The big problem with Djinara's job was the volume.
        And volume could be used in both the metaphoric and physical way. There was a lot to take in, audibly and physically. It's difficult to immediately discriminate what was useful information and what basically amounted to junk. But the problems with having a memory like hers was that everything, from the grandiose to the minute, was absorbed. And that's how it had to be. Because you could never know just how useful a bit of information is until it has another piece to which it can be related.
        It was a cool spring day in New York City. Djinara was enjoying the raucous mess of three hundred languages being spoken all around her, only five of which she knew fluently. The crush of tourists was an amazing thing to behold, if one considered that this very stretch of concrete between 42nd and Times Square was notorious for drug use and whores only twenty years ago. Now, the grit and grime of Old New York City could only be found in select places---namely the outer boroughs. Her work might bring here there later. For now, however, she was content to relax in the newly created "pedestrian walkway," courtesy of a visionary mayor who had the ear of every politician and a distinct distaste for the people he governed. Typical carpetbagger politics.
        A package had arrived in the mail a few days ago. A request, from a man with a suspiciously Russian name. Not that Djinara was suspicious of Russians---on the contrary, she was a bit of a Russophile in all honesty. But this man's name seemed overly Russian. An obvious fake, as noticeable as comically large mustache plastered onto a woman's face. It was a simple request. He wanted only information on where he might find a certain Italian gentleman of high status and great wealth. The Italian had been an old friend, you see, and so on and so forth. Djinara didn't care for the man's life story, only for the select information on where this Italian man might be, and how she may relay this information to the Russian.
        She walked towards 3rd and 52nd. She was headed towards Mitdown Manhattan, where the more affluent of the city's residents enjoyed their high status while still pretending to be part of the common folk. Those without such need for pretense liked to stay along Central Park West or Central Park East---persons who didn't simply own their apartments, but owned the entire block on which their building stood. That sort of unabashed flaunting of one's wealth, she admired. Those sorts of people were the easiest from which o pull information: they could never stop talking about every aspect of their lives. Finding her mark among them would be all too easy. This Italian, however, seemed to be slightly more down-to-earth. And often, down-to-earth meant more approachable. Hopefully, she would not have to make direct contact. That sort of thing could get messy.
        53rd and 3r. The Russian said this was where the Italian spent most of his time. Well. There was only one place a man of the Italian's supposed wealth would be---this was a highly commercial district, with a notable Swiss bank, an international stock trading company and many different foreign consulates nearby. The only conceivable place the Italian would be was the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. Rooms here could easily cost over $5,000 a night. She would try and see if the Russian was willing to pay for... her accommodations while trying to get information on this Italian he wanted to see so badly.
        At first, this job sounded far too suspicious for her to take up at first glance. But... this might actually be fun for her. And fun was something certainly lacking in her line of work. Djinara made a mental note to contact the Russian for further instructions. If he wanted her skills that badly, he would have to pay for her room and board for no less than three nights at the Waldorf. And in return, she would guarantee the Italian. For such a price she was charging, after all, the guarantee must be absolute. And once Djinara made a guarantee, she never reneged; after all, a damaged reputation can never be fully repaired. Just like New York, a damaged reputation might look fresh with a new coat of paint, but all the dirt and crumbling faults would still be in the minds of those who had seen it before that glorious transformation.
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The Librarian.
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