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“I choose not to because you’ve bailed me out of every one of my screwups for as long as I can remember. Not that this is a screwup. It’s not. For once I’ve got a chance at something that could actually work. And your help with the business plan-”
“Was minimal.”
“It was not minimal. There you go again. Don’t do that. You helped, and I’m grateful, but when it comes to financing it, I’ve got to do it myself. You’re the one with all the right gut instincts. You don’t become a billionaire on luck. I’ve got to do this, Paddy. That’s all. You know that feeling when you know you’re right.”
“Then at least start with Stu Holms. This fits right into his latest round of acquisitions.”
Da
“Heaven help us,” Patrick said.
“Any tricks to Stuart Holms? Other than not mentioning Liz Shaler?”
Patrick gri
“All good stuff,” Da
Patrick dripped some dressing onto his shirt.
Da
“You think?” Patrick blushed, tugged on his shirt, and then looked around the restaurant self-consciously.
Da
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Hey, you two.”
Ailia Holms was strong and fit, like so many of the Sun Valley women. Soon to be middle-aged, with a body that peeled off ten years, she held back a restless playfulness. Her red hair forewarned her personality. She was a comfortable flirt in a bright green top and Oilily stretch pants that cleaved to her backside as she bent to peck Patrick on the cheek.
“Speak of the devil,” Patrick said.
She faux-patted the top of her head, taking advantage of the moment to show off the latest augmentation to her breasts. “Devil? Are my horns showing?”
She gave Da
“True story.”
“Everything good?” Ailia asked unflinchingly.
“For a guy who just spent fourteen months in Club Fed, you mean?”
“I don’t care where you’ve been, Da
“And you.”
“So…Ailia…” Patrick said. “Tell us about London.”
“We didn’t go, as it turns out. Stu got hung up with some deal. Surprise.”
“You’ve been here…all along?” Patrick asked. Da
“We knew you’d be busy preparing for the conference. Looks like a great one, by the way. Elizabeth Shaler! You waited long enough to a
Patrick reached for a chair from an empty table. Ailia waved away the offer.
“I’d love to, but I can’t stay. Stu’s waiting.” She leaned into Da
She gave Patrick an air kiss. “Looking forward to tonight,” and hurried off.
Both men tracked her through the tables.
“Don’t go there,” Patrick cautioned. “You’re damn lucky Stu never found out about you two the first time.”
“Who said he didn’t?”
“Stu is many things but charitable is not one of them. Nor is he forgiving.”
“I thought the whole town knew.”
“Apparently not.”
Patrick flagged a busboy. “We’ll take the check.”
The scrawny kid turned around and clearly recognized him. “Ah…yes, sir.” He lingered a little longer. “You’re Mr. Cutter, right?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m all over the G-six.” He patted his pocket.
“Did you opt for multiplayer?” Patrick asked.
“It’s bitchin’.”
“Kevin?” Cristina, the proprietor, called from the next table. She’d overheard.
“Check,” Kevin said to her, spi
Da
“A gaming cell phone. Multiuser over EVDO-high-speed wireless. Teens are our fastest-growing market.”
“You never stop.”
Patrick took it as a compliment.
“You really think the pink doesn’t work?”
Eleven
W ith the contact lenses removed, his full vision restored, Milav Trevalian studied the mirrored reflection of Rafe Nagler. The corners of his lips twisted up, stretching the theatrical facial hair glued to his face, a grin of satisfaction for having made it through the loss of the dog.
Ricky was no prop; he needed the dog. He’d also left his backpack behind, a calculated risk necessitated by the incompetence of the airline. The Brasilia ’s lack of overhead baggage space had required all passengers to gate-check their carry-ons. But either the Salt Lake or Sun Valley ground crews had mixed it in with the checked baggage. When it failed to appear on the pickup cart, Trevalian had lost his temper, quickly changing horses and directing his rage at the baggage handlers. With the unexpected loss of the dog, and the sheriff all over him, he’d feared trying to recover the backpack. This, because he couldn’t be sure if he hadn’t left an old airline identity tag attached to it. With the opaque contacts in place, making him truly blind (he carried two sets, one translucent), he hadn’t been able to see if there was a tag there or not. He couldn’t afford close scrutiny so the bag and its contents had been left behind.
Trevalian unpacked Nagler’s suitcase, tried on the unfamiliar clothes, and discovered the dead man’s shirts fit fine; the pants, though big in the waist, could be made to work with the help of a belt. He noticed small bumps of thread had been sewn into tight knots on the insides of the back pockets of the pants-Braille-like personal codes allowing Nagler to determine color. He found the same hand-sewn bumps on the shirttails, and also on the socks.
He unpacked the man’s clothes into the dresser drawers, hung shirts and pants in the closet, and spread items from the toilet kit on the bathroom counter. He even smeared some toothpaste to imitate the man missing his toothbrush.
Still contemplating a way around the death of the dog, he settled down onto the bed and lay back. Waiting came easy for him. Milav Trevalian had the patience of a saint.