Free MANDARIN PLAID (Lydia Chin/Bill Smith series) by S.J. Rozan

late?”
    “Too late?”
    “My plane, so late from Bali, I almost missed connection at Milan. Then circling your Kennedy one hour before landing! Mr. Lyan asked to meet him here at six. I am late, afraid he will be gone.”
    “No, they just got here.”
    “Oh, so lucky! Thank you so much, I will light incense for you, for your plane never to be late.” I smiled and stepped around him as he moved, scowling slightly, aside. He opened the door almost automatically. I felt him watch me for a few seconds, then turn back to the street and let the door close.
    Now I was inside Donna’s, and a smoky dark place it was, too. I thought everyone except Bill had given up smoking, but I could see I was wrong. Very thin young women stood at the bar or sat on big soft armchairs holding cigarettes in one hand and glasses of clear sparkly water in the other. Some of the men were smoking too, though not as many. The music was the Rolling Stones, loud enough to cordon off the conversation at the next table but not loud enough to pound.
    I looked around for Ryan and Andi Shechter. I thought I spotted her, but when I moved a few steps closer, it turned out to be another blonde woman in a cropped top and tight pants. I scanned the room again, and finally there they were, beyond the bar, deep in conversation beside a low table.
    Well, Lydia, I thought, I’ll bet this is one place where you can order a Perrier and no one will think you’re a wimp. So I sidled up to the bar and ordered, positioning myself on a bar stool from which I could see John Ryan and Andi Shechter but where they weren’t likely to spot me.
    The bar stool next to me had been empty when I sat down but it didn’t stay that way. Wavy dark hair, teak-wood tan, collarless white shirt buttoned to the neck, no tie, linen jacket: very au courant, totally up to the minute, and all he could think of to say was, “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
    What
I
thought of to say was,
Oh, please
, but it occurred to me that I’d be even less likely to be spotted if I were in conversation with someone than if I were moping at the bar by myself.
    I gave him an impersonal smile. “Yes, this is my first time here.”
    “Who’re you with?”
    Boy, I thought, they don’t waste time around here, do they? I shrugged.
    “Well,” he said, “if you don’t have anyone yet, I’m always looking for a new face.”
    I sipped my drink to keep from laughing out loud.
    Then he handed me a business card.
    Oh, Lydia, you really are an idiot, I told myself, as I read, “Everest Models, The Peak of Perfection.”
    “Ed Everest,” he said, offering me his hand. His handshake was limp, so I made mine that way, too. Maybe that’s how they do it in this business. “It’s a small agency, only top-quality girls. On the way up. You’re a little short,” he said, looking me over the way you would something you were about to buy, “but I handle a lot of exotics, I could probably do something with you. You have a different look, could be good. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
    “Mishika Yamamoto,” I told him.
    “Mishika,” he said, nodding approvingly. “That’s good. We’ll drop the rest. What’ve you done? Any runway?”
    I shook my head, trying hard to think of modeling jargon I could use in this ridiculous conversation.
    “Doesn’t matter,” Everest said. “I can teach you to walk. I can teach you the outfits, anything you need. You have a great head.” He reached out, traced a finger lightly through my hair from my brow to the back of my skull, lingering on the bluntness of the hair at the nape of my neck.
    “Thank you,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, shifting in my seat.
    Everest smiled and watched me move. “A great head,” he repeated. “Any tattoos?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Too bad. That’s hot these days, especially on the Oriental girls. Well, we can always do temporaries if we need them. Why don’t you bring your book by tomorrow? You have a book? Doesn’t