Gibbs was a sexy beast, like a younger version of Rand himself, but after staying for the show with the lid, Horscht turned from stony Aryan Nazi to protective den mother. After some arguing, they agreed to take me back to Mary's to pick up my Vespa. But as we started to pull out of City Hall East's garage the colorful lights across the street gave me a better idea.

"Wait," I said. "Drop me at the Borders."

"Are you sure?" Horscht said. "It's a long way to East Atlanta."

"It's… nine fifty-five," I said. "I can take care of myself in a brightly lit commercial fortress, and call on a fare-slave to cab me back to Mary's for my Vespa. I never leave before midnight, anyway."

"But after seeing that-"

"The full moon is like, ten days away," I said, with false bravado. "I'm not worried."

"The lady can take care of herself," Gibbs said, smiling. "Anything else we can do?"

"Sure thing," I said. "Next time you give me a ride, I want to do it in cuffs."

Horscht was befuddled, but Gibbs whistled low. "Sure thing, girl."

"But if she hasn't done anything wrong-"

"Damn, Horscht, you never got a Sunday morning call?" Gibbs said, punching my raised fist gently. "I'll explain it to you later. You're all right, girl. Later."

I started sniffing around the bookstore for something on Richard Sumners. It was hopeless-I hate bookstores and this one was a brightly lit warren. I ferreted around their computer kiosk for a minute, browsing for any of the books I knew: The Craft of Ink-no. Flash, Ink, Flash-out of print. Anything by Richard Sumners-yes! One, titled Richard Sumners, three in store, shelved improbably in Art amp; Architecture | Photography | Photography Monographs, where I had absolutely no luck. Finally I collared a pimply-faced teen manning the Customer Service kiosk, whose end-of-day funk brightened considerably as soon as he saw my breasts.