Yeah, the short story collection probably needs a Tom Vargas story anyway.
The dame sat down like she owned the table. And from the look I was getting of her earrings, she might have. It never fails: a noble might dress up in jerkins and jeans to have some rough fun, but they’ll be damned it they wear costume jewelry. It’s a rookie mistake. Sometimes it’s the last one they ever make, too, depending on how rough the fun was.
This one didn’t look that clueless, though. She didn’t look clueless at all as she took out a cigarette and waited for me to light it. As I did, she said, “I’m being followed, Shamus.”
I shook my head as I snapped a smoke out of my own pack and flicked the lighter again. “You youngsters. Always rushing the story.”
“Flattery is nice, Shamus Vargas.” my new companion said, “but we both know you’re about my age.”“Ah,” I said. “You’re a high noble, then.”
“Why?” The noblewoman sounded actually curious that I had pegged her so fast.
“You have to be that high up to not give a damn how old people think you are. How many, how soon?”
The sudden subject change didn’t phase her. “Three, at least.” She thought about it. “Maybe five minutes. They’re definitely going to come, though.”