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Clark reddens, probably remembering, as I am, his ejection from the hotel lobby.
“Yeah,” he says. There’s a note of dejection in his tone, and maybe acceptance too, like a man going with dignity to a horrible fate.
“I’m surprised they let you back in the hotel.”
“Mr. Morgan made a call,” he says. “He seems harsh, but he…”
Cares? Isn’t so bad? However he was going to finish that sentence, Clark can’t seem to muster the enthusiasm to lie.
“Well, he seems like a dick, so I hope you’re getting paid a lot,” I say.
Clark merely shrugs. He’s very tall, verging on gangly, with dark hair that’s supposed to be cut stylishly, but has grown out just enough to look unkempt. He’s not particularly good-looking, but his light brown eyes look honest, if a bit dejected at the moment. As bad as I feel for him, Paul and Clark’s relationship does make me feel a bit better about myself. For all of my screw-ups with my new assistant, it’s comforting that I could be a hell of a lot worse.
I nod at the papers I’d helped him gather. “Any chance those contain the secret to Paul’s next evil scheme?” I ask, trying to cut the tension. I’m typically good at milking the awkward out of a conversation, but Clark isn’t giving me a lot to work with.
At my words, what little color in his face drains and he attempts a shaky laugh. “Mr. Morgan doesn’t scheme,” he says. He looks like he’s being held hostage, and I suppose he is, though by me or Paul I can’t tell.
I decide to cut him a break. He’s probably wondering how much I’d seen on the pages and how much trouble he’s going to be in if Paul sees him talking to me.
There’s a beat of awkward silence before I say, “Well, it was nice to see you. Good luck up there.”
He nods stiffly and flees past me without another word. I watch him go for a moment, feeling a little guilty. As bad as I feel for him, it’s undercut by the knowledge that he’d be easy to break should the need arise. A little pressure and he’d fold like a poker player with a pair of twos.
Clark is a momentary distraction from my true purpose. The woman has remained at her battle station, and nobody seems to be there to prevent me from joining her on the stage. I decide to wait before approaching her and get a peek at the board first.
While the woman is distracted by a question, I climb the stairs at a casual gait and saunter over to the seating chart.
Sure enough, there are the Alencars’ names written on cards and tacked to Table One. Paul is seated directly beside Bill. Also seated at the table are Marmie Adler, a well-known eccentric who turned an multi-million dollar inheritance into billions in the ‘70s and ‘80s; Colton and Selina Marlo, A-list actors who invest on the side; and Rutherford and Ebeneezer Walton, brothers who own the largest robotics firm on the West Coast and are reportedly as shrewd as their names are obscure.
The question though is who exactly is sitting in our seats. Ideally none of these people are furious that they aren’t at their correct table, but somebody has to go, and they have to go all the way to… holy shit. Table 107? So Paul is out for blood, huh?
“Excuse me?” The expectant voice signals that I’ve been caught. I turn reluctantly.
The woman in charge is striking up close — a full head taller than me, tumbling blonde hair, and what looks like a professionally-done contour. Automatically she shows her hand by trying to tower over me. It’s an amateur move; I’ve spent my entire career looking up at men. Anyone with a shred of experience knows that physicality only matters in the ring. In business, power comes from words, and it just so happens that talking is my specialty.
“Hi,” I say. “You’re in charge?” I’m smiling, friendly without being too saccharine, calm without being stiff.
The woman doesn’t have time for small talk. I can already see her eyes dart to someone waiting on the side, holding a tablecloth that looks soaked in coffee.
“Yes, I’m Miranda Lee,” she says. “What is it?”
There’s no time to ease her into affability. I cut to the chase. “I represent Rhett Westing,” I say.
Her impatience drops in an instant, replaced by worry, before the mask slides up again. “And?” she asks.
My smile doesn’t budge. My tone of voice is a different matter. “I’d think we can safely move past feigned innocence. Why is my client seated at Table 107?”
“Feigned innocence?” she feigns innocently. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to. As for your client — Westing, was it?”
I don’t dignify her question with a response. She joins me at the board and pretends to look for him. “I’m not sure I see the issue,” she says.
I am in the business of coercion and therefore I have many tools in my arsenal. Most people require patience and a delicate touch to crack, but unfortunately I don’t have time on my side.
In such pressing situations, I set aside my lock picks and pull out my sledgehammer.
“You don’t see the issue,” I repeat. “Look, Ms. Lee. We’re both busy women, and I suspect that you want to be having this conversation even less than I do, so let’s cut the bullshit. Mr. Westing, on the order — no — the decree of Ms. Sloane Westing is to be seated at Table One. I don’t care if it’s an inconvenience. I don’t care who you have to move. I absolutely don’t care how much time it takes. And, if your response to this is anything other than, ‘yes, of course, right away’, I would be shocked to find out that you got a gig organizing bingo at the senior’s center this time next year.”
Miranda Lee’s face gets more pinched with every word, so that by the end of it she looks like she’s just taken a bite out of a lemon. I finish my spiel and hold my breath.
