by Barbara Paul
King’s skin was itching. Trapped in his own lie, he admitted he knew neither Teresa’s last name nor where she could be reached—and endured the other man’s crowing as stoically as he could. He was slightly affronted by the ease with which Russ accepted this new version of his Saturday night fling.
“So you deserted us for nothing,” Russ laughed. “You might as well have stayed.”
It wasn’t exactly for nothing, but something warned him that Russ didn’t want to hear that. “Yeah, I might as well have stayed.”
Once Russ was convinced that King had struck out too, he was content. He cheerily wished King a good trip before hanging up; they were buddies again.
King went to bed and wasted a good hour’s sleeping time cussing into his pillow.
The next morning he left in what he thought was plenty of time, but the airport traffic was so heavy it looked as if everyone in Pittsburgh was catching an early flight that day. He had to wait in line to get into the parking lot, and he just missed the shuttle to the terminal. Rather than wait for the next one he lugged his suitcase to an outside check-in counter. He was sweating by the time he reached the gate, where Dennis was waiting impatiently. All the other passengers had boarded.
“What the hell happened?” Dennis snapped, starting down the boarding tunnel.
“Nothing happened. It just took me this long to get here.”
Dennis stepped on the plane. “Thank you,” he said to one of the flight attendants.
“Our pleasure,” she smiled.
“I had to ask them to hold the plane,” Dennis growled to King. “You should have left earlier.”
“They’ll do that?” King asked, buckling himself in. “Hold a plane if you just ask them to?”
“It’s still here, isn’t it?” Dennis settled his briefcase on the floor between his feet.
It was still there twenty minutes later. Only when they were airborne did King remember he’d meant to go check on old Mrs. Rowe in the hospital before he left.
“Oh Christ,” Dennis moaned as the limo MechoTech had sent to meet them pulled up to the curb. “This isn’t their good place—it must be a second one I didn’t know about.”
It was an older apartment building that had been converted into a condominium, and it looked fine to King. But Dennis, obviously, had been expecting something grander.
“And on the fifth floor, too,” he complained on the elevator going up. “We’ll get all the street noise.”
Mimi Hargrove and Gregory Dillard were already there, having arrived from California the night before. When King and Dennis walked in, the other two were in the living room where the television was tuned to The Movie Channel with the sound turned off. Gregory rose slowly, almost regally. He was a small-boned man, and not very tall; he compensated by making himself exquisitely graceful. He didn’t have King’s height or Dennis’s good looks, but he did have presence. And he loved making bigger men feel clumsy.
There was a moment of awkwardness, with nobody smiling except Dennis. Gregory looked at King with unrevealing eyes; but Mimi didn’t look at him at all, even when she spoke. But speak she did, and the initial hurdle was over. Gregory quickly established himself as the one in charge, the host welcoming the newcomers.
How are you, how was your trip. Mimi looked different, King thought, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. She was as prosperous-looking as ever, as blond as ever, and as California as ever. “You look nice,” King told her, unable to think of a more original olive branch.
“Thank you,” she said coolly. “You look the same.”
He tried again. “Do you have any clue to what MechoTech’s giving us, specifically?”
She unbent enough to answer, “Warren Osterman talked to us about so many different possibilities—everything from fiber-optic-guided robots to electromagnetic weapons systems. It’s hard to guess which one he finally decided on. What did he say to you?”
“About the same. We’re both guessing too.”
Dennis, in the meantime, was getting on with Gregory like a house afire. They were laughing and chatting like old friends; it occurred to King that Gregory might be trying to solicit Dennis’s support in the coming showdown over who was to head the project. And Dennis … what was Dennis doing? King asked Mimi some innocuous question about programming and barely listened to her answer. Mimi or Gregory, Gregory or Mimi—Dennis was right; they’d decided between them which one was better suited for the job than King. All this jockeying for position, even before they knew what they’d be working on.
King couldn’t put it off any longer; he had to speak to Gregory. He took a deep breath and went over to stand directly in front of the smaller man. He held out his hand and said, “Gregory—shake hands. I’m glad to be working with you at last, and I’m hoping you’ll let bygones be bygones.” Dennis looked surprised.
Smiling as if he knew a secret, Gregory Dillard shook his hand. “That’s fine with me, Sauerkraut. Just don’t sell me out this time.”
“Never. San Francisco was a mistake. I wish to god I’d kept my big mouth shut.”
“San Francisco?” Dennis said.
“That could have been a big contract, you know,” Gregory went on in a tone of suprisingly mild reprimand.
“I know,” King said contritely. “I’ve been kicking myself ever since.”
“Ever since what?” Dennis demanded.
Mimi was the only one to pay any attention to him. “Your partner diverted some business away from us—just by saying the wrong thing at the right time, evidently. I wasn’t there. It was Gregory he pulled the rug from under.”
Dennis looked daggers at King. “And everybody knew about it except me? Wonderful.”
King was still trying to convince Gregory of his sincerity. “There was nothing malicious about it, Gregory. I just didn’t think. I’ll do anything to make up for it.”
Gregory looked at him slyly. “Anything? Then turn down the directorship of the project.”
Pow. King smiled uneasily, thinking he’d walked right into that one. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you? All right, now it’s out in the open. Every one of us wants to head this project, right? Well, I propose that we agree right now to accept Warren Osterman’s decision unanimously. If he picks one of you, I’ll go along with it. By the same token, if I get the nod—you don’t challenge his choice. Agreed?”
Mimi laughed shortly. “That’s hardly a generous offer, King. These projects almost invariably go to the head designer.”
“Yes, but you’ve been working on Osterman, haven’t you?” he asked with a flash of insight. “And I haven’t. That should even our chances pretty well, I’d think.”
The two from SmartSoft admitted nothing, neither by word nor expression. King smiled at them pleasantly, but inwardly he was in turmoil. The president of MechoTech had to see that only the head designer could direct the sort of complex work they’d be doing; if his evaluation of Warren Osterman’s perceptiveness was wrong, King might have just handed the project over to Mimi and Gregory.
Help came from Dennis Cox. “Hey, folks, I don’t count myself out of the running—but it seems to me King’s suggestion is the only sensible course to follow. Whoever heads up the project, we’re going to have to find a way to work together. Christ, it’s not going to be all that hard. Tell you what. Give King and me some time to get settled in, and then we’ll do lunch. We don’t have to be at MechoTech until three.”
“Lunch sounds good,” Mimi said quickly, either because she was hungry or because she was playing for time.
Thinking that he really ought to learn how to ‘do’ a lunch sometime, King looked at his watch. “Isn’t it kind of early to eat?”
Shut up, King, Dennis’s look said. “How about it, Gregory?”
Gregory smiled only with his mouth. “Lunch, by all means. And of course we’ll find a way to work together, that goes without saying. But I can’t help but wonder whether King has taken into consideration all the respon
sibilities that go with running a project as big as this one evidently is—not only the kinds of responsibilities but the sheer number of them as well.”
“Tell him at lunch,” Dennis urged. “Right now, we’d better unpack. How many bedrooms does this place have?”
The apartment had six bedrooms, but one of them had been turned into an office; it held a conference table, a supply cabinet, and three computer terminals. Of the remaining five bedrooms, only two had attached baths; Mimi and Gregory had taken those.
“So we have to go down to the end of the hall to pee,” Dennis said, still grousing about not being quartered in MechoTech’s impress-the-hell-out-of-’em condo. “We might as well be in a boarding house.”
“The bathroom—which end of the hall?” King asked.
“Ah, there seems to be one at each end. At least we don’t have to share. But we don’t even have computers in our rooms! Just those three in the office. And look at this.” He went into the bedroom he’d chosen and picked up a bright red Japanese-made mini-television, complete with antenna and four-inch screen. “They really outdid themselves, didn’t they? Not even cable TV. Shit.”
“There’s cable in the living room.”
“Oh wow, aren’t we the lucky ones. I’ll bet you anything you like that the guys from the Defense Department weren’t put up here.”
King shrugged and went into his own bedroom to unpack. It was a comfortable room; it had everything he needed. The only difference from Dennis’s room was that his mini-TV was black instead of red.
When they both were squared away, they went back into the living room to find Mimi and Gregory at a window, both of them looking straight down.
“What’s going on?” Dennis asked.
“Come take a look,” Gregory said. “Easy—don’t scare her.”
On the ledge outside was a dull-coated pigeon; a more brightly colored male fluttered anxiously nearby.
“It’s a pigeon,” Dennis said, his voice implying So?
“She has only one foot,” Mimi said.
It was true; the bird still had both legs, but the claw was missing from the end of one of them. As they watched, the pigeon waddled along the edge, her body tipping precariously to the side when she put her weight on her stump. King felt strange watching her.
“Maybe she’s hungry,” Gregory said to Mimi. “Did we eat all the bagels?”
“I think there’s one left.”
Gregory went to the kitchen to see. Dennis, uninterested in handicapped birdlife, flopped down on the sofa and stared at the silent TV screen, now showing a fantasy film. Gregory came back with the bagel.
The window was one of the old-fashioned kind that opened from the bottom. King turned the lock at the top; but when he tried to lift the window, he couldn’t. “It’s stuck.”
“These older buildings all have windows that are hard to open,” Mimi said with a sigh. “Here, let’s both try.”
They each took a handle and heaved; together they got the window open … with a loud screeeech that startled everybody. Alarmed, the lame pigeon took flight, followed closely by her mate.
“At least nothing’s wrong with her wings,” King said as he watched the two birds soar out of sight.
“Ah, that’s too bad,” Gregory said regretfully. “I’ll put some crumbs out anyway—maybe they’ll come back. Hold the window.”
Easier said than done. The window was heavy, incredibly heavy; King and Mimi were both straining as Gregory leaned out over the windowsill to scatter bagel crumbs along the ledge. He pulled back in; the other two started to lower the window … but it got away from them and fell into place with a crash.
“Christ!” Dennis yelped.
“I’m surprised the glass didn’t break,” Gregory murmured, unruffled. “Everybody all right?”
Everybody was all right, and everybody was suddenly famished. Mimi got her purse but then paused. “Do you mind waiting while I make a phone call? I want to leave a message for Michael.” Her husband.
Of course no one minded. But Mimi’s mention of her husband reminded King of one very important social amenity he’d neglected: always ask about their spouses. He faced Gregory and said, “How’s Sharon?”
“Karen. She’s fine.”
Whoops. King grinned inanely, unable to think of anything more to say.
Gregory gave him a superior smile that made King feel like a graceless dolt. Then the smaller man turned his back to King and started talking to Dennis. He was talking at him, King quickly realized, smoothly and energetically, without giving Dennis time to answer. It wasn’t often he saw Dennis Cox playing straight man; but now his partner was reduced to saying Oh? and Yes and Well, I … as Gregory delivered what amounted to a monologue. There was a lot of Russ Panuccio in Gregory Dillard.
Mimi finished her phone call and they left the building. Once they were out in the pleasant May sunshine, Gregory decided there was no hurry. They took their time, stopping to look at anything that caught Gregory’s eye. Gregory decided which direction they’d walk in, when they’d cross a street or turn a corner. Nobody seemed to mind except Dennis. “Kind of full of himself, isn’t he?” he muttered to King.
Eventually they came to restaurant that looked inviting; they were early enough that the place wasn’t crowded yet. The beige tablecloths and generally muted décor were exactly what Gregory was looking for, he said. They slid into a semicircular booth. Still asserting his leadership, Gregory ordered martinis for all of them. Dennis quickly countermanded the order and asked for a whiskey sour. King pressed his lips together to keep from laughing; Dennis never drank anything but martinis at lunch.
“Mimi, you look different,” King said amiably, “but I can’t figure out how.”
“I’m the same as always,” she said. “You know, that one-footed pigeon upset me.”
A waiter put an industrial-strength martini in front of King and a different waiter handed him a roadmap-sized menu. King glanced hopelessly through the list of entrées and asked for a mushroom omelet.
“Christ, King, haven’t you ever heard of green vegetables?” Dennis snapped. “Or meat?”
Mimi sighed. “I do wish you’d stop saying Christ all the time.”
“Huh. God Junior. Is that better?”
Gregory pretended to find that amusing. Mimi did not. Thoroughly out of temper by now, Dennis buried himself in the menu and ordered lamp chops and asparagus. Gregory ordered lamb chops and salad. Mimi ordered salad.
King conjectured that Dennis was sniping at him because he didn’t have the nerve to take on Gregory Dillard. His spirits sank; he was afraid that today was just a foretaste of the way it was going to go with the four of them. King didn’t have the tact to handle such tender egos; he foresaw a long period of squabbling and backbiting and wondered if Keystone and SmartSoft could ever merge into an effective team. Whichever project Warren Osterman was going to offer them, it had better be worth it.
Whatever it was.
4
Only a few of the nation’s robot manufacturers had established corporate headquarters in New York City; by and large they found it more practical to maintain offices at the sites of the manufacturing plants themselves. MechoTech Corporation had fifty-five such plants, the nearest in Parsippany, New Jersey; but its corporate headquarters sat high up in the Bellows-Wright Building in midtown Manhattan. King Sarcowicz stood at a floor-to-ceiling window in one of MechoTech’s conference rooms and experienced a twinge of vertigo.
They were waiting for Warren Osterman to make his appearance; King was glad of a moment or two to orient himself. MechoTech was forever rearranging its office floor plan and nothing was ever where it had been the last time he’d been there. One thing King did like about the place, though, was the fact that there were no cute little robots rolling around bearing trays of drinks or whatever.
“Long way down.” Gregory Dillard had joined him at the window. Gregory lowered his voice and asked, “Do you know what’s bugging Dennis? He’s be
en glowering at me ever since lunch.”
Maybe he doesn’t like being one-upped. King looked down at the top of Gregory’s head and said, “No idea.”
“Did I say something? Did I do something?” Gregory was not in the least concerned about whether he’d offended Dennis or not; he was just well into his I-am-on-top-of-it mode. “If I did, I’d like to set it right.”
King simply shrugged, not much inclined to smooth things over for either of them. He turned from the window and glanced at the other two in the room. At that moment Dennis Cox and Mimi Hargrove were doing something that looked suspiciously like flirting. That was surprising, considering how heavily married Mimi was.
The door opened and Warren Osterman walked in. Nearing seventy, Osterman had hair so black it could only have been dyed. He was dressed in a tan pinstripe suit, a brown shirt, and a white tie. He was short, squat, and ugly. He looked like a gangster.
As self-appointed spokesman, Gregory advanced toward Osterman with his hand extended and words of appreciation for This Great Opportunity in his mouth. Osterman shook his hand perfunctorily, spoke to Mimi and Dennis, and turned his attention to King.
“Hello, Warren,” King said, pleased at seeing the old gangster again.
“Well, King, are you ready for a challenge?” Osterman smiled. “I’ve got one for you that’s already defeated four design teams.”
“Chompin’ at the bit.”
“Then let’s get at it.” Osterman turned and pointed at a woman who had followed in his wake and whom none of the others had noticed. “You all know Rae Borchard.” King didn’t. “She’s going to be coordinating your project. You got problems—take ’em to Rae.”
Before anyone else could say anything, Gregory slid forward and gracefully took one of her hands in both of his. “Rae, this is a pleasure. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“Thank you,” the woman said expressionlessly, and did not return the compliment.
Dennis Cox smothered a laugh. “Let’s sit,” Warren Osterman commanded, taking his place at the head of the conference table. The woman named Rae Borchard sat to Osterman’s right and King sat next to her; she was fortyish, but that was about all her appearance told about her—except that her looks were a bit quiet compared to Mimi’s California brightness. Mimi was directly across the table from King, with Gregory on one side of her and Dennis on the other. Before each place was a legal pad and four newly sharpened pencils; King clasped his hands between his knees, not wanting to doodle during a meeting as important as this one.