“You mean their own radio frequency. Their band?” Vivienne said. Well, here was the thing. She knew of Jimmy’s. She in fact knew Jimmy’s. She knew Jimmy. She had been there, in El Salvador. She had holed up at Jimmy’s more than once. She had a photographer’s crush on this biker guy, but stronger still was her long-bred suspicion of new people getting too close. Better not to say she knew Jimmy.
The biker came closer into her personal space, but he blew the smoke away, sticking his tongue through it, making perfect smoke rings. His tongue had a tiny turquoise stud in it. “That’s right, little lady. When they were going to make a guerrilla raid on some town, say Berlin or out in the farmland, they would broadcast the plan so the people could evacuate before the battle and the cameramen coul
