“So, what's your decision?“ Michael asked.
I should know better than to make major decisions while taking Percocet.
I frowned at the ibuprofen bottle perched on the reception desk. Mutant Wizards had been so much easier to tolerate with Percocet. Still, having a clear mind had some advantages. I answered all the blinking lines in two minutes flat, cleared out the calls on hold, and was phoning in a cry for help to the temp agency when I heard the suite door open.
I looked up and froze with my lips halfway into a smile.
A pale young woman wearing a LAWYERS FROM hell T-shirt sidled into the reception area. She smiled in my general direction, but her eyes slid right over me and feverishly scanned the opening that led back to the main part of the offices.
“Hi,“ she said, absently fingering an ear decorated with at least a dozen varied rings and studs. “I wonder if you could help me.“
“Probably not,“ I said. “And anyway, why would I want to?“
I'm not usually that rude to visitors. But this wasn't your usual visitor.
“Huh?“ she gasped, finally looking at me.
“I was here last Monday when you came around, pretending you were from the plant-care service,“ I said. “And also on Wednesday, when you claimed you were bringing your boyfriend his lunch. And I'm the one who caught you trying to crawl in through a window last Friday.“
“You must have me confused with someone else,“ she began.
“Just give up, will you? Buy a copy of Lawyers from Hell II on December first, when it goes on sale. No one's going to give you a sneak preview before then, no matter how long you hang around here harassing people in the parking lot. I wasn't here when that CD-ROM found its way into your purse, but I heard about that, too.“
I'm not sure I'd have gotten rid of her, even after being so blunt – I'd been working at Mutant Wizards only for two weeks, but I'd already seen how persistent the rabid Lawyers from Hell fans could be. But help arrived: Katy, a 170-pound Irish wolfhound, strolled into the reception area and gave a gruff, bass bark.
Anyone who worked here would have known that the bark was Katyese for “Hi! Don't you want to feed me? It's been at least five minutes since I ate, and I might starve to death any second. So feed me! Please?“
The fan looked nervous, though. Not surprising; Katy was large, even for a wolfhound, and she had a disconcerting habit of not wagging her tail when she was trying to look pitiful. Or perhaps the fan was intimidated by the frantic growling that emerged from beneath the reception desk. If she could have seen Spike, the source of the growling, she'd probably have laughed – ironic, since Spike, though only a nine-pound fur ball, was much more liable to cause grievous bodily harm than mild-mannered Katy. Fortunately, Spike was confined to a dog crate, on the theory that eventually he'd calm down enough to participate fully in the Mutant Wizards' Bring Your Dog to Work policy. I wasn't betting on it.
Just then, the suite door opened, and a tall figure in a blue police uniform jingled his way into the reception area.
“Can I help you, ma'am?“ he said.
The persistent fan turned and fled. If she'd been paying attention, she might have noticed that the uniform fit rather badly. Or wondered if many real police officers wore black leather Reeboks and hung PEZ dispensers from their belts in addition to handcuffs and nightsticks.
“Ma'am? Ma'am?“ he called, following her into the hall. “Hey, lady, come back, please!“
The fan pressed the elevator button and then, when she saw he was following, bolted into the open door to the stairwell. Which was how most people came and went anyway, since the World War II – vintage elevators rarely arrived in less than ten minutes.
“Jeez, Meg, I'm sorry,“ he said, taking off his hat and wiping sweat from his forehead. I recognized the tall, gangly figure now. Frankie, one of the junior programmers. I was still struggling to attach names to faces for most of the thirty or so programmers and graphic artists on staff. Frankie I'd tagged the first day as “the eager one,“ because he was always underfoot, trying to help with anything anyone was doing. Anything, that is, except the apparently boring programming chores that actually constituted his job.
“Don't worry about it, Frankie,“ I said. “It was that rabid fan again.“
“The one who tried to get herself delivered in a Gateway box?“
“That's the one,“ I said. “So why are you dressed up like Caerphilly's finest?“
“The art department is going to use me as a model for some new characters,“ Frankie said. “What do you think?“
He twirled for me to admire his outfit.
“I'm amazed,“ I said. I was, actually. The uniform so emphasized Frankie's gangliness that he looked remarkably like a stork. And his habit of balancing on one leg and wrapping the other around it only enhanced the resemblance.
I must have kept a straight face, though. Frankie beamed with delight.
“Just make sure you're leading the pack if I have to push the panic button,“ I said.
“Panic button?“ he said, blinking vacantly.
“We went through this last week,“ I said. “This button under the desk that the receptionist can push discreetly if he or she feels threatened, remember? And it rings the bell back in the offices – “
“And we all run out to the reception area and rescue the receptionist from the intruder.“
“Very good.“
“Unless you're filling in for the receptionist, in which case we'd probably need to rescue the intruder,“ Frankie said, accompanying his words with a flailing gesture that was probably supposed to be some kind of karate move. Either that, or he was swatting gnats.
“Yes,“ I said, gritting my teeth. “That button.“
“Right,“ Frankie said. “No problem. I'd better go; the art guys are waiting.“
A model? I mused, as Frankie stalked off. True, Lawyers from Hell was populated with hundreds of characters – defendants, jurors, judges, bailiffs, arresting officers, witnesses, reporters, and, of course, lawyers. But they were represented on screen by cartoon characters, maybe an inch tall at the most. And while the graphic artists had done a wonderful job of giving them distinctive personalities, I had a hard time imagining the process required models.
Maybe it was just a practical joke to get Frankie to show up at the office in a police uniform, I thought, as I gave Katy a doggie treat and thumped her gently on the head with my bandage. That sounded more likely, here at Mutant Wizards.
I glanced up to see what Liz, Mutant Wizards' real live lawyer, thought of Frankie's outfit. Way up, since that's where she was at the moment. The office was mostly a jungle of cubes with five-foot partitions. Even the few enclosed rooms – the reception area, the executives' offices, the lunchroom, and the central library – generally had partitions instead of real walls. Sturdier partitions that were eight feet high instead of five, but partitions, just the same. The only permanent rooms in the whole place were the computer lab, which had floor-to-ceiling glass walls, and the bathrooms, which had old-fashioned solid walls, thank goodness. And die therapists' offices, of course, which were off on a small side corridor that would have given them a lot more privacy if it hadn't led to the bathrooms.
On the plus side, the minimal number of real walls meant that every part of the office got a lot of natural light, which hot only cut the electric bill but also helped morale – the long hours the staff worked would otherwise have kept many of them from seeing sunlight for days on end. On the minus side, it made for a pretty noisy environment, and anyone who wanted to chat privately with one of his creditors or make an appointment with her gynecologist usually ended up dragging a cell phone into the John.
It also meant that when Liz was hitting the books, boning up for a complicated legal brief, as she had been for the last several days, I could usually see her, sitting atop a set of library steps, leafing through books from the topmost shelves, to which the legal reference works had been exiled. The lower shelves, of course, were
packed with books on programming and military history, not to mention gaming magazines and obscure and incomprehensible comics and graphic novels.
I could see that she had looked up from her book and her eyes were following something down the corridor Frankie would have taken. She glanced over at me with one eyebrow raised, as if to say, “What on earth did you let into the office?“ I shrugged, and she rolled her eyes, shook her head, and returned to her book with a smile.
I turned back to the switchboard, also smiling. Liz was one of the few other females at Mutant Wizards. Also one of the few other normal people. And at the risk of being accused of female chauvinism, I confess that I didn't think this was a coincidence.
“I am a strong, self-reliant woman who makes her own decisions,“ a voice said at my elbow. I frowned. Not that I didn't approve of the sentiment, but it didn't sound quite normal when uttered in a voice that sounded like a kiddie-show host on helium. Spike didn't like it either, I deduced from the growl at my feet.
“Good morning, Dr. Brown,“ I said, glancing first at the bubblegum pink plush teddy bear and only as an afterthought at the more nondescript woman holding it.
“How do you like my new invention?“ she asked. “I call it an Affirmation Bear. Every time you press his tummy, he delivers another positive, affirming statement to his human friend.“
She demonstrated.
“I take care of my body by practicing wellness and exercising regularly,“ the bear squeaked. Spike began barking hysterically at the sound.
“Fascinating,“ I said. And meant it, actually; though what really fascinated me was trying to figure out what strange pranks the programmers would play if – no, make that “when“ – they got their hands on the Affirmation Bear. And was she just here to show me the bear, or was she about to lodge another complaint?
Dr. Brown was one of the six therapists who had a pre-existing sublease on part of the office suite into which Mutant Wizards had just moved. Liz, the lawyer, had negotiated valiantly to have them kicked out or bought out, with no luck. Thanks to the surrounding county's militant antigrowth policy, the office space market in Caerphilly was only slightly better than the housing market, and the therapists had no intention of giving up their quarters.
They had whined and complained their way through the build-out, but back then only Liz, Rob, and the real estate broker had to listen to them. Last Monday's moving day was a disaster. Liz had given the therapists ample warning and arranged to move as much stuff as possible over the weekend, to limit disruption during working hours. Maybe that helped a little. But moving day was the first time techies and therapists had to coexist in the same space. It was loathe at first sight.
Last Monday was also when I'd realized that I'd suddenly acquired responsibility for keeping the peace between the two groups. They'd quickly gotten used to running to me with their complaints and outrageous requests, like squabbling children running to their mother. I was already sick and tired of it.
But it's temporary, I told myself, forcing a smile onto my face as I looked at the garish pink bear. I can leave as soon as I figure out what's wrong, or reassure Rob that nothing's wrong. Or, more likely, as soon as my hand gets better. How can Rob expect me to get to the bottom of some kind of. wrongdoing if I have to spend all day minding the switchboard, keeping the shrinks and the geeks from killing each other, and listening to people's talking toys?
“Chill, Spike,“ I said. “It's only a bear.“
“Here, would you like to try it?“ Dr. Brown asked, thrusting the bear into my hands. “Just tickle his tummy to make him talk.“
I tickled. Nothing happened.
“You have to tickle a little harder.“
I finally got the bear to talk. It took a bit more than tickling; I'd have called it a gut punch.
“I am a calm, rational person who never resorts to physical violence to solve my problems,“ the bear reprimanded me. Spike settled for growling this time.
“Why don't you keep that one and try it out for a few days?“ Dr. Brown suggested. I glanced behind her and realized that she was dragging around a box larger than the one Dad's new monster television had come in. And it was chock-full of Affirmation Bears – all, alas, in the same ghastly shade of pink.
“Toodle-oo!“ she said as she left the reception area, trailing the box behind her.
My spirits rose – was it possible that she was going to wander around the office, passing out flamingo-colored teddy bears to anyone she encountered? That would certainly shorten the time it took for the guys around the office to turn Affirmation Bear into Withering Insult Bear, Dirty Limerick Bear, Monty Python Quote Bear, or whatever else struck their fancy.
I whacked the bear in the tummy again.
“I always try to see the best in every situation,“ the bear advised, and fell off the desk.
As I leaned down to pick him up, I saw a slender black paw reach out to bat at him. I leaned down farther and peered into the space where the drawer would have been if Rob hadn't removed it earlier that morning to make room for the latest addition to our menagerie: a very small but very pregnant black cat.
“If you want him, you can have him,“ I told her. She hissed softly and withdrew as far back into the drawer space as she could. I sighed. Cats usually warm to me much faster.
Then again, maybe it wasn't me. Maybe it was everything eke. Especially the number of dogs wandering in and out, not to mention having Spike caged only a few feet away beneath the other end of the desk.
While answering yet another line, I suddenly started. Someone was hovering at my shoulder. It was Roger, my least favorite programmer. He'd been hovering near me a lot, since my arrival – to the point that I'd begun to suspect he was working up his nerve to ask me out. Of course, to manage that, he'd have to figure out how to talk to me, instead of addressing random cryptic remarks to the ceiling of a room we happened to be sharing. I was only half joking when I'd tagged him “the Stalker.“ I made a mental note to bring in a picture of Michael and me together, so I could make sure Roger saw me gazing fondly at it. I pretended to be so absorbed in die switchboard traffic that I didn't see Roger, and eventually he wandered off.
The mail cart chugged through again, with Ted still draped on top. The switchboard routine worked so well on Roger that I repeated it with Ted, pretending the calls absorbed my attention so completely that I could barely be bothered to punch the switch to, set the cart in motion.
Spike barked hysterically until the cart disappeared. I wondered, briefly, what Ted was doing to set him off. But just then my pager went off.
I found the right button to silence its beeping and, after several tries, managed to read the message.
COPIER 2 OUT OF PAPER.
“That's it,“ I said. “Will someone please explain why they think it's easier to go back to their desks and page me about the copier, when the damned paper is just sitting there on the shelf, waiting to be loaded?“
“Because they're idiots?“ suggested a baritone voice behind me. I turned to see Jack Ransom, one of the team leaders. I'd have nicknamed Jack “the Hunk“ if it didn't feel disloyal to Michael, so I settled for “the Sane One.“ He didn't have a lot of competition for either title.
He had propped his tall, rangy frame against the partition just inside the opening that led to the main part of the office and was watching me with folded arms and a wry smile. I couldn't help smiling back, although something about the way he was looking at me suggested that yes, it probably was a good idea to buy a nice frame for that picture of Michael and me last New Year's Eve, and place it prominently on my desk.
“I thought they were supposed to be brilliant and original programmers,“ I said.
“Idiots savants, then,“ he said. “Want me to see about the paper?“
“You're an angel,“ I said. And then, worried that my enthusiasm would make him jump to a wrong conclusion, I concentrated on frowning at the pager while he strode off.
The pager had serve
d its purpose when we were moving, and no one knew whether they could find me at the old offices or the new or maybe down in the parking lot, putting the fear of God into the movers.
But now that we were settled in and they always knew where to find me… Yes, it was time for a discussion with Rob. About abuse of the pager.
And also abuse of my cell phone, which had started ringing. I reached over and punched the button to answer it.
“This had better be good,“ I said.
“Do I sense that you're having a less than pleasant morning?“ Michael asked.
“Sorry. Yeah, you could say that,“ I said, sinking back into my chair. “No worse than usual, really. Where are you calling from?“
“One of the parking lots natives of Los Angeles playfully call freeways. The 110, I think. Or did I already turn onto the 101? I'll have plenty of time to figure it out before the next turn; we're only going about three miles an hour.“
“Sounds stressful.“
“Mostly just boring,“ he said with a chuckle. “I think it would get stressful if I knew I had to do it for longer than a couple more weeks. So now that I know how your day's going, give me the details.“
With brief interruptions to field phone calls, I told Michael about my morning, trying to sound light and amusing instead of frazzled and whiny. Apparently it worked.
“No wonder you keep refusing to come out to Los Angeles,“ he said. “I don't have anywhere near that much fun on the set.“
I hoped he was serious. I knew that in the episode they were filming this week, Michael's character had to seduce an Amazon princess. That was the one thing I didn't like about the TV gig – apart from its location across the country, of course. Why couldn't they have cast Michael as the prim, puritanical monk character? Or any other role that didn't involve romancing so many female guest stars? I fingered the fading but still visible lacerations on my face and sighed. Another reason I'd decided to remain in Caerphilly for the time being. At my best, I knew my looks couldn't compete with the parade of twenty-something starlets who populated the show's sound stage, and while Michael seemed to appreciate my other qualities, I still thought I'd be better off avoiding a side-by-side comparison with them until I'd healed a bit.
Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon Page 2
