Page 108 of Antihero

“She’s backchanneled to the Fed to raise interest rates, adjust reserve requirements for banks, and sell bonds on the open market. It’ll be announced at a press conference tomorrow.”

“So the bullshit on either side should cancel itself out,” Evan said. “Before the quarterly CPI.”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

He lifted the boot. It smelled of prime Northampton leather. “Don’t get involved. If Devine’s resting, let him rest.”

“There’s also this matter in North Korea.”

“He is no condition to deal with North Korea at the moment,” Evan said. “Nor are we.”

“Yes, sir.”

How’s Joey?

He caught that question, too. Hung up.

Now both boots were out of the box, in his hands.

Did he dare try them on?

He removed his Original S.W.A.T.s and slid his feet into the new boots. They felt as perfect as an ARES 1911 seated in his palm.

He laced them up.

He stood.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn something so elegant. He felt ridiculous, indulgent, and gratified in a manner he could scarcely understand.

Leaving the bedroom, he walked up the brief hall into the great room and took a big lap around the penthouse, past the kitchen with its island, living wall of herbs, and freezer vault filled with the world’s finest vodkas, past the wall of ceiling-to-floor glass facing downtown, past the weight stations and training mats and the water-heavy bag marred with powdered chalk from his fists. As he strolled, he stared down at the boots. He could scarcely believe they belonged to him.

Did he dare wear them in public?

Would they make him stand out as he’d berated Joey for standing out?

And yet, this was a date.

He checked his Vertex fob watch.

It was time to pick up Mia.

He stood facing the front door, unsure what to do.

42Orphan Standards

Candy followed Anca through the grocery store. Anca sniffed heads of lettuce and pressure-tested pears, tomatoes, avocados, holding each food up to an unerring ideal. She didn’t seem to be checking merely for freshness or plumpness but for some intangible that was particular to each item, a maximum ripeness for the respective flavor profile. It was a different kind of perfectionism from Candy’s; different from Evan’s, too, which sometimes lapsed into OCD.

Like X, Candy had been trained to choose her food primarily for purity, a discipline useful in Third World areas of operation with questionable quality standards. Orphan standards resulted in a consistent flavor, too, she supposed, a cleanness on the palate, but they were more about maximizing vigor and minimizing maladies than they were about culinary delight. Minerals and earthiness drawn out of salmon, basil, spring water—or, for X, vodka. Rigor and excellence joined in one true thing.

Anca was deliberating mightily over a box of cremini mushrooms. Something shifted in her affect. Eyes darting around, breath coming harder, hand hooking over the edge of the produce display.

Candy said, “You okay?”

“I think so. Light-headed.” Her mouth pulsed as if tasting something. “Waiting to see if the colors start coming.” She sloughed off her new backpack, removed her seizure plan, and slipped it around her neck.

Candy nodded at the laminated card. “You don’t need that. I’m here.”

When Anca looked up at her, her face was washed pale with distress. “What if you leave?”