Power Play, chapter 3

Power Play
Chapter 3:  Friend or Foe?

I wheeled the tea into the board room.  The officers looked up with irritated patience.  Louise spread her arms out with a smile and sarcastically grandly exclaimed, “Glad you could squeeze us into your schedule, Monty!”

“Sorry I'm late, Ms. Har—”

“Don't sorry us, Monty, just be quicker next time.”

As I set up shop, I overheard two women from the sales department.

“You all right, Flo?  You look drowsy.”

“Sleep got disrupted.  Weekly beam-down, y'know.”

“Yeah, I know.  I was up for a while, too.  It's as bad as a quad espresso.”

“Still, looks great on ya, Uni.”

“Yeah.  You too.”  Uni brushed her fingers across her mighty smooth-skinned biceps and grinned.  “While I was up, I took off the sleeves of this blouse and re-hemmed it.  Arms got too thick.”

“Hey, what smells good?”

And in came a woman carrying a group of platters.  They had all the stuff for a proper brunch:  scrambled eggs, link sausage, toast, bacon, fresh citrus fruit, fresh berries, flapjacks, hash brown potatoes, bran muffins… was that actually beef steak?  I stared for the longest time, and a little drool came out the corner of my mouth.

“Execs only,” hissed Louise in my ear.

Uni glanced over my way as she stacked her plate.  “You'd just get fat on it anyway, what with those pipe-cleaner limbs of yours.  Girl's gotta feed her muscles, y'know.”  

You mean HIS muscles, you snotty shrew, I thought.  But not out loud.  I wanted to eat my next meal with all 32 teeth.

And I poured.  The other department heads gave me less grief and noise, thankfully.  They simply took their tea, asked for cream or sugar, and went back to talk shop.  One or two even muttered thanks.  Once everyone else got a cup, and I settled in to wait out the meeting, I detected a strong perfume.  And I probably would've sniffed it all the way from Alice Springs.  An early 50-something woman else sidled up to me.  It was Mrs. Summerlin from the Newsome Street knitting plant.

“Two creams, two sugars, pet,” she said.  As I dropped them in her cup, she propped up my chin with a chubby hand.  “Oh, come on, luv.  Cheer up and give us a grin.  It might not happen.”  

I managed a polite chuckle and handed over her cup.  “Y'know, I might be able to find something a little more upscale at Newsome for ya,” she whispered.  Hoo boy.  Here we went again.  “Why don't we grab dinner at the Quay Restaurant over at the Mercure Hotel Friday night and talk about it?”

Mrs. Summerlin plus restaurant plus hotel equaled my customary answer.  “Perhaps if you could get MR. Summerlin to come along.  I'd love to meet him.  How is he, by the way?”

Her mood sunk to match her cheeks.  “Alive and well,” she replied flatly.

“Need to prep the next pot,” I excused myself.

Mrs. Summerlin persisted.  “But never mind him.  Let's talk us.  I know you haven't gone anywhere working here.  This job you've got's a dead ender.  I can relocate ya.  Better pay.”  She patted my hand.  “And a much friendlier environment.”  I guess she thought her smile was supposed to be alluring.  “All you need to do is see me Friday and show me what you got.”

I blanched.  That perfume was starting to give me a headache.

Luckily, Louise called the other women to attention, and let Angela make her presentation.  Mrs. Summerlin went to her chair, and I was able to breathe again.  After Angela plugged her laptop into the projector, the lights went out.  I saw an old black-and-white "film" of girls playing field hockey, badmitton, and other light sports.  And yes, the violins from Peter's Theme lilted under that.  Then it switched to hard fast rock and color video of strong women playing all sorts of sports:  soccer, rugby, basketball, weightlifting, tae kwan do, boxing, wrestling, cycling, surfing, and other stuff I didn't catch.  Then the video started its quick sales pitch for Crimson Cow's bottle cap giveaway contest.  You've played the type:  twist off the cap, look under it, see if it says you've won anything.  I'd snagged more than one free Dr Pepper from them, and even won $20 U.S. with a cap someone had thrown away carelessly.  

Well, part of the lower level prizes was going to be a pack of 6 pairs of socks with the logo for their new limited edition sports drink flavor, Crimson Cow Stampede.  And my company was supposed to present their best designs for production next season.  When the video finished and the lights went back on, the whole room was abuzz at the project.  I started to gather up the teacups.  But then Angie turned to Gracie and said something in sotto voice.  Her boss glanced to me, thought for a second, turned back to Angie and nodded yes.  Then she turned to my boss.  “Say, Weez?  Can we borrow your boy for a while?”

Louise looked at her.  “What for?”

“Looks like we've got wi-fi problems,” Angie said.  “We need someone to hand deliver something to the home office.”

Louise looked at me, then grunted, nodded, and jerked her head from my way to Gracie's.  As I went over, Angie put in a blank CD-RW into the laptop's disk drive.  “You know where Crimson Cow headquarters is?” Gracie asked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Please stop calling me that, I'm not your teacher or mum.  Anyway, as soon as it's ready, hurry it over, would ya?  Take it to Francis Elliott on the sixth floor.  Office 604.”  

The CD drive spat out the disk.  Angie took it and put it in a small square envelope.  “Oh, Monty, would you be a sweetie and run these papers over to him, too?  It'll save me a trip.”

“Sure thing,” I said cheerily.

She dropped the disk into a larger bright red Manila folder-sized envelope with papers in it.  She then moistened the flap with those ruby red lips, sealed it shut, and handed it to me.  I nodded, took the folder under my arm, and turned to go.  “Oh, and, Mont?” Gracie called after me.  “That stuff's time sensitive.  No going walkabout.”

***

I walked down Brisbane's central business district's sidewalk with the folder under my arm, a smile on my face, a spring in my step, and Peter's Theme in my hum.  Boy, that “Tchaikovsky” sure could put together a swell tune, heh heh.  The temperature was cooler than normal, and it was just warm enough to make it pleasant.  The sky also looked perfectly blue.  And since it wasn't quite lunchtime, the street wasn't crowded.  For once it was a decent day.

But then on the corner diagonally across from me, I saw something that marred it.  Something weighing roughly 375 pounds.  Something seven feet, five inches tall.  Something in a very fine, very pricey-looking navy blue business suit that looked spray painted on.  Something that picked slacks to accentuate its massive, muscular, yet maddeningly mesmerizing legs, instead of just hiding them under a long skirt like many Australian women did.  Something with shiny, thick, rich black hair streaming long enough down its back to be sat in.  Something with a chest that could hide a machete for a bodice knife.  

Something that no doubt gladly helped itself to not just its fellow countryman's strength last night, but to that of two of my American brothers.  Possibly even my own.

Yes, I'm straight.  But very few things kill my mojo faster than thinking of the Western European Überbabe.

I heard a rumor somewhere that the head of Big Sister or someone high up had a tiff with an American lover or something, and decided to leave the USA's women out of the strength transfer loop over that.  I didn't know if that were true, and frankly I couldn't care less.  What would knowing do for me?

Anyway, said towering hussy strode across the street to my side, happy, and blissfully unaware, or uncaring, that her big old body was courtesy of the gutting, chewing up, and spitting out of my homeland.  She turned my way.  We made eye contact, and then she quickly turned right and headed down the street, as if I didn't even rate her contempt.  Fine with me.  I just crossed the street and passed behind her perpendicularly, and decided not to let her spoil my mood.  

One or two blocks later, I finally noticed a minor irritation on my forehead that wasn't part of last night's butt-stomping.  Stopping for a second by a mirrored office tower, I peeked at my face in the glass, and flipped my hair up.  Yep.  A zit.  I wondered whether I should pop the thing there or just comb a lock over it until I could get to a washroom…

…and over my shoulder, in the reflection, I spotted her again.  The dark haired Überbabe.  She was walking my way.  Was she following me?

I turned around and faced her to ask what she wanted.  She quickly turned to the street, and hailed a taxi.  I waited as it stopped, she squeezed into the back, and it drove off.  Unsure, after memorizing the license plate number, I decided to move on to Crimson Cow HQ.  As I passed the occasional window, though, I checked the reflections, and recognized that cab in them.  Yep.  It was following me.  

I then spotted a shopping arcade on an office tower's ground floor.  I promptly strode right in, stationed myself in a trendy clothing boutique, and got the best place to spy out to the street.

“Excuse me, sir,” said someone behind me.  “can I help you?”  It was a perky saleswoman.  

“Uh, just looking out for someone,” I said.

“Oh?  Going shopping for her?”

I checked the outside over my shoulder.  “Uh, not exactly.”

“Well, maybe I could interest you in a shirt for her?” she asked with full are-you-gonna-buy-something-or-not faux friendliness.  She pointed to a mannequin with a woman's sleeveless T-shirt.  “This just got in from Milan; it's the latest thing worn by the grrl band Heavy Lourde.  It's called a husbandbeater.”

“Actually,” I said, covering a bruise on my jaw, “I'm trying to avoid her.  Is there a back door I can slip out of?”

She gasped at my injury and her unintended bad choice of words.  “Oh!  I'm sorry, sir!  Yes, right this way!”  And she ushered me to the stockroom in the rear.

Out the loading dock bay, into the alley, and toward the street I went.  Neither her cab or Chickzilla was anywhere in sight.  And right down the strip, I saw it.  CCHQ.  I hustled on over, my errand almost complete.  As I went through the revolving door, my stomach rumbled.  I realized I hadn't had any breakfast at all, or even my morning coffee.  I hoped that I could snag some leftovers after the meeting back at work was over.  If any were left.

I signed in with the security guard at the front gate, and she pointed me toward the sign reading “Elevators, FL 6-50” and pointing left.  

But pointing right was “Vending/Breakroom.”  My stomach gurgled again.  Heck with it.  I deserved a little reward.  Right I went.

After following a winding corridor, I arrived and went in.  That breakroom was much nicer than ours:  upholstered chairs, better entree selections, all sorts of drinks at discount, a free ice dispenser… they even had Grey Poupon dijon mustard in squeeze bottles on the tables!  Grey Frackin' Poupon!  And best of all, no ration card scanner by the vending machines.  I guess it was a fringe benefit being a food and beverage company.  I simply had to beg Angie to put in a good word for me here later.  Even if it meant possibly working under Crazy Gracie.

I scoped out the snack vending machine.  All right!  TimTams!  This had been one of the few bright spots that my time here in Australia had given me.  I'd tried them before when my Uncle Arnie introduced them to me.  Pure chocolate heaven.  And there they were in the snack vendo.  I fished out my single Aussie dollar coin (I'd stashed it in my room last night when I was mugged; I'd learned my lesson on taking only cash I knew I was going to spend), plunked it in, and pressed the button.  That steel coil spun my treat along and …

Aw, no!  The stupid thing was stuck!  

Bap! Bap! Bap! I tried pounding the window, kicking it, turning around and ramming the base of it with the back of my heel.  I tried running back, thowing my hip into it and booty-bopping it.  Still no luck.  After staring at it helplessly, I finally groaned and drooped my head to rest against the thing's plastic window.  Who was I kidding?  Wimpy me was never getting it out that way.

Might as well get the vendor's service phone number.  But before I could take the pencil out of my shirt pocket, the machine slowly tilted forward, and balanced on its front bottom edge.  Then it rose into the air a couple of feet.

Then I saw her.  The Überbabe from the street held the machine in her huge arms.  Then with one gentle shake, she flicked the TimTam loose, and dropped it into the pick-up bin down below.

I just kept staring at her.  Her eyebrows then formed a perplexed upside down V over her eyes.  “Well, do you not want your biscuit?” she asked with a very French accent.

Not taking my eyes off her, I slowly reached in, and got it.  “Thanks.”

With a soft giggle, she eased the machine back down on the floor.  Then she looked me over with her head tilted like a curious puppy's.  “I did not see your ID badge or uniform… are you a recent hire?”  

“No, just running an errand for a friend here.”

“What is your name?”

“Monty.  Monty Bank.”
 
She offered her hand.  “Suzette.  Suzette Termagant.”  And her hand was like my Ma's family Bible:  big and heavy, graceful-looking, buttery-soft on the surface, but solidly packed and padded, and more powerful than it let on.  She seemed warm and friendly enough.

Regardless, I took the bull (or cow) by the horns.  “Why were you tailing me?”

“Tailing?  Moi?”

“Oui, vous. Tailing.  Following.  Stalking.”    

“I saw that red folder you were carrying and assumed you worked with the company.  I had not seen you here before.”

So why the business with the cab?  “So, do you work here at HQ?”

“Well, I wish I could say that, but…”

I checked for her credentials, but didn't see an ID.  Then I recognized the gold shooting star logo embroidered on her blazer's left breast pocket.  And with a breast like that, I don't see how I missed it.  “Yerp!  You're with Estrella Foods?”

She smiled.  “Oh, you recognize the logo?”

Yeah.  They were a huge Swiss food conglomerate, and Crimson's Cow's biggest competitor.  That explained everything in a hurry.  “Uh, sorry, I don't think I should be talking to you just now.”  And I sidestepped left to go around her to the exit.  But she sidestepped too, and stayed in front me.

“Non, non, if you please,” she reassured, “do not make such a big matter of it.  I am sorry if I intimidated you outside.  We may be competitors, but that does not mean we must be enemies.”

“Well, I don't work here, but—“

“Well, even more my point.”

“– all the same, they said this was time sensitive.  I'd better head on up and drop it off.”

She held up a hand.  “Oh, come now, it is not that big a deal.  Time sensitive, indeed.  They probably just told you that so you would not stop for a pint somewhere on company time.”

I peered at her inquisitively.  “How would you know how they operate?”

“Upper management, it is what you call a, how do you say it?  An old boys' club?  Well, an old girls' club now, but…  anyhow, it is the same game in any business.  We meet over coffee, get some of their trade secrets, they get some of ours.  Neither company has crumbled up and blown away from it.”  She looked at the folder, and touched my arm.  “They have spied on our own little folders, and we steal peeks at theirs.  Come, let me show you for yourself.”

I almost let her have it.  But I drew back.  “No, I can't.  It's a sealed file.”

She shook her head and looked at me pityingly.  “You're an American, aren't you?”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

She relaxed, and reached behind her head with both hands to adjust a bobby pin.  “In my experience, Americans are among the most uptight people I have known, except for the Japanese.  What with all that caffeine, workaholism, and competition.”  She shrugged her shoulders and spread her arms behind her back to stretch.  Her already taut soft silk white blouse stretched across her chest, which resembled the hilly countryside of China:  vast, well rounded, devastatingly beautiful, and struggling for freedom.  “And besides, I have gotten letters in America, and the French Post is not much better.”  Her blouse's buttons and buttonholes played tug of war, the button side stretched to the limit.  “Most of those envelopes tend…” Stitches snapped, and pbrp! pbrp!  Two buttons shot over my head in an arc.  “…to pop open on their own.”  

As I stared at that vast rosy valley, she chuckled a little, and eased forward.  “With all the… handling that internal business correspondence goes through, who would blame you if something ended up a bit open?”

Somehow, I managed to wrench my eyes up to hers.  Then she peered at me.  “Wait… your face.  How did you get hurt?”

“Three guys mugged me last night, and the Harpies attacked my neighborhood right after that.”

“Oh, non! I saw that on the news this morning!  Whatever were you doing there?”

“Heading home.  I live there.”

Her face twitched into horrified sympathy.  “Oh, mon pauvre petit chou,” she whispered.  And she reached forward and pulled me close in an embrace.  My cheek felt her silk, my nose felt her very soft skin, and all my head felt that huge, plump cushion covering a chest of steel. “Forgive me for being so forward, but I know you Americans have gotten such a, how you say, a raw deal.  And forgive me, but you do not appear dressed in La Croix.  You no doubt deserve better than what you have gotten.”  She rocked me gently.  “Well, look.  I can help you.  I can take care of you until you have found a better way to support yourself.  I can see if I can find a nicer, safer place for you to stay.  Possibly mine?”  She pulled me closer, and her solid yet smooth belly dancer stomach went flush against mine, which gurgled hungrily again.  “And I bet some good Italian Alps home cooking would be really nice in there, n'est pas?”  With that, she gently turned my face up to see hers and let my chin and jaw rest on her plush chest.  “Now certainly you are not going to let a few centimeters of glue stop you from having all that, are you?”    

I was getting warm and woozy.  Her perfume made me pleasantly dizzy.  It was much better than Ms. Summerlin's, that was for sure.

Hold on.  She'd offered more or less the same thing.  Would I be interested if she suddenly appeared in Suzette's place?  Or if Suze suddenly got 20 or 30 years older?  Then another thing hit me.

“Hey, wait a sec.  You know the people here, right?”

“Oui.”

“If you can talk to the organ grinder, then why are you talking to the monkey?”

She blinked.  “Quois?”

“Why bother with a lowly shmendrick like me if you can talk to the bosses here?”

She seemed taken aback by this, but she recovered.  “Simple.”  And she reached under my chin and tickled it.  “I find the monkey much, much cuter.”

Oh, she was goooooood.  But I knew better.  “Look,” I said, ducking out of her hug and stepping back, “tell you what.  Why don't you let me drop this thing off, you follow me up, and you talk to your contact here about getting it after I leave.  You get your info, and I don't break any rules.  Everybody's happy.”  Her forehead wrinkled and eyebrows shot up at that.  I decided to add insult to injury.  “Then if you still want to talk to the monkey, we can grab a banana split somewhere.  May I have your home phone number so I can call and set the date?”

She put her hands on her hips.  “Why should I have to do all that?!  Why will you not simply give me the folder and save us both some time!”

Hmph.  Just as I thought.  “Bon soir, merci beau coup, et adieu.”  And I sidestepped, but she did too, blocking my way again.  Finally, I noticed there was only one exit door to the breakroom, and big old Suzie was barricading it.  I was boxed in.  Big problem.

Suzette reached forward, and clasped my shoulders gently.  “Monty, why are you being so pig-headed with this?  What could that Crimson Cow friend of yours offer you that I could not twenty times over?”  

“A clean conscience, for one.”

“Please.  If you would just hear me out for three minutes— ”

“I'm sure you could convince me in three seconds.  So I'm leaving NOW.”

I ducked out of her hands and sidestepped yet again, this time determined to go out the door and not stop.  Boomp!  I went face first into that mostly silk-covered right breast.  I automatically held out my left hand as if to say stop.  She reached out and clasped it in her right.

“Monte, mon cher,” she said lowly.  “I want that folder.  And you are going to give it to me.”

“No,” I said firmly.

“I am sorry, mon cher," she said.  "I am afraid I must insist.”

She slowly clamped down with a squeeze.  Her grip didn't hurt.  Yet.  But the pressure sneaked up closer.  “Let go,” I growled.  “I'm armed!”

She shook her head with a smug smile.  “No, you are not.  The metal detectors up front would have picked it up.”  

I held the folder at arm's length behind me.  I know, pretty short distance for her.  She chuckled softly.  “A real shame, no?  You could have had simply given it up, and had money, affection, better living conditions, or… well, you tell me.  Now you are going to give it up, and get nothing.”  I backed up into a table. She daintily wriggled her free fingers, ready to pluck the folder out of mine.  Still reaching back, her massive torso looming over mine, I arched over the tabletop … and felt a squeeze bottle.

Then with a flash of desparate inspiration, I grabbed it within my folder, smoothly turned the nozzle to her face, and clutched as hard as I could.  Goosh!  A jet of dijon nailed her squarely in the eyes!  With a yelp, she reflexively let me go to rub them clean, and in that blink (no pun intended) I took the biggest risk of my life.  I dropped to the floor, sprang forward between those Greek column legs of hers, slid out the door behind her, scrambled up, and sprinted down the hall for my life!

I don't know what all she barked at me in French, but it sure didn't sound nice.   I did know, though, that neither would be the sounds I'd have made if she caught me.  I also knew that I'd never outrun her on the straightway.  Rounding a corner, I quickly scanned for an open door, praying for a room to hide in.  Yes!  An empty office my right!  And it looked good and dark.  I dashed on in, ducked and dove under the desk, and tried to stay as quiet as possible.

She ran right by the doorway.  I sighed in relief, peeked out from under the steel desk and looked around for a second door to exit.  Dang.  Boxed in again.  Sorry, Francis and Gracie, but this errand boy was gonna wait it out until he was dead positive Stone of Arc had moved on.  

One minute.  Two minutes.  Three.  Total silence except for my heart doing the drum solo to “Wipeout.”  My finger traced the polished marble floor and the bolts fastening the desk down.  Maybe it was safe.

Click!  The lights went on.  “Aha!”  My head bonked on the steel as she dropped on all fours.  “There you are!”  Backpedaling, I scooted on my bottom and pushed the roller chair behind me.  She sprang forward and hugged the air where I was.  With a predator's chortle, she crawled forward, and… she stopped.  A befuddled look cracked across her face.  She squirmed forward and back, but stayed under the desk.  She grunted, but didn't move.

Ha!  Big old Suzie was stuck!

With a giggle, I pranced right up to her and dangled the prized packet right in front of her face.  “This is all of the folder YOU'LL ever get, Creep Suzette!”  And I lighly rapped her on the head with the edge, pranced around the desk, and swatted her brick derriere on each side.  And with a badly French accented “haw haw haw!”, I strutted for the door.

“Grrrrrrrr…!”

Then I heard metal start to bend and stone start to crack.  Against my better instinct, I looked back.

She was about to uproot the desk right off the floor!

“…rrrrrrrRRRRRR…!”

Now I was REALLY flying down the hall!!!  Good thing I didn't have anything to eat today after all, because it would've shot straight to my briefs!  I heard a hideous crash of metal, and an even more hideous “RREEEAAAAAGH!!!!”  I didn't look back!  I rocketed toward the nearest elevator, sidestepped and clipped past about a dozen people, and I heard those thunderous footfalls getting louder and louder behind me!  I brushed right past an accountant, spun right around in the elevator car, and banged on F6 and Close Door like video game fire buttons!  As the thing slowly closed, Suzette stormed right at me, her face a hurricane of golden brown dijon and purple murderous rage.  And just as her fingers got inches from the doors, they finally shut.

I hunched over, hands on knees, gasping for breath.  That was way too close.  And stupid of me.

Finally, the bell dinged, and the doors opened.  I didn't mess around.  Just in case Suzie decided to chase me up the stairs, I looked around, my brain still swimming.  I couldn't remember the office number.  So I just wandered through the halls, until I found a red haired fellow typing at a desk.  “'Scuse me, you Francis Elliott?”

He looked up.  “Yeah, you from Brisbane Hosiery?”

“Yeah.  Here's the report from Ms. Grace and Angela.  Is there another stairway that's not by the elevator?”  

He took it.  “Uh, all the way down the hall and turning right, but that's—”

“Right, thanks.”  

And I hurried out that way, ignoring his call, “Oi!  There's mustard all over this!”

***

When I finally got back to Brisbane Hosiery, Louise was waiting in my cubicle pool's doorway, arms folded. “Well, well, well. A dillar, a dollar, a ten o'clock scholar. Where the devil have you been?”

“I was being— ”

“Crimson's Cow's offices just rang. Said someone with your description was causing some sort of row.”

“Ma'am, I was– ”

“Ah-ah-ah-ah! If you've lost us a client over this, heads are going to roll! Ms. Terrance and Ms. Tiffany are still here, and they're waiting for your explanation. And apology.”

Terrance? So that was Gracie's surname. And around the corner she came, closing her cell phone and pocketing it, with Angie right behind. Concern furrowed her brow.

“Monty?” Gracie said. “Security just called. Said someone who looked like you was getting chased by somebody. Must've been one of those hulking overstuffed Euros. Heard she looked plenty cheesed off, too. What happened?”

“A suit with Estrella jumped me. She tried to talk, charm, threaten then yank that folder out of me.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, it's okay, though. Francis got it intact.”

“Stuff the folder, mate!” she said, grasping my skinny upper arms like a mother would her child's. “Are YOU intact?!”

“A little shook up, but no worse than this morning.”

Gracie and Angela then grilled me thoroughly, and I gave the blow-by-blow as honestly, completely, and accurately as I could. When I was done, Gracie stared at me dumbfoundedly.

“Blimey. I knew 'Strella was pretty cutthroat, but I never dreamed they'd stoop to mugging someone right on our own turf.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “Mont, I'm very, very sorry you had such a time. Tell ya what. I'm going to have a barbie tonight with Francis, Ange, and possibly another guest at my place. Why don't you come too?”

“Sure, thanks.”

“Not at all. It's over at Windgate Landing in Redcliffe. Right on the beach. Just look for the front gate with the heart, club, spade, and diamond shaped topiary plants. Can't miss it. Can you get there by 7?”

It'd be a 45 minute trip by bus, and a 15 minute hike, but yes. “Definitely.”

“Bonza. We'll set one more plate for ya. Oh yah, and the bet. We can talk on settling up then, too.” She turned to Louise. “Hate to cut and run, but we got a lunch meeting. I look forward to seeing you next week.”

“I trust our designs will be just what you're looking for.”

They shook hands, and Gracie and Angela headed down the hallway. But Angie stopped for a second, and motioned for me to come closer. “Thanks for doing the job for us. Oh.” And she touched my arm, leaned in, and whispered in my ear, “Gracie's pretty impressed with you. She's wondering how you might fit in with us. Play your cards right at the dinner tonight.” And with a wink, she followed her boss out.

My fingers brushed the spot on my arm where Angie's had. And I thanked God I didn't knuckle under to Suzette Termagant.

Louise's foot tapped steadily. “Well, what are you waiting for here? A medal and a parade? Get back to work.”

To be continued in Chapter 4: Let's Make a Deal.