Gina Lolititia swept up on her black raincoat from where she had left it in the tiny staff section at the back of the kitchen at Chez Frog's, and wearily shrugged it on. It had been a long shift, and the last of the big-bill, small-tip uberyuppies had left the dining room, weaving out to the elevators in a smug cloud of wine-soaked complacence. The bar had cleared out, the lights of LA had shifted to the early morning traffic grid and a rare passing highlight.

She wondered how much longer she'd work for those damned fat-cats at Frog's. Sure, she needed the dough. But there was a limit.

She slapped the elevator button for the garage, and leaned tiredly back against the rear wall, sliding her hands into her pockets. SUddenly she opened her eyes in alarm, and pulled out of the left pocket a cardboard disc that felt familiar. It was the coaster she'd been scribbling on when the afternoon started....but hadn't she thrown that in the trashcan under the bar? She looked closer at it.

It wasn't the same one, but it had the same gold logo for Frog's on it. She turned it over, and her fingers trembled.

"Gina --

need to see you. I'm at Murph's.

Blake Madison"

The doors opened and she strode toward her beat-up looking 22-S Volvo in the corner; She tried to remember where Murph's was, somewhere east, La CIenega? She'd find it, godammit.

Suddenly, she felt less tired. The dull late night streets looked interesting again. Damn that man, anyway, she thought, pulling out of the garage and veering right onto 8th Avenue on two wheels.