No Way Back by Michael Crow

that radiate from Dupont Circle. Nadya’s in the backseat.
    “What? Oh, the streetlights. Crime deterrent, right? But we’re heading into a cool neon zone. You like neon, don’t you?”
    “Not especially,” I say. “Hey, when are you going to let me take this tin-pot for a spin?”
    “You’ll never touch my baby,” Allison says.
    “Quite attached to it, she is,” Nadya says.
    “True. And it’s not meant to be crudely handled by middle-aged men in crisis. That’s the group market research identifies as the primary buyers of Audi TTs.”
    “The Mini requires subtle handling,” Nadya says. “Rather like its owner.”
    “Very witty, Nadya,” Allison says.
    “It’s a finely tuned rally machine, though a bit high-strung. Rather like its—”
    “Oh shut up, Nadya.”
    “The original Mini was tough,” I say. “Don’t knowabout this replica. I’d like to see if there’s any Cooper left in it.”
    “Over my cold, dead body.”
    “She means that, I’m sure,” Nadya says. “She’s so tough.”
    “Enough,” Allison says. She’s driving almost tenderly, turning easily here, easily there. But pretty soon I’m completely disoriented, and give up trying a back-trace to the spook house. Somehow we’re purring past Jefferson’s monument, the ghost of it gleaming on the dark Tidal Basin, and very quickly we’ve left white-marble Washington entirely, entered a neighborhood of row houses, bars, restaurants that could be Baltimore or Philly or any other city I’ve been in. The neon display’s average only.
    The bar doesn’t have any. It’s more like a lounge than a saloon, lots of modern sofas and upholstered chairs, some banquette nooks. Very designer, very upscale, nearly empty. We settle into the rear-most nook, Nadya next to me on the banquette, Allison sprawling in a big chair, a small round chrome table between us.
    “You have to try the mango daiquiris,” Allison says. “They chop up fresh ripe mangoes, turn them into juice with a blender, add great rum. The best. Better than the straight Stoly you usually shoot, Nadya.”
    “I am not convinced. Do you trust her, Luther?” Nadya asks.
    “Absolutely. Without reservation.”
    “How I doubt that!” Nadya says. “No one else does.”
    “Now, why would that be?”
    “Ah, I’ve the sense I’ve gotten rather too often into her bad books lately to honestly answer that one.”
    “Your name has been written down, Nadya. There will be consequences.” Allison laughs. “Anyway, Lutherknows you lie. He’s a detective, after all. People lie to him all the time. Don’t they, Luther?”
    “Constantly,” I say.
    Allison tells the waiter to bring three mango daiquiris. When they arrive, at least they aren’t sporting little paper-and-stick umbrellas. I take a sip. Nice. Too bad a few sips is all I can have.
    “Luther likes it. Look at his face,” Allison says to Nadya. Then she turns her eyes to me. “So. What’s it like, being a narc?”
    “Nothing you’d particularly enjoy. Except the role-playing. You get to dress up in funny clothes—”
    “So we’ve noticed,” Nadya says dryly.
    “—like mall rat, biker, gangbanger,” I go on, ignoring her, “and pretend that’s the real you. The interesting moments are mostly physical. Drug dealers tend to be clever, the way rats are, but not real intelligent. The cerebral challenges would be too minor for your taste, Allison.”
    “Cerebral challenges? Are you trying a little psy-op thing on me? Isn’t that what they called it in your late, lamented SOG posting? Or could you be just a bit insecure, even bitter that your formal education ended with high school?”
    Her shift of tone blind-sides me for an instant. Friendly chat suddenly gone mean, nasty. Why? She’s pushing, wants to see how I’ll react. I decide to push back a little, see where that takes us.
    “While you, after learning to walk like a lady at Miss Porter’s, went on to ace a master’s from the Fletcher School of Law