<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;"><strong>Norman Black</strong></span>, Nosferatu<br/>Tagged: None<br/><br/>Norman Black received his cellphone from the attendant with the urgency of a scuba diver taking his turn with a shared rebreather. He barely remembered to tip the attendant, a fresh-faced young ghoul who took his offered twenty dollar bill as if it were an insult, gesturing for him to set it on the narrow counter before she picked it up.<br/><br/>Thirty-seven messages of various sorts, seventeen from live individuals (to the best of his knowledge) and twenty from automated scripts Norman had set to panning for informational gold in the datastream. He scanned these quickly, deleting as he went. They could be reconstructed from his datavault if need be. Nothing requiring immediate action.<br/><br/>This one, though... Freddie. Bah. Norman had had enough of social interactions tonight, more than enough to make him yearn to return to his hole in the ground. There was likely business to be done, though. He weighed his options. A quarter mile away, at this time of night. He'd never be able to park near the Watergate, and valet parking was, for obvious reasons, out of the question. He'd risk the walk. Norman stopped by his car, a Lincoln Town Car with dark tinted windows and a trunk full of electronic equipment. He retrieved only a dark hat with a wide brim, one he could wear pulled low and, with luck, avoid unnecessary encounters. He pulled the shadows from the streets around him and wove them around his body, encouraging the natural tendency of all right-thinking people to simply look elsewhere.<br/><br/>The Watergate. That was certainly promising.<br/><br/><br/><br/>