“Time for coffee.”
Tony’s head snapped back; he looked up into Harve’s concerned face. “Uh—what?”
“Time for a coffee break,” Harve explained, then put a fatherly hand on Tony’s shoulder. “They called me over when you wouldn’t respond to anything they said. You okay?”
“Okay? Forsooth! Uh, I mean—yeah.” Tony stood up, feeling as though he’d run a mile after a full-hour workout. “Got the system fixed, too.”
“Really!” Somehow, Harvey didn’t sound all that surprized. “How’d you get rid of it?”
“With a little help from a friend.” Tony tried a step, found he could keep his balance. “And I could really use that coffee.”
Of course, Tony didn’t have the nerve to ask Sandy for a date every night. He felt presumptuous enough asking for Fridays and Saturdays. So after work every day, he stopped into his favorite coffeehouse for a cappuccino and a browse through the evening paper. He most pointedly did not go to an Internet cafe; he was content to leave his work in the office. So it was a bit of a surprize when the well-groomed stranger sat down at his table and asked, “Tony Ricci?”
Tony looked up from the paper, startled, then sat up straight. “I am, yes. And you are . . . ?”
“Jane Harr.” The woman held out her hand. “I’m with Morgan, Baldwin, and Dallas.”
Tony froze in the act of shaking hands, recognizing the name of the second most prestigious computer consulting firm in town. Then he finished the handshake, mustering his composure—which wasn’t hard, since he could feel his defenses going up—and said, “Pleased to meet you.”
“And I to meet you.” Harr smiled. “We’ve been hearing quite a lot about you across town.”
“I didn’t do it,” Tony said automatically.
Harr laughed. “On the contrary, we hear you did. The computer interrupted by some hacker’s short story, the virus trashing the system, the worm at the securities company—oh yes, you’re developing quite a reputation.”
“Oh. Well.” Tony dismissed the accomplishments with a wave of his hand. “Just good fortune, you know. Lucky hunches.” He could almost feel St. Vidicon bridling at being called a “lucky hunch.”
“But that’s what we need,” Harr said, “someone who happens to have lucky hunches about computer problems. You’re not going to go very far in this industry staying with a small start-up company.”
Stubborn loyalty rose in Tony—why, he didn’t know. “They treat me pretty well at Bald and Chane.”
“I’m sure,” Harr said, “but does that include paying you what you’re worth?”
Tony shrugged. “No complaints about salary.”
“Other than that they have to pay you by the month because they’d go broke if they paid you by the hour,” Harr said with a smile of amusement.
That rubbed Tony the wrong way, especially because it was probably true. He shrugged. “That’s a pretty standard reason for putting people on salary—and there’s no way to tell how long these lucky hunches will last.”
“And no way to tell how long it will be before Bald and Chane is bought out by a bigger consulting firm,” Harr said.
Tony stared, then shook his head, smiling. “They’d never sell.”
“For two million dollars?”
Tony did some quick mental calculations that the firm was probably billing about half a million a year—and that was gross. “They still wouldn’t sell.” He raised his glass to sip as he asked, “Why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?”
“To get a golden goose, of course,” Harr said, “one that lays nice little nuggets of regular payments. All right, so the buyout price might be higher, but they’ll sell when they realize they can live very comfortably for the rest of their lives if they invest wisely.”
Tony almost choked at the thought of Al Bald and Harvey Chane investing wisely. He set the glass down carefully, reminding himself that they would probably have the good sense to choose a sound mutual fund. “If I liked the new management, I’d stay on.”
“If you could,” Harr said. “New management usually wants to pick its own players. You’d be wiser to come to a bigger company now, for half again as much as you’re earning.”
That gave Tony pause; another thirty thousand a year was nothing to laugh at. But he remembered how Harvey had gone to bat for him when he walked out on the client manager who’d thought that hiring a consultant gave him the right to rant and rave at Tony. You couldn’t put a price on that kind of support. “I’ll jump that ship when it starts sinking.”
“I hope you have a life raft when it does.” Harr handed him a card. “Think it over; there’s no rush. If you change your mind within the week, let me know.” She smiled, rose, and left.
Tony breathed a sigh of relief. He would never have guessed that being offered a better job could be so nerve-wracking.
“One-two-three, one-two-three—that’s right, a sort of swinging diagonal. Turn as you step . . . yes, that’s it. One-two-three, one-two-three . . .”
Side by side, the systems analyst and the saint stepped off the classic pattern of the waltz. The ruby hall within which they danced certainly didn’t provide the best footing for the project, but it had room enough.
“You don’t really have to do this,” Tony gasped. “I am taking lessons, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Father Vidicon said grimly, “and I’ve seen how much progress you’re making. Face it, Tony—we have to reprogram the motor skills in your brain, and the best way to do that is to practice while you’re asleep. From the beginning, now—one-two-three, one-two-three . . .”
The saint drilled him mercilessly for half an hour. The bright side of it was that, being only his dream-self, Tony’s legs wouldn’t ache in the morning.
Finally satisfied with Tony’s progress, Father Vidicon called a halt. “You’ll do for the evening. Are you sure the band will be playing a waltz in a nightclub?”
Tony nodded. “It’s the music for a really great dance sequence in the hit movie of the summer, Father. It probably won’t last out the year, but it’s back and very big at the moment, so every band has come up with its own rock waltz.”
Father Vidicon shuddered. “If you say so, Tony. You can be sure you’ll be competent. Remember, though, hold her no closer than six inches!”
At least Father Vidicon’s errands kept Tony busy in the evenings and helped pass the time until he could see Sandy again. The days dragged, and it became harder and harder to keep his mind on his various minor fix-it tasks when visions of green eyes and a mischievous smile kept appearing on the computer screen.
Then, suddenly, it was Friday night.
Tony had to swallow hard as he rang Sandy’s doorbell. He wasn’t ready for this.
You’re as ready as you’ll ever be, a little voice said inside his head, and he was pretty sure he knew whose. He was very much afraid Father Vidicon might be right.
The tiny loudspeaker above the mailboxes asked in a tinny version of Sandy’s voice, “Who is it?”
“Tony,” he called in answer. “Ready for the Marinara?”
“Famished!” she answered. “Be right down.”
Tony stood waiting, wondering where his question had come from. How had he known how to ask the right one?
He thought he knew the answer, but he tried to ignore it. Surely he could do his own talking! Not that he wouldn’t appreciate whatever help he could get . . .
Then she was there, resplendent in an ivory dress with a subtle flower pattern, a strand of pearls, and a dark wrap draped over her arm, opening the door with a smile of anticipation.
“Wow,” Tony breathed, and could feel his eyes bulging. Then, a bit louder, “You’re lovelier than ever tonight.”
“Why, thank you, sir.” The roguish smile said she was pleased. “Ready to whisk me away on your magic carpet?”
“Why, yes, fair lady.” Tony took the wrap, held it for her as she turned away, and slipped it on. As she turned back, he
offered his arm. “I hope you don’t mind yellow carpets with wheels.”
“My favorite.” She stepped down the stairs beside him and into the cab.
It was a good beginning for a wonderful evening. After dinner, Tony remembered that he had a couple of tickets to a jazz concert and, better yet, had them with him. After the jazz came a couple of drinks—one apiece, just enough to lower Tony’s inhibitions so that, when Sandy glanced longingly at the hardwood, he actually heard himself asking, “Care to dance?”
“Yes, if you can dance with care,” Sandy returned, and held out her hand. They stepped out onto the floor and, wonder of wonders, Tony remembered the steps Father Vidicon had taught him. Even more surprising, he actually had some coordination. He knew he was out of fashion, but Sandy joined in enthusiastically. Tony had no trouble remembering the six-inch rule on the fast dance, but on the slow one, Sandy stepped right up against him, and the exaggerated shuffle everybody else was doing didn’t leave much room for the box step Tony had learned. Nonetheless, he tried it, and managed to open up at least an inch between them on the turns. Sandy seemed surprized, but not really disappointed.
By the time she said, “No, thanks,” to his offer of another dance, and by way of explanation, “I’m kinda tired,” Tony was surprized to realize almost an hour had passed.
They chatted pleasantly on the way out the door and home in the cab; Tony discovered a knack for delivering straight lines with a straighter face, and Sandy was delighted to come in with the punch lines. He was in a happy daze as he opened the cab door for her—it was the first date he’d ever had that had gone really well. So, all in all, he shouldn’t have been surprized when she opened her door, then turned back, and asked him, “Want to come in for a nightcap?”
“Uh . . .” Tony swallowed. “Uh, yeah! Thanks. Let me go tell the cab.” He kept himself from running down the steps, handed the driver a ten and a five, and said, “Come back for me in half an hour, okay?”
“Sure, buddy.” The driver winked. “How long do you want me to wait when I come back?”
“Oh . . . ten minutes,” Tony said. “I’m sure I won’t be late.”
“Tough luck,” the driver sympathized. “Step in the right direction, though.”
As he drove off, Tony turned and went back up the stairs, reflecting that it was only the first of many probable steps.
“Thoughtful of you,” Sandy said, still smiling, and opened the door.
“Cab drivers are people, too,” Tony said, as they started up the inside stairs, “and you want them to remember you fondly.”
“Boy, is that ever true!” Sandy said with a grimace. “The number of times I’ve stood on a street corner in the rain, wishing a driver I knew would see me and pull over ...”
“I’m surprized even a strange cab driver wouldn’t pull over after one look at you,” Tony said gallantly.
“Why, thank you, sir,” Sandy said with a mock curtsy.
They only had to climb one flight, and the lingering smell of cabbage told Tony that this wasn’t a singles-only building. “Do you get to know your neighbors here?”
“Not really.” Sandy unlocked her door. “I leave too early. But I do get to hear raised voices as they try to get the kids ready for school.” There was something wistful about her tone, but before Tony could register it, she had opened the door and turned on the lights.
The table lamps were set low, illuminating a room that was decorated not to display good taste but to seem warm and cozy. Sandy stepped over to a stereo, hit a button, and the sound of strings murmured over the room. She hung her wrap on a hat rack, then went over to a console across the room. “Just hang up your coat and sit anywhere.”
Hopefully, Tony sat on the couch.
Sandy opened the top of the console and took out a bottle. “Crème de menthe okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
She brought the two miniature glasses and sat beside him on the sofa, not too close, as she handed him his. He sipped and nodded appreciatively. “This would be good first thing in the morning.”
Sandy stared. “You’re not an alcoholic!”
“No, but it sure beats my mouthwash.”
The stare held a second, then dissolved in laughter. “Serves me right for taking you seriously.”
“Well, I’m serious some of the time.”
“Most of the time, from what I’ve seen of you.” Sandy gave him a merry look over the rim of her glass. “But you did it with such a straight face! How am I supposed to know when you are and when you aren’t?”
“Content,” Tony said. “If it’s important, I’m serious. For example, if I tell you you’re beautiful, that’s serious.”
Sandy blushed and turned away to set her glass on the coffee table. “Don’t, Tony.”
Tony heaved a sigh. “You see my problem? People don’t want to know what I really think unless I make a joke out of it.”
“You’d better not be joking if you say something like that!” Sandy glared at him, her face scarcely a foot away.
“I’m not,” Tony said.
They sat staring at one another for a few heartbeats. Then, slowly, Tony leaned forward and kissed her.
Her lips were soft beneath his, but nothing more—until he began nibbling. Then she gasped and began to return the kiss.
Tony was about to deepen the kiss and bring up a hand to touch when a voice inside his head said, very clearly, No closer than six inches, Tony!
Chapter 8
Tony leaned back from the kiss to gasp for air. “Wow,” he said softly.
“Wow is right,” Sandy said, a little breathless, and started to lean forward again.
Frantically, Tony glanced at his watch. “Blast! I told that cab driver half an hour!”
Sandy only stared at him in disbelief.
“I can’t believe it’s been that long.” Tony stood up. “Thanks for the taste.”
Outrage hovered about Sandy until she saw the glass in his hand. He drank it off, then set it down as he moved to the door. “Thanks very much. It’s been magical.”
“Oh!” Sandy paused in following him, momentarily confused, then said, “You can always call another cab.”
“I could,” Tony said, “but the half hour limit was a timing device.”
“Timing?” Sandy was thinking about being angry again. “Why would you need it?”
“To make sure I don’t ask for too much.”
The anger evaporated; she smiled, stepping closer. “What if I wanted you to?”
“All the more reason why I shouldn’t ask,” Tony said, “the first time you let me in.”
Somehow Sandy was closer than six inches. “How about the second time?”
“Ask me and find out,” Tony said, and meant to open the door, but her lips were so very close, so soft and tempting, then brushing against his, he was exploring them with his own, tasting, savoring, and he felt her body against his own, printing its image, astounding, burning . . .
He lifted his head with a gasp, breathed, “Thank you,” and slipped out the door.
He pulled it shut behind him, then sagged back against it until his knees were strong enough to hold him. As he went down the stairs, he knew this was one night he would never, ever forget.
When he got back to his apartment, Tony flipped through the day’s collection of mail and found an invitation to a seminar about the latest operating system innovation, which made him wonder if that was how Sandy had learned computers. Then he made a hot drink, which reminded him of the coffee breaks he’d interrupted, which reminded him of Sandy, and watched an episode of a sitcom featuring ordinary young people (like himself) talking about inconsequentialities that mattered to people his age, all of which reminded him of Sandy.
In fact, that evening, everything reminded him of Sandy.
Sighing, he gave up and went to bed, expecting to dream about Sandy.
Instead, the moment he fell asleep, he found himself back in the moist maroon hallway walking b
eside Father Vidicon, who gave him a merry look and said, “You’re drafted.”
Tony’s pulse leaped; he found himself grinning with anticipation. “Whose crisis is it this time?”
“The frame storer died?” Beth cried. “How am I supposed to put the phone number on the screen?”
“Use the character generator, of course.” Bill was producing the pledge breaks and didn’t see the problem.
Beth took a breath and a firm hold on her temper. “The character generator’s down.” It had suffered one of the thousand shocks that microprocessors are heir to and was writing squiggles onto the screen instead of titles.
Bill stared at her blankly. “Then use the graphics generator.”
“Its title program crashed.”
Bill stared, appalled. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“Because I had the slides in the frame storer!”
Bill shook his head, mystified by the ways of directors. “They were all working this afternoon.”
“Sure,” Beth said, “before the engineers went home. How am I supposed to direct a pledge break without being able to put up the telephone number for the viewers to call?”
Finally, Bill was beginning to look rattled. “Call Jerry.”
Jerry was the chief engineer. “I did. I left a message on his voice mail.”
“I thought he had a cell phone!”
“He does. It’s turned off. Angelica remembered that he said something about taking his wife to the movies.”
“George, then!”
“George had to go to Springfield to fix the satellite transmitter. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”
Bill’s face could have passed for the Mask of Tragedy. “Any of the other engineers?”
“Erin’s in the orchestra in the middle of a concert. Joe’s at a seminar. Ned has a hot date.”
Saint Vidicon to the Rescue Page 11
