Smith bucked the trend and looked away, casually examining a woman pulling slots next to an overflowing ashtray. The jingle of coins momentarily overpowered the eighties music straining hidden speakers and she joylessly transferred her winnings to a plastic cup.

The men around him suddenly lost interest and he turned back to see Randi disappear into a booth tucked into a shadowed corner of the room.

“Nice place,” Smith observed, sliding in next to her. “I have an office, you know. They even gave me a window.”

She frowned disinterestedly in his minor victory but he suspected that she felt the same way he did about being there together. Despite a soul-crushing personal history and the tendency for near-death experiences to follow every time they so much as set foot in the same state, they were as close to each other as to anyone. As close as people in their profession could be.

“I guess I forgot to congratulate you on the new job,” she said. “I just did a night op with a guy who uses one. As much as I hate to admit it—and you know I do—I was impressed.”

“But you’re still not sold.”

“I’ve always felt like sticking things I don’t understand in my brain isn’t a good idea.”

“What if I told you that I understand it and that it’s safe?” he said, picking up a menu lying in the middle of the table and looking at the list of beers.

“I’d say maybe you don’t know as much as you think you know.”

Smith gave an unsurprised nod and flipped to the wine list. There was only about a two-second delay before LayerCake recognized what he was looking at and flashed dully in his peripheral vision. Curious why, he launched the icon and watched as the Wine Spectator ratings of the listed bottles appeared next to their names. How civilized.

“Are you using it now?” Randi asked.

“Yeah.”

“Could you turn it off?”

His brow furrowed for a moment and then he shrugged and shut it down. “Okay. It’s off. Why?”

Randi scooted close enough to press up against him. “Because I have something I want to show you.”

“I’m intrigued.”

She unzipped her bag and pulled that something out, setting it on the table in front of him. In the poor light it took his mind a few beats to reconcile what he was seeing.

“Jesus, Randi!” he said in a harsh whisper, twisting around reflexively to look behind him.

Murphy’s Law—the principle that seemed to rule his life—was in full effect and a bored-looking young waitress was making a beeline for them through the empty tables.

He must have looked a little panicked, because Randi put a hand on his arm. “Relax, Jon. Don’t you ever look at your calendar?”

The young woman arrived at their table jotting on a small tablet. “Can I get you—”