Syrup (13 page)

I open my mouth to agree, then abruptly lose all confidence in my ability to say anything intelligent and close it again.

The elevator dings politely and the doors slide open. “Talk to Julie about the time and place.” Jamieson steps through the doors, then slips us a small, hard smile just before the doors close again. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

6 turns to me slowly, and for a few long seconds, I am pretty sure I’m about to die.

“So I was wrong,” I say. I’m trying hard not to squirm, but I’m finding 6’s eyes particularly intimidating right now. “I was very, very wrong.”

6 stares at me across the desk for a moment, so intently that I can’t help but think she’s trying to identify my brain. “Oh, boy,” she says finally. She picks up the phone and dials. “Oh, boy.”

“I’m a terrible businessman,” I grovel. “I will never offer you advice again.”

6 abruptly slams the phone down. I notice that the handset has a series of small dents, as if this kind of treatment is fairly common. “Voice mail,” she says with disgust.

I am feeling stupid. “Whose?”

“Sneaky Pete.”

“Oh.”

She dials again but spares the handset by punching for speaker. As it rings she moves over to her personal percolator.

“Julie Stephens.”

“Julie, 6.” She pushes for a coffee. “I’m glad I caught you.”

“Oh, hi, 6.” There’s that note of caution in her voice again, but it’s different this time: there’s something else there, too. 6 straightens and frowns at the speaker.

“Julie, do you recall our last conversation?”

“Of course.”

“You did transcribe my message for Mr. Jamieson, right?”

“I—I wrote it down,” Julie says.

“And you gave it to Mr. Jamieson?”

Julie takes a deep breath, then answers in a voice that’s just a little too high-pitched. “Actually no, 6, I thought about what you said and I ... decided not to.”

6’s eyes narrow. She walks slowly back to the phone and rests her hands on her desk, either side of the phone. I wince in anticipation of the sizzling accusations 6 is about to sling down the line.

“That’s great, Julie. I really appreciate it.”

“Oh, you’re welcome.” Relief gushes from the speaker.

“But that’s not what I was calling about. Did Mr. Jamieson tell you about the meeting we’re having?”

“Yes ... does lunch tomorrow work for you?”

“Fine. Which room?”

“It’s not in the building. I’ll send you the address.”

6 pauses. “It’s not in the building? Why not?”

“That’s just the way it’s been arranged,” Julie says cautiously.

“Oh,” 6 says. “Right. Thanks, Julie.”

“You’re welcome,” Julie says quickly. I get the impression that Julie is particularly looking forward to putting down the phone.

6 says, “Oh, wait.”

Pause. Long, reluctant pause. “Yes?”

“I just need to ask one more thing. If you wrote down my message but didn’t give it to Mr. Jamieson ... who did you give it to?”

The speaker is shocked into silence.

“Thank you,” 6 says, and kills the call.

“Wow,” I say. “6, I have to say, I am so impressed.”

“We’re fucked,” 6 says. She pronounces this very clearly. “We are so fucked.” She slumps into her ergonomic chair.

“You really think she gave your message to Sneaky Pete? Why would she do that?”

“Politics. He’s convinced Julie that it’s in her interest to take his side over mine.” She sighs. “He’s probably right.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“Yes,” 6 says. She leans forward and stares at me morosely, as if maybe this is my fault, too.

“Hey, 6,” I say. “It’s not over yet. So Sneaky Pete has found out that you were about to resign. Well, big deal. That’s irrelevant now. We’re just going to go into that meeting and tell Mr. Jamieson why we’re right for the job and Sneaky Pete isn’t.”

“Scat, if Sneaky Pete knows I resigned, he knows why. And in that meeting, he’ll tell Jamieson that we nearly killed the company.”

I open my mouth but there’s nothing to say. In the end I have to settle for: “Ah.”

6 leans back in her chair, watching me expressionlessly.

“So that’s a
setback,”
I say gamely. I’m so game that I stand up. “But this isn’t over. I mean, in the end, we came up with a campaign. It all worked out. And if Sneaky Pete wants to talk about what
might
have happened, well, it’s all just perception. We just need to position it in a ... positive light.”

6’s right eyebrow shoots up.

“It’s not impossible. Anyway, what has Sneaky Pete done, really? He’s just stolen ideas. Has he actually
produced
anything?
We
have.”

6 slowly leans forward in her chair. The gleam is back in her eyes. I lean toward her, resting my hands on her desk.

“Look, Sneaky Pete might have a knack for pulling the strings in the background. Maybe he’s brilliant at it. But this meeting will be us and him. No seducing secretaries or stealing trademarks ... no tricks. Just us and him. And he’s got to beat
you,
6—he’s got to talk you into the ground. I don’t think he can do it. I think you’ll eat him alive.”

6 rises from her chair like she’s in slow motion, rises until she is inches from my face. Her intoxicating scent washes over me, and for a moment the office tips dangerously.

“Scat,” she says, and her lips are curving into a genuine, authentic smile. It is shocking, stunning. “Sometimes, you—” She stops, licks her lips. I am leaning into them, helpless to stop myself. “You surprise me,” 6 says softly.

I’ll tell you exactly what’s required at this precise moment: a raised eyebrow. That’s what I need to do. A sardonically raised eyebrow has a good chance of progressing to a brushing of lips, and that could lead to my hand reaching into that dark hair and pulling her close. And after
that,
there could be all kinds of acts that presently defy imagination but I’m sure will be nice.

And I’m pretty sure I can execute an eyebrow raise, too, because I used to be able to do it in high school. Hasn’t been much of a calling for it since then, sure, and maybe I’m a little rusty. But some things you never forget, right?

So that’s what I need to do, and I am absolutely clear on this as 6’s face fills my world, the blossoming smile on her lips suggesting that maybe, just maybe, I am worthy of a little admiration.

My left eyebrow is actually beginning its sojourn upward when I can’t help it: I break out in a big, goofy smile.

Puzzlement flits across 6’s face, and then she is pulling away, her gorgeous hair swinging past my goofy, grinning face. That kills my smile pretty fast, but it’s too late. 6 heads for the percolator, not looking at me.

“So we have until tomorrow,” she says. She frowns at her patient coffee mug. “I want to walk into that meeting with ten reasons why we should manage the campaign and he shouldn’t.”

“Okay,” I say stupidly.

That night, 6 watches
Letterman
in silence and I can’t sleep for visions of what should have happened instead.

The next morning I stay home, working on the list while 6 goes into Coke. By the time I leave for the meeting, I actually have fifteen reasons why we’re going to beat Sneaky Pete today. But even so, I can’t help feeling that the real reason is one I haven’t written down: Sneaky Pete has made 6 mad.

I arrive at the address 6 gave me a good fifteen minutes early, but already I’m in trouble. Because the address is obviously wrong.

It’s a fairly impressive-looking establishment, I’ll give it that. Nice trimming on the doorway and modern signage, even if the overall look is a little gloomy. But I can’t help but feel the CEO of Coca-Cola wouldn’t hold a power meeting in a place that advertises “Hot Live Nude Girls.”

I stand on the sidewalk in front of Ludus, the address in my hand and my mouth hanging open, and I enunciate clearly, “Oh, shit.”

I can picture, so clearly, 6 pacing in front of some expensive restaurant, frowning at her watch and scanning the street for me. Waiting until the last moment, then going in alone. Already on the defensive as she fields questions from Jamieson: Isn’t Scat coming? When do you expect him? Do you even know?

6 is going to kill me. Actually, physically kill me.

I pace the sidewalk in sweaty indecision for ten minutes, and then another scenario occurs to me. In this one, 6 isn’t concerned at all. In this scenario, 6 is serenely sitting down to lunch with Jamieson and Sneaky Pete, making a calm apology for my absence. 6 knows very well that I’m not coming, because it was 6 who told me the meeting was here.

This scenario makes a lot more sense than the first one, and suddenly I’m furious. I can’t believe she’s trying this stunt again. I turn on my heel, ready to storm back to the apartment, maybe even gather my stuff and just leave, and I nearly knock her over. “6!”

She freezes, staring at Ludus.

“Look, we’ve obviously gotten mixed up. How about you call Julie and find out where we’re supposed to be, and we’ll grab a cab over there before ...” I trail off, because 6 is moving toward the building. “6?”

She strides toward the doorway; her eyes narrow. I hurry after her with absolutely no idea what she is doing, and together we enter Ludus.

Inside it’s dark and they’re playing Wham!, which is scary already. Scattered around the tables are maybe a dozen Live Girls—although none of them looks particularly Hot or Nude—bouncing and giggling for young guys in suits. I’m surprised by how disengaged the men are; they talk among themselves or dispassionately survey the women as if browsing a used-car lot for something worth a test drive.

One of the dancers catches my eye and deliberately licks her lips, which is so fake I just feel embarrassed. I turn to 6, who is scanning the crowd, but before I can speak she begins to thread her way through the suits. I push after her, get an elbow in the ribs for my trouble, and by the time I catch up she’s forged her way into an adjoining room. “Whoa, 6. What—”

“Scat,” 6 says levelly, “shut up.”

I snap my mouth shut, wounded, and peer into the room.

And there they are.

Three members of the SMT, including Gary Brennan and Jim, are seated around a huge table, drowning in high-back wooden chairs. They are laughing uproariously, empty beer bottles littering the table. Attending each of them is a topless girl.

Gary’s girl has fake blond pigtails and fake breasts, and she’s sitting quietly on his lap as if vaguely bored. Jim’s is short and pale-skinned, grimly massaging his shoulders. As I watch, Jim reaches back and tries to pat the girl’s behind, and she scoots away from his hands.

Having left 6’s apartment expecting to spend an hour in a classy restaurant exchanging polite, barbed conversation with Sneaky Pete, I now feel just a touch spun out. I feel like I’ve walked into Hugh Hefner’s version of
The Twilight Zone.

Only one thing makes sense, and I latch on to it: Jamieson’s not here. Maybe a couple of boys from the SMT are out for a little lunchtime stress relief, but Jamieson surely wouldn’t be so crass as to hold a meeting with 6 here. I scan the table quickly, just to make sure he’s not lounging back in one of the chairs. And I’m right: he’s not.

But Sneaky Pete is.

He’s wearing shades: deep silver mirrors. I haven’t seen them before, so I guess they’re a new pair; I guess he splurged with a little of my three million. And some petty cash was obviously invested in his suit, too, because it’s immaculate. It’s so immaculate I almost expect to see tailors skulking around his feet, straightening a crease here, shooting a cuff there. Sneaky Pete was cool before, but now he’s cool and rich. He looks like an advertisement.

As I stare, his head slowly turns to me. I’m momentarily unsure what to do: Wave? Flip him the bird? It’s a tough call.

He doesn’t let me make it. As I stand in the doorway with 6, seeing myself reflected in his mirrored shades, Sneaky Pete makes a greeting of his own: his lips stretch into a wide, feral grin.

Jim notices our entrance first. His eyes widen and he almost leaps out of his chair, his eyes fixed on 6. “What—what are
you
doing here?”

I look around the table and see Gary and the other man looking decidedly wary, shooting glances at Sneaky Pete. And suddenly I’m sure that they have no idea what this is about.

Sneaky Pete rises slowly from the table, and for some reason I’m abruptly reminded of Dracula. “Scat ... 6 ... thank you for coming.” His voice is even softer than I remember, and I have to lean forward to hear him properly. “Please, have a seat.”

I’m already starting forward, a little mesmerized by that voice, but 6 stops me. She hasn’t moved an inch.

“No.” She cocks her head. “I have a meeting with Mr. Jamieson. It obviously isn’t here.”

Sneaky Pete nods fractionally. “Mr. Jamieson cannot attend in person.” He gestures vaguely toward the middle of the table, and I notice a speakerphone nestling quietly among the beer bottles. “But he will be joining us by phone.”

6 considers this for a long moment; so long I’m sure that someone else will have to jump in, or at least clear his throat to break the awkwardness. No one does.

Finally, I have to speak. “Look, there’s no way Mr. Jamieson would agree to this.” I start to heat up, a little of that post-Fukk rage creeping up my collar. “Whatever scam you’re pulling this time—”

“Of course Mr. Jamieson doesn’t know about it,” 6 says. “It’s a stunt. To throw us off-balance. With an audience to see if I can’t handle it.”