled with the delicate task of selecting a gift for a woman he hardly knew — one, well accustomed to flattery and to unwanted advances — one, who had every reason to be wary of him, and of anything he might do which could be perceived as ingratiating, or as an attempt at trickery. He felt deep down that the task was too arduous, and had just about given up altogether, when he passed by a storefront on Post with broad, glass picture windows. It was one he'd passed a thousand and one times before, without ever having paid it much attention.

Immediately upon venturing into the little shop, Mimmeo was confronted by the heady aroma of damp earth and moss. Surrounded on all sides by shelves, stacked floor to ceiling, packed with hundreds and hundreds of miniature versions of trees, he took a few steps further inside, and began looking round for the shopkeeper. He continued along slowly, peering through gaps in the foliage, and though he could hear someone humming an idle melody, and also the faint scuff-scuffing of feet on the worn hardwood floor, he couldn't quite make out where they were coming from.

"Hello?" he shouted tentatively, doing his best to sound polite.

There was no answer, but he could hear the sound of short, dragging footsteps, coming slowly toward him.

"Hello?" he tried again.

A raspy, old voice found its way to his ears, creeping through the dense thicket of potted plants, and he heard it say to him, "You want bonsai?"

All but certain he was the only customer in the place, Mimmeo spun about, searching hectically for its source. Spreading the tiny boughs with his hands, he ducked and craned his neck, peering between the gaps he made 'til he felt a gentle tug on the sleeve of his jacket, and after fifteen minutes of insistent but good-natured prodding from an old Japanese woman, he left the dusty shop seven hundred dollars lighter, with a tree that, all told, was no bigger than his forearm.

By the time he found his way onto Fillmore, it had begun to rain. Cradling the heavy rectangular planter in his arms, Mimmeo tucked the tree behind his jacket, and hurried home. Once inside, he cleared a spot on an old, upturned milk crate, which for years had doubled as something of an end table, where he laid down the little tree.

A quick look at LexMaps told him it would take just over an hour by car to reach Sebastopol, leaving him with some time to kill. He drank a beer, and ate some leftover pizza he had stashed in his fridge, then drifted off to sleep in the corner of his room, the sound of rainfall pattering on the roof above.

It was still coming down when he awoke a couple hours later; if anything, it had picked up. He checked his Malum for the time, showered, and dressed himself, before sitting down to pass the remaining time by scrolling through his newsfeed, which was still squarely centered around West Pierce's recent passing. Apparently, his widow was now claiming to know for certain that her husband had been murdered, and moreover, that she was fairly certain she knew who'd done it.

When the time came, he called for a car, and made his way downstairs, where he smoked a cigarette, while he waited beneath the bodega's awning for it to arrive. A moment later, a black sedan pulled up alongside him.

"Shit," he said aloud to himself, kicking his cigarette into the street, before giving the driver the one-minute finger, and dashing back inside the building.

He tore up the stairs, and bolted past the unlocked door leading into his apartment. He snatched up the bonsai, and about tripped over his own feet as he went careening back down the narrow staircase.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said to the driver, struggling to regain his breath.

"You Mimmeo?"

"Yeah," he answered, sliding the tree to the seat beside his own.

The driver crept away from the kerb, watching Mimmeo in the rearview, who was busy buckling the plant into place with a seatbelt. After that, he buckled himself in, looking up just in time to see the look of judgement stretched across the drivers' face.

"It's a gift," he said of the tree. "Lady who sold it to me said it's nearly as old as she is, so—" he stopped himself, realizing the way he must have sounded.

The driver, in a show of magnanimity, which was becoming increasingly uncommon in his profession, deftly shifted the conversation to the weather.

"How 'bout all this, huh?" he said, gesturing outside the windshield with an upturned palm.

"Yeah," Mim replied, "Doesn't get like this around here very often, does it? Definitely feels like heavy rains are getting rarer and rarer."

"Been a weird week all the way round, I think," the driver volunteered.

"Tell me about it," Mimmeo answered.

"Oh?" he asked, sounding legitimately curious, "How's that?"

"Agh. It's nothing. Just having a weird one, myself, is all."

"I hear ya," the driver said, pointing at the radio, which was tuned to a talk station, playing at a low murmur. "You been followin' this whole thing with the guy? With the what's it called? The DA— uh, West Pierce?"

"A little," he said, careful not to sound too interested, without knowing why exactly.

"It's crazy," the driver went on. "I've been listening the last few days, and I gotta say, I don't think the guy did it. I really don't. I don't think he killed himself."

"So, if he didn't do it, who do you think did?"

"No idea," he said, turning left onto Lombard. "Someone big, though. Someone important, I guess. Anyway, I think someone needed him gone. But, who? That I don't know."

Mimmeo let the conversation peter out as they crossed The Bridge, and after that, he spent a fair bit of the ride just looking out the window, watching the storm, keeping quiet until they were already well past Petaluma.

"You gonna be able to pick up another fare this far north?" he asked the driver. "I only just realized how out of the way we are."

His words jarred the driver from his daze, who turned the quiet hum of the radio down even lower before answering.

"What's that?"

"You gonna be able to find someone going back the other way?"

"At this hour? No way," he said. "I live just outside Santa Rosa, though— so, this sorta works out for me, actually."

Mimmeo was glad he hadn't ruined the guy's night, but he suddenly wondered how he'd be getting home after his meeting.

The driver pulled off the main road, taking them onto a gravel trail that cut a winding course through the hills. After a couple miles of traversing through the darkness, they at last pulled up to a large wooden gate, beside which sat a speaker, embedded within a metal box. It must have been on a motion sensor, for before either of them could press the call button, the gate swung open, and was immediately followed by a woman's voice, telling them they could pull up in front of the house.

Watching through the open window of the sedan, Mimmeo wished he could take in the view of the area, however, through the rain it was difficult to see much of anything beyond the milky, orange glow put off by a row of antique gas lamps that gently lit the way along the curved driveway.

They were soon parked beneath a high portico, just outside the main entrance. Cobbled together over the years, the stone-clad building was a farmhouse in the California style — large without being ostentatious, manorial without being grand, more utilitarian than beautiful.

Thanking the driver for the ride, Mimmeo left the car. With the large planter cradled in his arms, he was promptly greeted by a woman of about thirty, dressed in an ivory-coloured satin blouse, beneath a crisp, gabardine business suit.

"You must be Mr. Thursby," he heard her say, as she invited him inside with a graceful wave of her hand. "Welcome to Smythe House."

***