There were lots of inappropriate dreams of certain strippers that night. Or, in the esteemed opinion of Gray’s reptilian brain, very very appropriate ones.
The next morning he woke to find the initial forensic report waiting for him in his mailbox. Instead of taking it at the house, Gray drove down to Vercetti’s Diner down in the Waters, a little place wedged like a salesman’s foot in between a Circuit Parade and a Boutique Liminale. Its facade was ancient, wooden, and painted bright red as a perverse sort of fuck-you to the sleek storefronts on either side. Gray rather loved it - but he loved the other two places as well, and he wasn’t certain how one could love the fucker and the fuckee at the same time. The human conflict boiled down to its most basic paradox, he supposed, and then forgot all about it over a breakfast of warm creamed krill spread on an onion bagel with an enormous cup of coffee.
He sat there sipping his coffee, tucked into a corner booth and prodding at his portable computer’s holographic display. He’d sent word last night to Carter about the name that Angie had given him, and he found in his mailbox acknowledgment of that and a note to ‘keep an eye on the bumba’, a term which Gray found annoyed him more and more when applied to her. Carter and his women. Shameful. But then again, this very well could be an artifact of Gray’s own lack of success with the female of the species - up until Angie, of whom he was becoming most definitely territorial. She’d said she wanted him, after all.