me, and I kept my tongue still, knowing that I'd cut too close to the bone. Natalie and I have a confused history that includes things like her dating my best friend, that friend dying, her blaming me for his death, and, eventually, the two of us making up to such an extent we ended up sleeping with one another off and on for almost a year. That the friendship has survived such things is a testament to its quality and our stubbornness.
Even knowing that, though, the crack about Sentinel was probably a cheap shot. Sentinel Guards was the biggest security firm in Manhattan, run by Natalie's father, Elliot Trent. Our firm -- KTMH Security -- was founded, in part, due to a falling-out between Natalie and Dear Old Dad, and she and I liked to think of ourselves as an alternative to the old-school protection firms that Sentinel personified. That was still, in my opinion, a worthy goal, and one that I knew Natalie shared.
The problem was that personal protection is an intimate community. Most work comes from referrals, either via former, satisfied, clients or from other agencies. Since we were a new firm we didn't have any former clients, and the rumor was that Elliot Trent had pretty much blacklisted us from the start, so no firms, from Sentinel on down, were giving us referrals.
I used my elbow to prop myself up and looked at Natalie, who had now turned her scowl to the window that looked out onto Dale's backyard. Outside, a light sprinkling of snow was twirling down onto the lawn. Dale, in the other chair, was looking at me like a disapproving parent. I've actually known Dale longer than I've known Natalie -- he and I were in the Army together on a couple of the same details. He is, without a doubt, the nicest person I know, genuinely kind.
As a result, his disapproving look is pretty darn devastating.
"You know what I mean," I said to Natalie.
"I don't appreciate being compared to my father."
"That's not what I was doing, Nat."
She looked back at me, and her green eyes lost their focus briefly in their contemplation. Natalie is just shy of my age, tall and fine-boned, with red hair that she'd recently had cut into a bob. The new haircut showed off her facial features, the line of her neck and jaw. While the four of us in KTMH -- Natalie Trent, Dale Matsui, Corry Herrera, and I -- are equals, there is a hierarchy when we're at work, and Natalie is my strong second-in-command. She's as good as I am at the job, if not better.
"We're living on credit right now, you are aware of that, aren't you?" she asked.
"Painfully aware," I said.
"And you understand that our credit is almost gone?"
"Yes," I said.
"So you tell me, Atticus, what are our options? Keep waiting, hoping that the phone is going to ring? Or do we do something proactive, do we take out some ads and see where that gets us?"
"The question may be moot," Dale said. "We may not have enough money to advertise, at least, to advertise anywhere that'll do us some good. We need a corporate account."
"I am not going to just wait for business to come to us," Natalie said. "We need to
do
something."
"I agree," I said.
"What, then?"
"I have no idea."
She was ratcheting up her glare when the phone rang. Dale moved to answer it, and Natalie let the glare go, went back to frowning at the backyard.
"It's for you," Dale said, holding out the phone.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"Sergeant Robert Moore. Of the Two-Two SAS. You remember him?"
I nearly tripped over the coffee table going for the phone. "Robert?"
"Atticus, how've you been, mate?" The connection was good, and I couldn't tell if Moore was calling from England or across the street. "World treating you just?"
"I've got complaints, but you don't want to hear them," I said. "What's up?"
"This a bad time? I can ring you later, you like."
"No, now's fine."
"Called your apartment first, got this number off the machine. I've left the Regiment, didn't know if you'd heard."
"News to me."
Moore laughed in my ear.
Even knowing that, though, the crack about Sentinel was probably a cheap shot. Sentinel Guards was the biggest security firm in Manhattan, run by Natalie's father, Elliot Trent. Our firm -- KTMH Security -- was founded, in part, due to a falling-out between Natalie and Dear Old Dad, and she and I liked to think of ourselves as an alternative to the old-school protection firms that Sentinel personified. That was still, in my opinion, a worthy goal, and one that I knew Natalie shared.
The problem was that personal protection is an intimate community. Most work comes from referrals, either via former, satisfied, clients or from other agencies. Since we were a new firm we didn't have any former clients, and the rumor was that Elliot Trent had pretty much blacklisted us from the start, so no firms, from Sentinel on down, were giving us referrals.
I used my elbow to prop myself up and looked at Natalie, who had now turned her scowl to the window that looked out onto Dale's backyard. Outside, a light sprinkling of snow was twirling down onto the lawn. Dale, in the other chair, was looking at me like a disapproving parent. I've actually known Dale longer than I've known Natalie -- he and I were in the Army together on a couple of the same details. He is, without a doubt, the nicest person I know, genuinely kind.
As a result, his disapproving look is pretty darn devastating.
"You know what I mean," I said to Natalie.
"I don't appreciate being compared to my father."
"That's not what I was doing, Nat."
She looked back at me, and her green eyes lost their focus briefly in their contemplation. Natalie is just shy of my age, tall and fine-boned, with red hair that she'd recently had cut into a bob. The new haircut showed off her facial features, the line of her neck and jaw. While the four of us in KTMH -- Natalie Trent, Dale Matsui, Corry Herrera, and I -- are equals, there is a hierarchy when we're at work, and Natalie is my strong second-in-command. She's as good as I am at the job, if not better.
"We're living on credit right now, you are aware of that, aren't you?" she asked.
"Painfully aware," I said.
"And you understand that our credit is almost gone?"
"Yes," I said.
"So you tell me, Atticus, what are our options? Keep waiting, hoping that the phone is going to ring? Or do we do something proactive, do we take out some ads and see where that gets us?"
"The question may be moot," Dale said. "We may not have enough money to advertise, at least, to advertise anywhere that'll do us some good. We need a corporate account."
"I am not going to just wait for business to come to us," Natalie said. "We need to
do
something."
"I agree," I said.
"What, then?"
"I have no idea."
She was ratcheting up her glare when the phone rang. Dale moved to answer it, and Natalie let the glare go, went back to frowning at the backyard.
"It's for you," Dale said, holding out the phone.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"Sergeant Robert Moore. Of the Two-Two SAS. You remember him?"
I nearly tripped over the coffee table going for the phone. "Robert?"
"Atticus, how've you been, mate?" The connection was good, and I couldn't tell if Moore was calling from England or across the street. "World treating you just?"
"I've got complaints, but you don't want to hear them," I said. "What's up?"
"This a bad time? I can ring you later, you like."
"No, now's fine."
"Called your apartment first, got this number off the machine. I've left the Regiment, didn't know if you'd heard."
"News to me."
Moore laughed in my ear.
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