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Rusty was quite happy when he realized the wee mariachi band was gone today. They had given him a headache.

He was processing paperwork for a new tenant and making sure all of the vacant apartments were clean given the influx of folks who were expected to move to town this weekend.

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Apartment 3

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Alex had a duffel bag over her shoulder. Her left shoulder, because her right was still in a sling. She'd only been released from the hospital this morning, and she probably looked like hell.

She walked up to the guy at the desk, giving him a slight nod. "Any vacancies?"

"Yeah, a few," Rusty said. "Got a nice one bedroom with a study on the third floor."

"It's gotta be cheaper than the Upper West Side, right?" she said, setting the bag down with a sigh. "Sorry. New York humor. You don't need ... a credit check or anything, do you?"

Someone running her financials would probably be a huge red flag. Nice of the FBI not to warn her.

"Nah, just first and last month's rent," he said, quoting her an amount. "And fill out these forms."

He eyed her sling. "You can fill'em out later, if you need to."

"That would be helpful," she agreed. "Unless you want to read the mess I can make with my left hand."

Speaking of which, she held it out. "Alex Cabot. ADA. Probably out of a job, now that I think about it."

"Rusty Ryan," he replied, shaking her left hand awkwardly. "And why would you be out of a job?"

The FBI hadn't made her change her name, but that didn't mean it was safe to go blabbing it around to everyone, did it? She didn't understand why she was allowed to keep her real name here, but this was still better than Wisconsin. She hoped.

She opted for discretion. "The job's back in New York," she said. "Not too great for a commute."

"Makes sense," Rusty said, though he got the sense there was something she wasn't sharing. "You got any other things you need help moving?"

"Not yet," Alex sighed. "There will be boxes coming. Nobody bothered to tell me when. I don't suppose the apartments here are furnished?"

Maybe the general store sold couches. She would sleep on a couch, if she had to. Then maybe she'd wake up back in her apartment, her real apartment, no bullet wounds or anything, and promise herself not to eat spicy food before bedtime.

"There's some furniture that's been left behind by previous residents," Rusty said. "Not sure what exactly. And there's a few pieces in storage if you need something else."

"Thanks," she said, giving him a genuine smile. "I had to be due for good news sooner or later. So long as there's something up there I can sleep on, I'm good."

She probably shouldn't be out of the hospital yet, but tell the FBI that. At least they'd given her pills.

"Should be," Rusty said. "If not up there, in storage. I can do some heavy lifting if need be."

"I appreciate that," she said, reaching into her purse for ... her checkbook. Bad idea, they closed her account, since she was supposed to be dead. They were supposed to be setting up a new account for her, which would be coming with her furniture.

"I have cash," she said, realizing how awkward that sounded. "I can promise you, it's not illegally obtained."

"Cash is fine," Rusty told her. It never would have occurred to him that the money was illegally obtained, but her awkwardness made him certain she had a secret.

"Of course," Alex said dryly. "I'm sure you get plenty of people paying in cash, for their apartments. Sorry. It's been a long day."

Week, but who was counting.

She pulled bills out of her purse. "Third floor?"

Rusty shrugged. "You'll find that this place is a little odd. So paying in cash isn't that big of a deal."

He put the money away and walked around the desk to pick up her bag. "Let me carry this for you."

"I was here for a convention, over a weekend," she noted, setting the bag down gratefully. "It was filled with a lot of people who seemed to be suffering from head injuries. So ... that's common?"

"Yeah, very common," he said, hefting the bag to his shoulder. "And, well... none of them had head injuries."

Alex stopped for a moment, trying to catch his eyes. "There were grown men in spandex, telling people they fought crime," she said. "And a few people in very realistic-looking fursuits, pretending to be animals. I'm not sure what diagnosis that should receive, exactly, but schizophrenia starts to look good."

Rusty shrugged. "I didn't believe the warnings either. You'll figure it for yourself soon enough."

Alex nodded. "Right, then," she said. "Beware of men in spandex, hoping to fight crime. Anything else I should know?"

"Sometimes the faucets disperse hot chocolate. Occasionally really weird creatures invade the town. Oh and I once had a kid show up calling me dad and refusing to tell me who his mother was."

He's around

omfg my interenet was down for over four hours

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