“Oh please, finish the sentence.” Getting no response, she cocked an eyebrow. “Need something, honey?”
“Yeah … Marco.” Ronnie made an exasperated noise. “I thought you were him.”
“Sorry to disappoint ya.” The gum smacked as Maris made her way around the desk and began fiddling with Marco’s computer. She held a Palm Pilot in one hand. “I’m just entering something into his schedule for him.”
“How’d you get in? He’s here, then?”
“Nah. At a meeting or something. Should be back soon.” Maris slipped her Palm Pilot back into her apron. “You want me to tell him something? Or are you working tonight?”
Ronnie swayed from a wave of weariness and leaned against a bookshelf. “I’m supposed to be working. I just don’t know if I can.”
“Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
“I don’t feel so good.”
Maris stood still and stared at her for a long minute. “It happened again, didn’t it?”
Ronnie closed her eyes and nodded.
“When?”
“Last night.”
“At Marco’s private party?”
“Yeah.”
Maris punched a last few buttons on the computer, came around the desk, and took Ronnie’s arm. With surprising gentleness, she guided her out of the office, locking and closing the door behind her.
Ronnie allowed herself to be guided down the hallway and into the break room, where Maris eased her down onto one of the couches. Maris vanished out the door without a word, and less than a minute later returned with a glass of ice water and two unlabeled pills.
“Like aspirin.” She handed them to Ronnie, who obediently swallowed the tablets. “They’ll make you feel better. Here, put your feet up.”
She got a stool to prop up Ronnie’s legs, and then just stood there looking down at her, her expression uncharacteristically soft, concerned.
“Thanks.” Ronnie sipped the water, her head clearing a bit. “Sorry. Again.”
They heard banging out in the hallway, and both women looked toward the door. They heard Tiffany talking to someone outside, swearing like a sailor.
“Where is she? Where is she?”
Tiffany swept into the room, spied them, and ran to Ronnie’s side. She fell onto the couch beside her roommate, and took her hand.
“I got your voice mail on my cell phone.” She was breathless and there were tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I’m so sorry!”
She gave her roommate a hug, then pulled back and gazed into Ronnie’s face. “Are you okay?” When Ronnie nodded, Tiffany blinked the tears from her eyes. “I’m going to kill him! I’m going to kill Marco for letting you go through that and then dumping you off to take the train! That—that—There are no words to describe him. I don’t think any of us can ever trust him again!”
“So what else is new?” Maris said. She looked at her watch, then back at Ronnie. “I’ve got to start my shift. You going to be okay?”
“Yeah.” Ronnie let go of Tiffany’s hand and reached out for Maris’s. “Seriously, thanks for your help.”
“Yeah, well, what else am I gonna do? Just protecting our star performer.” With an ironic nod at Tiffany, she corrected herself. “One of them anyway.” She swept out of the room as quickly as Tiffany had swept in.
Tiffany watched her go. “She’s nicer than I thought.”
“Yeah, I think there’s a heart down there under all that bluster.” Ronnie sagged back against the couch. “I don’t know if I should work tonight.”
“I guess it depends on whether you can handle the pace. Can you slow it down a bit?”
“Guess I should. Won’t make as much money, though.”
Tiffany grinned. “Great idea. Do that.”
Ronnie found herself laughing with genuine mirth at her friend and constant competitor. “You jerk. And here I thought you were all worried about me.”
“I was worried about you. I still am. All these bad things keep happening to you. It makes me nervous. Did you get home okay last night?”
“Uh … actually, you’re not going to believe this.”
“What?
“I ran into some … friends from school. They let me crash at their house.”
“Well, thank goodness. I was just crazy with worry when I finally listened to your voice mail this morning. And then I couldn’t reach you.”
“Sorry.” Ronnie maneuvered to the edge of the couch and forced herself to stand, creaking and stretching like an old lady. “If I’m going to dance tonight, I’d better do some warm-ups.”
“Yeah, it looks like it. Well, I’m going to go get ready. You okay, for real?”
“Yeah. I’ll come along in a bit. I’ll wait here until Marco gets back. And then I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
Marco clenched his teeth, trying with all his might not to fly across the room and punch Tyson in the face. He knew the self-satisfied, Ivy League snob would have him terminated in a second, and then—to preempt Proxy’s anger over losing a star player—trump up a compelling reason why the action had to be taken. Disloyalty, perhaps, or double-dealing. Marco, of course, wouldn’t be around to defend himself.
So he sat and seethed. Tyson had not only refused to admit that doing the girl was a serious mistake—he had laughed, blowing the episode off as a necessary diversion. After all, he told Marco, you recruited them to be used in whatever way we deemed fit.
Tyson had elbowed one of the other men, his eyes still glassy from a hangover, and made a crude joke about the valuable use of that particular girl.
That particular girl. As the conversation turned to the next topic on the agenda, Marco wondered why he was responding so violently to these attacks on Macy. After all, a month from now any of the girls might be history if they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But he liked Macy. Even amid the small team of special girls he had raised up, she stuck out. She looked like the others, danced like the others, had served the same general purpose—but still, she was different. He admitted to himself that he had planned to keep his team—especially Macy—out of harm’s way somehow on Super Bowl Sunday. Giving them just a little warning couldn’t hurt, could it? By the next day, he’d be gone, and they’d be out of a job. But at least they’d be safe. Unlike Tyson, he didn’t view them as disposable.
Disposable.
As he listened to Tyson coldly predict the massive human impact of the impending action, Marco’s instincts suddenly told him that Tyson would never leave potential witnesses in place. One way or another, he somehow knew, his girls would be eliminated.
He tried not to care, tried to turn his attention back to the matter at hand, but the image of Macy’s face—and Sasha’s, and the other girls’—rose up in his mind. Somehow, he had to find a way to protect them.
“So how’s the distribution going?”
Tyson looked over at Glenn as he asked the question. The man had been sullen ever since his disciplinary action—he had told Marco he blamed that stripper girl for getting him into trouble—but had proved unwilling to relinquish his part in the lucrative action. Tyson smiled to himself. Especially since Glenn had to know that bowing out of the deal meant a quick trip to the bottom of the Atlantic.
Glenn cleared his throat, not quite looking Tyson in the eye.
“The distribution is better than expected. As you know, the product has become the must-have item on everyone’s Christmas lists. I’m sure you’ve seen the commercials. And despite the economic climate, sales have been brisk since our product requires no fancy adaptation; you just plug it in. We’ve already exceeded our Christmas sales projections, and we still have four more shopping days. After the holiday, of course, we’ll be offering the promotion to convince any latecomers to buy the thing ‘just in time for the Super Bowl.’ ”
“Any word yet on the market penetration or demographics?” one of the other men asked. “Our clients will be asking.
”
Glenn shuffled through some papers and found what he was looking for. “As of last week, more than 75 percent of all relevant retail outlets are carrying the product, and the rest plan to pick it up quickly. Apparently, the early adopters are those you’d expect—upper-middle-class singles and families with more disposable income, who value convenience and enjoy buying new toys. By Christmas, we expect almost 8 percent market penetration—by D-Day, a bit more.”
“Good work!” The questioner sat back, surprised. “That’s higher than expected—truly amazing.”
“Well, it’s a well-designed product that meets a real need.” Glenn did not smile, stuffing his papers back into their folder. “But thank you.”
The other man looked at Tyson. “Our client will be pleased that the targets are so overwhelmingly upper-middle-class. From their point of view, it couldn’t be better.”
Tyson allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. He had, of course, thought of that right up front, even if these yokels hadn’t. “I know.”
As the participants filed out of the meeting, Tyson pulled aside several of the S-Group. He spoke in a low voice and did not look across the room to where Glenn was collecting his folders and preparing to depart.
“So, gentlemen, once this after-Christmas promotion starts, it’ll essentially run on its own, correct?”
“Yes.” Several of the men nodded, then seemed to catch Tyson’s drift. Their eyes gleamed.
Tyson leaned forward and dropped his voice even more. “Am I to assume then, that at that point our friend Glenn becomes no longer necessary?”
Waggoner waited as Glenn brushed past the little huddle, leaving the room without a backward glance. “That’s accurate, chief.”
“Make the plans, then,” Tyson said. “He’s too much of a wild card, too disgruntled to trust once he gets his money. We’ll have to make plans for him—and any other potential witnesses—shortly after the holidays.”
“Hey, honey! I’m home!” Doug pushed his way through the garage door, slamming it shut with his foot. He carried two large festive shopping bags into the kitchen and set them on the island.
Sherry turned from the stove, spatula in hand. “Hmm, what’d you get me?” She wiggled her fingers as if she were going to peek inside the bag.
Doug slapped her hand, eyes twinkling. “None of that! You’ll find out in two days.”
“Don’t tempt me, then!” She put on a mock-pout and waved the messy spatula in his face. “Off with you! Skedaddle! Take your mysterious packages away!”
Doug hastened up the stairs, chuckling to himself, and managed to make it into their room without being accosted by two more sets of curious eyes. He closed the door behind him and dumped the goods on the bed.
A little nightshirt—a very little nightshirt—for Sherry. The latest electronic game gizmo for Brandon. A set of books for Genna … socks … perfume … He pawed through the bags and placed each item in its appropriate pile, ready for wrapping.
He pulled out the last item, a fairly heavy box that had taken up half the large bag. He’d gotten the last one on the shelf. Within minutes, three more people had come looking and had had to put their names on a waiting list. He would call this a “family gift” but knew it was really his present to himself. He liked the latest toys and gadgets, and had finally given into the barrage of commercials for the thing. It was a great idea, the perfect thing to have during the relaxed week between Christmas and New Year’s. Lots of games on. And of course, the New Year’s celebration itself.
He laid the box on the bedspread and clumped halfway down the stairs. He poked his head around the banister, calling for Sherry. She appeared around the corner wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Hey, hon, did we ever set up that New Year’s dinner?”
“Not yet. I suppose you want me to do that?”
Doug gave her his best little-boy grin. “Would you?”
“You’re impossible! Okay, fine, I’ll call the Woodwards tonight.”
“That’d be great. Keep it small.”
Sherry flicked her dish towel at him, cracking it through the slats on the stairs. She smiled at Doug’s mock yelp and waved her hand. “Go back to your present wrapping! I’ll make the call right now.”
“I love you, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Smiling, Sherry vanished around the corner, and Doug heard her pick up the phone.
He walked back up the stairs, unable to contain the grin on his face. They hadn’t been this playful in years. It was so fun again to be married! Doug sent up an earnest prayer of thanks. Then he hastened down the hallway to find some wrapping paper before the little hooligans who shared the house found their presents.
FIFTY-ONE
Marco banged through the kitchen doors, muttering to himself. The cooks eyed each other but didn’t say anything. The waitresses took one look at his face and decided against a cheery holiday greeting.
He barked out questions about the evening’s preparations, hardly waiting for the answers. A couple of times he asked the same question over again. After a few minutes of prowling around, he left the kitchen and headed toward his office.
Tyson looked up, irritated, when Marco came in, but he took a look at his face and didn’t say anything.
“Let’s get down to business.” Marco sat behind his desk. “I’m already late this evening, and I’ve got a lot to do. As do you, I’m sure.”
“Agreed.” Tyson popped open a briefcase and handed over a single sheet of paper. “Here’s the final list. We’re hoping for an even wider distribution of the product, and Proxy wants your girls to help grease the wheels.”
“I don’t recognize all these names.” Marco drummed his fingers on the desk. “Who’s this?” He pointed. “And this?”
“They are two high-up officers at the only large chain that’s been slow in stocking our product. No one knows why they chose to miss Christmas sales, but we need to get them on board. We could conceivably increase our market penetration to over 8 percent if this chain stocked the product for a few weeks before D-Day. And both men will be in town for a week after Christmas for some meetings. They’ll be steered toward the club. A perfect opportunity for your key girls to make something happen. I know several of the girls are gone, but some are still around, right?”
“Just two.”
“Hmph. Christmas. No one wants to work. Well, maybe you can mobilize the others once they get back. In the meantime, get started on this. It’s worth a double bonus to you if the girls succeed.”
Marco didn’t smile. “I’ll work on it. But it’s hard to accomplish anything substantive this time of year.”
“What better time for some of these corporate bigwigs to be in an expansive, generous mood?” Tyson narrowed his eyes. “You know Proxy doesn’t appreciate excuses.”
“I’ll try to make something happen,” Marco said. “But in the meantime, answer me a straight question. What do you plan to do with the girls? I notice their schedules are blank well before the big day.”
“You know better than to ask me that, Marco. That’s my jurisdiction, not yours.”
Marco went cold. Everything about the girls was his jurisdiction. But everything about the larger plan—including what witnesses and evidence to eliminate—was in Tyson’s. As he had suspected, the girls would never make it to Superbowl Sunday.
“Is there a problem?” Tyson seemed to be staring through him, reading his thoughts.
“No problem. I’ve just got a lot to do. Especially adding these deals to my plate.”
“I’m quite sure you can handle it.”
“I’m quite sure I can. In the meantime, I need to ask a favor relating to the Speed Shoes deal. The girl that set it up for us has been very pleased with her bonus.”
“As she should be.”
“She’d like—discreetly—to get a copy of the ad campaign if at all possible. To get a copy of the commercials, sort of like a memento since she brokered the deal. She can’t
ask Wade, obviously—he’d wonder why she cared. So she asked me if there was any way I could get her one.”
Tyson shrugged and opened his briefcase again. “Sure. Actually, I have a CD copy right here. There’s only three files on the CD—one for each ad in the series—and if you just click on a file, the commercial will run. I’m pretty sure this is the final version.”
Marco took the CD from him. It was in a paper slipcover with DEMO written across the front. “Anything else?”
“That’s it. Just find a way to get these final distribution deals approved.”
Once Tyson had left, Marco popped the CD into his computer. As promised, three files showed in the window. He clicked on the first one, and watched the ad that had been unveiled—and used so well—that fateful night a few weeks ago. The second ad—scheduled to be shown just after midnight on New Year’s Eve—ramped up the volume a bit, whetting appetites for the final commercial to be shown on Super Bowl Sunday.
With interest, Marco clicked on the third file … and cocked his head in surprise. Instead of running a third video clip, an error message popped up. “Unknown format. Specify.”
He clicked on it again. Same problem. His eyes narrowed. Could it be …?
He went to the door and jerked it open and hollered at a passing waitress.
“Get Maris in here!”
The waitress scurried off, and less than a minute later, Maris came strolling through the door.
“What’s eating you, boss?”
Marco gave her a look, and made an exasperated sound. “I have a file here I can’t open. You’re the only one in the place that’s not a total computer moron. Any ideas?”
“Gee, thanks for the compliment.”
Maris started forward, but Marco put out an arm, blocking the computer.
“Just tell me how to open it.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m not going to be able to figure out how to open it unless I can see the thing! Good grief, Marco, I’m not going to eat it!”
She pushed past him and he relented.
She frowned at the screen and began fiddling with the keyboard.
“It looks like it’s some sort of audio file, but your computer won’t open it. Maybe it’s an MP3—”
The Lights of Tenth Street Page 41
