“I don’t want this hassle,” Andre Giannone said.

“I understand. We’re already taking steps. We’re getting information, we’re getting help. We’ll have more in a bit, and we’ll fill you in.”

“What am I supposed to do when they call?”

“Hang up. Say whatever you said. Tell them you have no space. Do whatever you have to, but don’t rent to them. And don’t show up at the bar. Call me.”

“I wanted to get you sooner than that.”

“Call. Now, who was it that called?”

“Something about blue and gold.”

“Goldenrod?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe.”

I felt a kind of satisfaction at the confusion. Dido was a salesman, maybe, or a face-person, but she wasn’t a marketing person. The way she’d described Auzure hadn’t been a good way to make it memorable.

“Could it have been Auzure?” Prancer asked.

“That’s it, I think.”

“Okay,” Prancer said. “I know someone I can ask for more details on what they’re doing. That’s good. Useful.”

“Who do you know?” Dido asked, as if Prancer could hear her.

Prancer continued talking, oblivious. “Next time, remember. That’s all you need to do. Leave it to me to decide if we need to worry.”

He laid a hand on Andre Giannone’s shoulder as he said it. It was a way to show support, and also a way to steer his conversation partner, suggesting the man walk back the way he came.

“I’ve held up my end so far,” Andre said, resisting being guided as he said it.

“And you get allowances others in the neighborhood don’t. Nobody knocks on your door. You have tenants.”

“Nobody’s knocking on my door, maybe, but I’m getting calls.”

“A call. One,” Prancer said. He walked, one hand on Andre Giannone’s shoulder, getting Andre started on his way. “And we’re taking steps to rectify the unwelcome attention. Things should calm down soon.”

“Okay,” Andre said. He looked at Prancer. “I don’t need to worry?”

“You don’t need to worry.”

Andre walked away. Prancer stood where he was, hooking thumbs in his jacket pockets, head tilted. The camera got a good angled view of his expression as he turned around. A confident smile.

A smile for the people in the window who might be looking at him, but he spoke under his breath, too quiet for even Kenzie’s camera to pick up.

“Can you get that for us?” Tristan asked.

“Yep!”

It took a short bit, and Prancer didn’t re-enter the bar, instead walking over to the building across the street, where his ‘office’ apparently was.

“What the hell is going on?” Prancer’s hiss came through the speakers.

“We’re going on,” Chris said.

“Thank you for the help, Dido,” Tristan said.