“Setting fire to abandoned structures is not something that I do. It’s low grade arson with little risk and there’s no money in it. At best it’s a weak act of revenge or a petty attempt at intimidation, and like I said, it just isn’t my style.” Alice’s voice came through clear on the teleconference speaker set in the middle of the long polished wood table in the conference room at the Montauk Club, its floor to ceiling glass walls overlooking Railtown and the Straight. A wall of mist and fog hid the north shore mountains from view. Bertram Thorpe, a wheezing question mark of a man, leaned toward the speaker on the table and said, “Ms... Bogotá, is it?” Looking across the table to me for confirmation. “My partner’s name is Alice, Mr Thorpe.” I said. I was sitting with my back to the window. “Right, of course, forgive me,” he said, then “Alice, the building that we are discussing is of strategic importance for one of my projects. I need it done right and, quite frankly, your reputation proceeds you.” Thorpe paused to clear his throat. “If you help us with this, ahem, reconstitution of the building at the port, then I’m sure that we can help you find what you’re looking for.” Thorpe sat back in his chair apparently confident that he’d convinced us to do this small time criminal vandalism on his behalf. “The simple answer is no, based on the reasons that I’ve already mentioned.” Alice said, her voice a cold and freshly sharpened blade made thinner by the digital speaker on the table. “The more complicated answer is that we’re not going to burn down that useless building at the port for you and you’re also going to give us the information that we’re looking for without any argument. You can just write it down on a piece of paper and give it to my colleague, right now.” Thorpe looked across at me. I tried to look inscrutable but I’ve never been very good at looking much more than punchable. “Buster, you got this?” Alice asked. “Yeah, I think we’re good,” I said as Thorpe pulled a fountain pen from his jacket pocket. Alice’s line went dead as Thorpe slid a yellow square of paper across the table. | image @dark_metropolis