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

hard smile; she appeared to be enjoying herself.
    Ryan ran his hand through his hair. He looked around wordlessly. Pulling a moneyclipped thickness from his pocket, he seemed to ask a question and she seemed to answer. He seemed to be unhappy with the answer. He said one more thing as he peeled some bills, folded them over, and handed them to her. He stood and walked away without looking back.
    Hmm, I thought. Not quite what I expected.
    I picked up my Perrier and headed over.
    Donna’s was more crowded now, a crush of young, leggy, beautiful bodies. The music had changed again, to the weird, dreamy harmoniesof a rising indie group called Saturnine. I threaded my twisty way through the room with a lot of bumps and “excuse me’s,” until I finally broke free from the tangle of people to emerge into the area where Andi Shechter sat. The two chairs across the low coffee table from her were occupied, but the one beside her was still empty. I settled myself gingerly in it and smiled tentatively at her.
    “Hi,” I said. “Is this okay?”
    She looked at me, surprised, as though she hadn’t noticed me sitting down. She shrugged.
    “Aren’t you Andi Shechter?” I asked.
    Her stare was blank, a little unfocused. She said, “Yeah.”
    “I’ve seen your work. I really like it,” I said, hoping that was how models talked to each other.
    She smiled, a different, surprised little smile, one that softened her face. The softness made her look startlingly young. Maybe that was why it faded so fast, so she could go back to looking like a grownup. “Thanks,” she murmured.
    “I’m Mishika,” I said. “I’m new.”
    Her smile came back, but this time it wasn’t soft. It was the hard-edged one she’d smiled at John. She pulled on her cigarette. “I know.”
    “Everybody seems to,” I sighed. “It’s my clothes, right? And my haircut?”
    “Don’t worry, honey, you’ll catch on.” She spoke idly, not particularly interested in me or my problems.
    “That man you were talking to,” I asked tentatively, “was that John Ryan? Who works with Genna Jing?”
    She looked directly at me for the first time. “Yeah. That was him. Why?”
    “I’d love to work for her,” I said wistfully. “I’d love to wear her stuff. Do you know if they have all their girls for their show already?”
    Andi Shechter stared for a moment, then laughed. “Go for it, honey. Get your agent to call. Maybe you’ll get a gig. John’s into Oriental girls these days.”
    I was trying to decide how model-wannabe Mishika Yamamoto would answer that when another thin pale woman in a cropped top and tight pants—she must not be new—burst through the crowdabruptly. It was Francie, I realized, formerly of the bar stool next to mine. She threw a quick, dismissive glance at me, then crouched beside Andi Shechter’s chair. She asked Andi urgently, “Did you hear what happened?”
    The pounding of the music and the loud edginess of the talk and laughter around us made her have to almost shout, but this was obviously the start of a private conversation. So Mishika drank her Perrier, shifted politely in her seat to face away from them, let her eyes search the room, and listened very hard.
    “What do you mean?” Andi almost-shouted back.
    “What happened,” Francie repeated. “Did you hear? Wayne’s dead.”
    “
What?
”
    I chanced a quick look.
    Andi’s eyes were wide. She leaned in closer. “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “Shot,” Francie said. “This afternoon.”
    “Oh, shit!” Andi said. “Oh,
shit!
” She took a long drag on her cigarette, then stamped it out hard in the ashtray. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”
    “We have a choice?”
    Andi stared, then shook her head. “Oh, what, the Peak of Perversion? Fuck Ed, I’m not going to Ed.”
    “Where are you going to go, then?”
    “Someplace else. I’m not going to Ed.”
    “Yeah,” said Francie. “Whatever. If you think of something better, let