Blood Debt

nipped in front of him, taking the only empty spot he'd seen. While not as kamikaze as drivers in Montreal, Vancouver drivers were anything but laid back. Although he hated to do it, he ended up leaving the van in a municipal lot and only cheered up when he remembered that Henry'd be paying the bill.
    Nine steps down, more at half-ground than basement, The Community Network reception area had been painted a neutral cream and then covered in flyers, memos, messages, and posters of every description. The woman at the desk had four pencils shoved through her hair just above the elastic securing a strawberry-blonde ponytail and was taking notes with a fifth. It sounded as though she was dealing with a scheduling conflict, and her end of the phone conversation grew less polite and more emphatic as the call progressed. From what he could hear, Celluci had to admire the amount of control she managed to maintain.
    "So, bottom line, what you're saying is that the councillor won't have time for an interview until the current session is over?" Her notes disappeared behind heavy black cross-hatching. "But after the session is over, we won't need to speak with the councillor about the zoning change because it'll be over, too. Well, yes, I'd appreciate it if you'd get back to me." The receiver went back into its cradle with a little more force than necessary. "You sanctimonious little kiss-ass."
    Taking a deep breath, she looked up, smiled broadly at Celluci, and said, "I don't suppose you'd consider forgetting you heard that?"
    He returned the smile with a deliberately charming one of his own.
    "Heard what?"
    "Thank you. Now then, what can we do for you?"
    "I'm here to speak to Patricia Chou." When her expression started to change, he continued quickly. "My name's Michael Celluci. I called earlier."
    "That's right, she mentioned you." Standing, she held out her hand.
    "I'm Amanda Beman. Her producer."
    She had a grip that reminded him of Yield's—Vicki's before she gained the unwelcome ability to break bones. "Do producers usually work reception?"
    "Are you kidding? With our budget, I also work the board and empty the wastebaskets. Come on." Pencils quivering, she jerked her head toward a door adorned with only two sheets of paper. Given the coverage on the surrounding walls, it was essentially bare. The upper piece read: If there's no one at the desk, please ring the bell. The sign underneath it declared, in pale green letters on a dark green background: BELL OUT OF ORDER. PLEASE KNOCK.
    "We're a lot busier later in the day," Amanda explained as she led the way along an empty corridor. "Our morning programming's all educational tapes from UBC, so we operate with a bare minimum of staff until about noon." She shot him a wry glance. "And little more after that."
    "Yet Ms. Chou was here first thing."
    "She'll be here last thing, too. Our little Patricia would like to be Geraldo Rivera when she grows up."
    "And you were here…"
    "I am always here." Stopping in front of an unmarked steel door, she raised a hand and lowered her voice. "You must have been pretty persuasive to get Patricia to talk to you at this hour, and you look like you can handle yourself, but I couldn't live with my conscience if I didn't warn you about a couple of things. First, if she invites you to call her Patricia, that's exactly what she means. Patricia, never Pat.
    Second, nothing you tell her is off the record. If she can find a use for it, she will. Third, if she can find a use for you, she'll use you as well, and, given that you're not exactly hard on the eyes, it might be smart to present a moving target." She rapped on the door and stepped aside, motioning for Celluci to enter. "Good luck."
    "I feel like I should be carrying a whip and chair," he muttered reaching for the door handle.
    "A cyanide pill might be more practical," Amanda told him cheerfully. "We need her. We don't need you. Remember, keep moving."
    As the door closed behind him, he heard her humming, "Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead," then he heard nothing at all as the heavy steel cut off all sound from the hall. So I can assume no one will be able to hear me if I scream.
    The room had originally been one large cinderblock rectangle, but bookcases had been used to divide it into two smaller work spaces, one considerably smaller than the other and windowless besides.
    Betting on what seemed like a sure thing, he walked into the larger of the two.
    The woman working at the computer terminal