“So…” he wheezed, “Why does it matter if she does a story?”
Tiffany took another large swig of her drink and leaned in close to Sam, her hot whisky breath betraying the fact that she had started drinking much, much earlier in the day.
“Who are you again?” she asked.
“Sam Cooper. Carolyn introduced me—”
“Yes…but who are you? I’ve never heard of any Coopers so you can’t be first families…Perhaps I’ve said too much.”
She suddenly looked really worried and Sam couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. If all their social engagements were like this the strain must be incredible.
“It’s okay. I’m new in town. I was born in San Francisco City.”
“Were your parents First Families?”
“I don’t—”
“Dinner is served!”
Sam turned around. An elderly man in yet another dark suit was standing in the doorway in an attitude so stiff it could have given a metal bar a run for its money.
“Thank you, Hobbs.” Carolyn Bast smiled her lizard smile. “Please take your seats, everyone. There are place cards, I believe.”
She strode to the head of the table, not even looking as Dustin pulled out her chair for her. Sam thought of stories he’d read about the olden days when kings and queens never used to look to see if there was a chair—they just sat and some flunky invariably arrived with the needed seat just in time.
He followed Tiffany to the table and found that he’d been put next to Bast, with Tiffany on his right. The reporter, Ida Caxton, was seated to Bast’s left, with Dustin next, then Phyllida. Setzen took the foot of the table with oilman Hector to his left next to Tiffany.
Sam couldn’t remember the last time that he’d felt so out of place.
He was fine with the kind of joints they had in the Wilds—diners and bars and maybe the occasional sit-down meal in someone’s house. But never anything like this. This was like something out of one of his books, with ranks of cutlery stretching out from each side of every plate and at least four different glasses for each diner. He’d read enough to know that he was supposed to use the cutlery from the outside in and that each glass was for a different kind of beverage (white wine, red wine, champagne and water, most likely), but that wasn’t really the problem.
The problem was that for the first time in ages he actually felt like a kid. It was the feeling of not quite understanding what was going on. Being among people who behaved one way, while clearly feeling another.
He’d become so used to always having a handle on things that it felt as if he’d been struck blind. Added to this, of course, was the awareness that Carolyn Bast hadn’t just included him in this shindig to make up the numbers. She wasn’t the kind of woman you stole from with impunity, so he didn’t have very high hopes of ever getting out of DETH, Inc. alive, let alone surviving a dinner party.
He thought about Nathan, huddled in the cell in City Hall, wondering where he’d got to. He probably thought Sam had abandoned him. Taken it on the lam in the old car and left him to his fate. For some reason, that bothered Sam more than his impending death.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
He almost knocked over the wine that yet another flunky had poured into one of the glasses. Carolyn Bast was leaning forward in that cat-baby-bird way again, her large brown eyes taking in every detail of his face.
“Um…nothing.”
“Come now, a smart boy like you, I imagine your thoughts are piling in on each other so fast right now you don’t know up from down.”
Sam pushed the hair out of his eyes and glared at her.
“I was just wondering what kind of game you’re playing, that’s all.”
“You know,” she said, reaching for her wine with a long, pale hand, “You really have cleaned up remarkably well. And your eyes are different colors. Interesting.”
“They are?” said Tiffany. “I hadn’t noticed. Look at me. Well, so they are. I had a cat once that had different colored eyes. He was deaf, poor baby.”
“Did the two things have anything to do with each other?” asked Ida Caxton, holding her hand over the top of her glass so the waiter couldn’t pour the wine and then tipping her martini into it instead.
“What two things?”
“The deafness and the eyes.”
“I’ve no idea. I never thought about it.”
Ida stared at Tiffany in disbelief, as if she couldn’t fathom how her body was able to function at all, given the obvious absence of brain cells.
“You mustn’t mind Tiffany,” said Carolyn Bast, her voice dripping with condescension. “Dustin didn’t marry her for her brains, did you dear?”
“No,” said Dustin, smiling.
“That’s right,” Tiffany shot a poisonous glare at her husband. “He married me for my Daddy’s money. Could I get some more wine?”
Her husband squirmed in his seat and turned his attentions to Phyllida in a way that made it clear that anything was better than looking at his wife.
“And how have you been, Phyllida?” asked Carolyn, adopting an expression that Sam guessed was suppose to look like concern, but which he thought read more like constipation. “I seem to recall you were suffering from allergies last time we met. Did the treatment help?”
“Why, thank you for remembering!” trilled Phyllida. “As a matter of fact, it did. I haven’t sneezed in weeks.”
She snuck an overly-arch look at Setzen that was the last straw for Sam. The whole thing was ridiculous, no one seemed to want to be there. He certainly didn’t. Why couldn’t the lunatic woman just kill him and be done? He stood up and pushed his chair away from the table.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” asked Carolyn Bast, surprised.
“I’d like to go back to my—”
“Sit down and stop acting like a child.”
Sam opened his mouth to protest, but her glare spoke volumes. He sank back into his seat.
“Besides,” she whispered, “You’d miss all the fun.”
Sam stared at his plate. He had to get out. Somehow, he had to get out. He tried to calm down and examine his options. Just running wouldn’t work. He had to relax. Maybe she would drop her guard. It wasn’t likely, but it was the only thing he could think of right now.
Maybe if he concentrated on the food. If he looked like he was taking an interest maybe she’d delay killing him. He just needed some time…
Fortunately, focusing on the dinner didn’t present much of a problem, because when the grub finally arrived it turned out to be really good. The first course was some kind of tiny bird served over a salad with a garlic dressing and raisins. Sam had no idea what kind of bird it was, but it tasted fantastic. Next came the soup and Sam began to feel slightly better about the whole event.
“It’s asparagus,” explained Carolyn. “There’s a small farm in Washington that still grows it. The whipped cream has truffle oil in it.”
“Truffle oil?”
“It was a kind of fungus. It was rare to start with, but there’s none left now. The culinary institute in Paris created a passable imitation. Do you like it?”
“It’s amazing.”
She was about to say something else when the sound of a giant slurp rang around the room. It was oilman, Hector Stone. Apparently he really liked the soup too. Phyllida looked disgusted.
“Good, huh?” growled Setzen.
“Sure is. Best food in town,” said Hector, his eyes shining.
“Tell me, Hector,” said Carolyn, “Is it true that you’ve reopened the oil fields to the south of the city?”
“Yep. They’re nearly played dry, but we’re having problems keeping up with demand.”
Sam noticed that Dustin glanced sharply at his host, as if recognizing a signal.
“Have you thought of exploring further afield? I hear there are still plenty of deposits out Bakersfield way.”
“There sure are, but I think Peterson Oil would have a few thing
s to say if I just upped and started drilling on their fields! Not to mention the government of Bakersfield City! You can’t just drill where you like, you know!”
“Yes, but Bakersfield is a very small city,” said Carolyn.
“It is,” said Dustin. “I was just there last week. Bought out Bakersfield Fidelity.”
“You bought a bank in another city?” Phyllida was clearly impressed.
“Why not? People used to do it all the time. Banks used to be in business clear across the country. In other countries, even.”
“Yeah,” rasped Ida. “And look what happened.”
“What?” asked Tiffany, all wide-eyed innocence.
“The first collapse, that’s what.”
“Oh, right,” said Dustin, clearly irritated. “Blame the banks.”
“If I remember my history correctly, that’s exactly who was at fault.”
Dustin’s face turned an interesting shade of puce as he turned to give Ida his view of history. Sam was pretty interested to hear the pro-big banking theory of the first collapse, but Carolyn Bast wasn’t about to let the conversation get off-track.
“Ida…Dustin, I hardly think this is the place to get into a rage over something that happened over seventy years ago.”
“Well, no, but—”
“Ah, here’s the next course!”
The waiters hustled in with another eight plates. Sam was delighted to be presented with a two-inch thick filet mignon, topped with a large ravioli and some kind of sauce.
“The ravioli is confit duck and mushroom,” explained Carolyn. “And that’s Madeira sauce. I know this ought to be the fish course, but I prefer to have the meat and then the fish. I do hope you don’t mind.”
Sam’s stomach did swift three-sixty. For a moment he had almost forgotten where he was, but suddenly he knew what she was going to do. She was going to kill him with the toxic fish.
He wondered if it would be painful. Would he just fade away, or end up writhing on the floor? And what about the other guests—were they going to watch? Was that why Tiffany had decided to come to the party after all?
“Sam?”
“It’s fine,” he mumbled. “It smells incredible.”
Carolyn Bast smiled briefly before returning her attention to the matter at hand.
“I think the point that Dustin is trying to make, Hector, is that there is no reason why businesses can’t be run on a larger scale. Trading in a single city is fine, as far as it goes, but the future lies in expansion and growth.”
“So what are you suggesting? That I send some of my guys over to stake a claim and just start drilling? Bakersfield has a militia, you know. My team’ll be dead before they’ve gone two feet.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Look,” said Dustin, clearly fed up with all the pussy-footing around. “Here’s the deal. You start drilling. They send out their militia. Carolyn does what she does. No more militia. Chaos in Bakersfield.”
Hector looked confused. “But…I don’t understand…”
Sam sighed and wondered how it was that really stupid people could end up being so rich and powerful.
“Why don’t you tell him, Sam?”
“What?”
“You understand what we’re doing, don’t you?” Carolyn Bast smiled as if she were showing off her favorite nephew. Sam tried to suppress a shudder.
“I’m…I don’t…it’s none of my business,” he stammered.
“Nonsense. Tell Mr. Stone why chaos in Bakersfield would be a good thing.”
“Because…because you want to take it,” he said. “It isn’t about one of the oil fields, it’s about all of them. I’d guess that you want to combine the city states…consolidate your power and move on from there.”
“I knew you were smart the moment I saw you,” purred Carolyn, running her fingers through his hair as if he were five.
Sam flinched and pulled away—her hand looked slender and elegant from afar, but it felt like the talon of a bird of prey as it raked across his skull.
“Tell me,” she continued, ignoring his response, “Can you hear the plex?”
Sam stared at her.
“Because Setzen, over there, could swear that you heard it. From below, when you first came in.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.”
Sam considered continuing to feign ignorance, but other than Drake, he’d never met anyone who even suspected that he might be different. Still, common sense told him it would be wise to be careful.
“You’re saying that he thinks I can hear…what? Mutha? Just because of a bit of vertigo?”
Carolyn Bast smiled. “Vertigo. Very good. Quick thinking. But, no. Setzen’s seen plenty of cases of vertigo in his time.”
“But—”
“Dear boy,” she whispered, leaning in. “Don’t play me for a fool. I’ve met quite a few people who can hear the voices.”
Sam’s heart leapt. Maybe he wasn’t crazy after all. He wanted to grill her, to ask her every question that had occurred to him, to find out, once and for all, exactly what was going on in his head. But great as his curiosity was, his sense of self-preservation was greater. He hadn’t spent all those years alone in the Wilds without learning to keep his own counsel. So instead of saying anything, he just fixed her with his best surly, uncooperative stare.
Bast just smiled benignly.
“Of course, most of them came out of some hush-hush research lab in San Francisco. Funded by Hermes Industries, they said. Is that where you came from too?”
“I don’t know,” lied Sam. “I grew up in the Wilds. What happened to the others?”
“Oh, they’re all dead now.”
“Did you—?”
“Oh, heavens, no. Hermes doesn’t need any help from me.”
“So what happened to them?”
“Stroke, coma, death. Generally in that order. A few lasted longer, but not much. I’ve never heard of one as old as you.”
Sam stared at her for a moment, then returned his attentions to his dinner. His mind was racing—so there were others! He wasn’t the only one! And it was the plex, not some awful mental disease. But why had the others died? Maybe they hadn’t…why should he trust anything Carolyn Bast said? And if some had died, maybe some hadn’t. Maybe somewhere there were people just like him and maybe, just maybe, he could find them.
He was still lost in thought when he felt Carolyn Bast’s talon in his hair again. Her mouth was right by his ear.
“I wouldn’t get excited, if I were you,” she hissed. “You’re not going anywhere.”
At that moment there was a crash at the other end of the table as a glass shattered beneath Hector’s gesticulating hands. Apparently the Bakersfield discussion had become heated.
“Ah!” said Carolyn quietly. “Now we know where we are.”
She nodded to the waiters who removed the meat course plates.
“Boys…boys!” she said cheerily. “This is a dinner party, not a boxing ring. Hobbs, you can bring the fish course now. Three specials.”
Hobbs nodded once and slithered away. Sam watched him go, wondering what the “specials” were and guessing that the answer was “nothing good.”
“You can shove your fish course!” blustered Hector. “I didn’t come here to be insulted by some—”
“Hector, try to stay calm. No one is saying that you have to go and drill outside Bakersfield.”
“Well, it sounded that way to me. It sounded like you want my guys to go and be some kind of sacrificial lambs so you and Mr. Moneybags here can have an excuse to take the whole city. Well, it ain’t gonna happen! You can just find yourselves another patsy!”
“I’m sure Dustin meant no such thing,” said Carolyn. “Dustin, you weren’t suggesting putting poor Hector or his men in any danger were you?”
“No, of course not!” said Dustin, as if he couldn’t believe that anyone should think such a thing. “Sorry if I
gave that impression, Hector. I can get a bit carried away when it comes to business.”
Hector looked at them both, grunted, and took a gulp of wine.
“Ah, here’s the fish!” said Carolyn, as the waiters returned with another set of plates.
Tiffany practically squealed with delight as the plate of delicate white fish, covered in a translucent, creamy sauce, garnished with peeled green grapes was placed in front of her. Sam’s plate was slightly different. In addition to the fish, sauce and grapes, there appeared to be some kind of herb, finely chopped and sprinkled over the top. He glanced around the table—Ida and Hector had the herb garnish too.
“It’s just tarragon,” explained Carolyn. “It’s supposed to be served that way, but some people don’t care for the flavor. If you don’t like it, we can get you another, but you really ought to try it first.”
She smiled in what she clearly thought was an encouraging way, but it made Sam’s blood run cold.
“Bon appetite!” she said, raising her glass to the table.
Everyone responded to the toast except for Tiffany, who was looking at Sam with genuine sympathy in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sam.” She reached over, took his hand and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Just so sorry.”
Chapter 12
SAM STARED AT HIS PLATE and racked his brain for a way to get out of eating the fish. He could just throw it on the floor, but he had a feeling Carolyn Bast would see that coming and have dishes in reserve.
Tiffany smiled sadly, then turned back and started wolfing down her fish. Sam was startled, until he noticed that everyone else was eating with similar enthusiasm, including Ida and Hector, the other recipients of the “specials.” The general effect was immediate and pretty much like every other recreational drug Sam had encountered: everyone became much more relaxed, with shining eyes and somewhat dopey smiles.
“Wow,” said Phyllida. “Really great fish, Carolyn.”
“Thank you. Of course it’s all in the preparation. My chef is really phenomenal.”
Sam glanced at her plate. The fish appeared to have been pushed around a bit, but he was willing to bet she hadn’t eaten any. There was no way Carolyn Bast would permit herself to lose control in company. Not this company, anyway.
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