Marta slid into the booth across from him, her smile a razor nick. "You look like a cop with a stomachache."
Marta's eyes flicked to the curtain. The fast trade — the real one — wasn't flesh. It was information. Who crossed who. Who disappeared. Who paid to keep breathing. skin trade fast
She slid a brass key across the table. "Back room. Thirty seconds. After that, you're on your own." Marta slid into the booth across from him,