Julian didn’t look at the sparking brass hook first. He looked at the man holding it.
In retail, you learned to read people before they reached the counter. The guy trying to pass a bad check always wore shoes that were too nice for his coat. The kid planning to shoplift cough medicine always had sweaty palms and looked at the overhead security mirrors.
The man behind the circular wire-glass porthole had the posture of a store detective who had spent twenty years writing up teenage cashiers for five-cent register shortages.
He was in his late fifties, with slicked-back gray hair, a pencil-thin mustache, and cold, pale eyes that looked right through people. His double-breasted gray trench coat had sharp, pressed lapels that had never seen a drop of real harbor rain. The silver collar pins of the Red-Ink Notary Security Division caught the harsh fluorescent glare inside the airlock.
His knee-high dielectric boots were thick, glossy black vulcanized rubber, rated to withstand twenty thousand volts. He was standing on dry, ribbed rubber matting, completely isolated from the ground.
Julian, on the other hand, was standing in six inches of murky saltwater.
“You’re late, Vance,” the man said through the rusted intercom grill beside the door. His voice was thin and nasal, dripping with the petty authority of an assistant manager denying a refund.
