by PJ Manney
A nervous titter sprung up around the table.
Josiah barked, “Even though Talia is more than up to the task of defending herself, I’d suggest we stop if others might be less entertained.” His look demanded obedience. Danielle smirked, Maggie sulked, and Bruce regarded his defense with surprise.
Vera caught on to the mood, and suddenly legitimized by the others’ censure, gently asked, “Tom, how did you lose your sight?”
“Thanks for asking, Vera. Most people think it’s impolite and end up concocting stories that are invariably wrong. I had brain lesions in the optical lobe from an accident,” he said, touching the back of his skull.
Dave asked, “Why don’t you get one of those retinal implants?”
“Those replace the retina. That’s not my problem. It’s my brain, or lack of it.”
The band struck up a reasonable cover of the Police’s “Every Breath You Take ( . . . I’ll Be Watching You)” and a sly, ironic grin covered Paine’s face. He placed a hand on Talia’s arm. “Would you like to dance?”
Her hand covered his and squeezed hard. “Yes, please.”
Tom bowed his head to the group. “Please excuse us,” he said as Talia led him to the dance floor.
“Let’s get closer to the band,” said Tom. It would be harder for microphones to hear them.
Tom’s left hand held Talia’s right and his right palmed her tiny waist. She leaned her forearm and head on his chest. They could see the members and their women watch enviously.
The halter-topped gown left her back bare to the waist, and he appreciatively ran his fingertips down the silky ripples of her spine. “I can read you like Braille.”
“What do I say?” She moved sinuously under his touch.
Tom’s fingers danced for a moment more. “Still a mystery. Better brush up on my Braille.”
“If you’re a good boy, I’ve got something to show you. And tell you later.”
“Mmmmmm . . . I like show and tell. If I guess now, will you tell me if I’m right?”
“Nope. You’re too good at guessing. You’ll just have to wait.”
They danced silently for a moment, then he whispered, “They’re almost here.”
Talia buried her anxiety-filled face against his chest.
When they returned to the table, Vera commented, “You two are very romantic together. Couples should dance more often. They’d probably be happier if they did.”
“If I’d known you were sentimental, I’d have bought a corsage,” Bruce flung back.
Vera’s face fell.
“Restrain yourself, Bruce,” growled Josiah.
Even Bruce took notice through his veil of inebriation.
The empty seats haunted Tom. When filled, a world of hurt would engulf him. He had to keep dancing. “I agree with Vera,” said Paine. “I think a man hasn’t done his job if he doesn’t try to seduce his lover at least once a day.”
The wives regarded Talia with envy, Paine with desire, and their husbands with contempt for their lack of initiative.
Lobo cracked, “It isn’t the once-a-day part that’s a problem for me. It’s the one lover . . .”
Vera moved his fresh vodka to her place setting.
“It’s about time!” exclaimed Josiah with relief. “Thought only New Yorkers and Los Angelenos believed in bein’ fashionably late!”
Unable to turn around because it was senseless for a blind man, Tom stood carefully. Talia tensed and squeezed his hand. Hard. When the new guests stood next to the seats, Paine surreptitiously glanced at them from behind his dark glasses.
He held his breath as the world disappeared beneath him. Carter pulled out a chair for Amanda right next to Tom.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Tall, slender, tan, and blond, they reminded him of fraternal twins. With their beauty, posture, and effortless elegance, they could be the twin gods Apollo and Artemis, descended from a Bay Area Olympus to dally with the all-too-mortal Angelenos.
This was a traveling political fund-raiser run by a political action committee. It was going to San Francisco later that week, so there was no reason for Carter and Amanda to come to Los Angeles, unless Josiah wanted Carter’s opinion about Thomas Paine that evening. Carter must have been forgiven for his misjudgment regarding Peter Bernhardt.
The chiffon from Amanda’s dress brushed up against Tom’s pant leg, and he was afraid to move it away. He was prepared for her gamine, white-blond hair. But her face seemed softer, and her breasts filled out her cream-colored silk gown, covering her thickening waist with its empire cut. He recognized her body’s changes.
Rage bubbled up. He wanted to kill them.
His former partner was giddy. “Everyone? I don’t think you’ve met Amanda . . . well maybe Josiah!”
The old man nodded, smiling with tepid benevolence.
“Sorry I’ve been so hard to reach, but we wanted to keep the secret until now, until her debut . . .” Carter squeezed Amanda’s shoulder lovingly. “We eloped last weekend . . .”
Eight glasses were lifted in a chorus of congratulations.
“Wait!” interrupted Carter, laughing. “Because we’re pregnant! Can you believe it? I’m going to be a father!”
Everyone else rushed the couple to kiss cheeks, slap backs, and shake hands. Brant’s knowing calm meant Carter had cleared it with the old man first. Maybe it was Josiah’s idea.
“Carter’s so busy making sure I meet everybody before I can’t travel anymore,” apologized Amanda, “that you’ll have to tell me all your names again. Since we got pregnant, my memory’s shot.” She was not virginal, chaste Artemis. She was Ariadne, wife of Dionysus, god of fertility. All that wine, women, and song had consequences.
Danielle asked Amanda, “How long have you known Carter?”
Amanda took her husband’s hand. “Since freshman year at Stanford, and we’ve been best friends since. It was Carter who picked me up and took care of me after . . . my late . . .” She sighed heavily. “I guess it’s not surprising we already loved each other, but when we turned to each other in grief . . . we fell in love.” The couple gazed adoringly into each other’s eyes. A chorus of “Awwwws” rang around them.
It was a play, and everyone knew their lines. They would all pretend they knew nothing about her and her past.
Paine leaned toward Amanda. She smiled at his attention, and her glowing eyes, so close to his, shot through him like a bullet. “Please forgive me, but I’m a stranger in these parts.” His voice was shaky. He sent a signal to his brain’s limbic system to calm down. It wasn’t working. “Who was your late husband and what did he do?” Talia dug her lacquered nails into his thigh, hard enough to draw blood. He ignored it.
An odd, aloof look crossed Amanda’s face. “He was a bioengineer and entrepreneur.”
“And what was his name?”
She waited until attention had moved away from her and whispered, “Peter Bernhardt.”
He was grateful his eyes were covered. “I’m extremely sorry for your loss,” he said quietly.
Amanda stared at the napkin covering her expanding belly. “Thank you.” After a moment, she stuck her hand out.
But Paine didn’t respond.
Talia interjected, “You’ll have to forgive him. He’s blind and can’t see your gesture.” Talia lifted Tom’s hand and placed it in Amanda’s.
His ex-wife’s soft fingers felt fragile in his sweaty palm. “Please forgive me. I’m Thomas Paine. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Amanda Potsdam. Nice to meet you, too.” Her face clouded over, and she stared quizzically at their mutual grip.
At the piano’s attack of the first G chord, he knew the song instantly. His minimal composure evaporated. Carter stood, one hand out to his wife, the other on the back of her chair. “Please excuse us. This is our song. Darling?” Amanda released Tom’s hand and joined her husband to walk to the dance floor.
The golden pair danced to “American Pie.” Why did they play this
damned song at every club-infiltrated function? The first time they danced, it was the puppet master moving a pretty marionette around the floor. Now having shared bodily intimacies, Amanda moved against Carter as if Ginger Rogers had had wild, passionate sex with Fred Astaire. Tom wasn’t the only one to notice. Maggie and Danielle stared dreamily at them.
Had the music died for Tom, along with everything else?
During dessert, Carter changed seats with Amanda, settling in with chummy camaraderie. “Excuse me, but I wanted to introduce myself again. I’m Carter Potsdam. So what do you think of our little cabal?”
“Tom Paine. And congratulations again on your happy news.” Smiling, he was grateful the wait staff had removed the steak knives. “But why call this a ‘cabal’? Doesn’t that word imply a conspiracy?”
“Well, I’m sure Josiah’s gone over the club with you. We promote people who deserve promoting and effect positive change in the country at a level politics and the market can’t reach. If that’s not a nondemocratic conspiracy, I don’t know what is!” Carter took advantage of Tom’s disability to scrutinize him closely. Aspects of his presentation registered their importance in Carter’s subtle facial movements: the immaculately tailored, bespoke tuxedo and shirt, his handmade dress shoes, his custom-made sunglasses, his haircut and manicure, the expressions he made at Carter’s words. This was a common reaction, but Carter’s systematic, ruthless appraisal was the closest he’d felt to undressing in public since Talia. While Tom passed the physical inspection, there was doubt in Carter’s eyes. Why did Josiah want this blind man so much? “Josiah’s told me you’ll be looking for a new gig . . .”
“You mean after my initiation?”
The Cheshire cat grin gleamed. “He told you that? He must really like you.”
“But others may not . . .” whispered Tom.
Carter glanced back at Lobo. The tech titan had passed the point of social drinking, leaning back in his seat, unfocused eyes with lids at half-mast. Given his dilated pupils, it was probable he had taken a stronger substance, as well. Having jettisoned her wasted paramour, Vera was deep in conversation with Talia, the only woman who would talk to her. Shifting his chair closer to Tom, Carter leaned in and said, “Take it as a compliment.”
Tom laughed. “So I’ve been told. Now tell me, Carter Potsdam, what do you do?”
Carter gave him the rundown on Prometheus Industries, the Hippo 2.0 and the Cortex 2.0, minus the participation of Peter Bernhardt or Ruth Chaikin. “The bioengineering we do at Prometheus could benefit someone like you, but it might be years down the line. Right now it’s aimed at correcting cognitive disorders, but perceptive disorders are an area of interest as well.” He explained how parts of the cognitive prosthetics might solve the connection problem at the root of his blindness by acting as both a replacement for the first rung of damaged neurons and a neural bridge between his optic nerve and the visual neurons that were still active.
If he knew about the blindsight, Carter was briefed by the club on more than the basics of Thomas Paine’s background.
“If what you say is true, I’m fascinated by your work. Do you have any interest in taking on a partner? Are you the type who’s had partners in the past and finds you can take advantage of what they offer?”
Hearing a double meaning, Carter pulled back, spooked, and said nothing.
“I’m sorry, did I make an improper assumption? Forgive me, but you strike me as extremely socially adept. Social types like partnerships. It gives you a mirror to gauge your impact and appreciate the difficulty of your accomplishments. It’s hard to be proud of your work when you lose your perspective or outsiders denigrate you for having it all come so easy. Am I right?”
Carter’s right eyelid fluttered as he struggled with the instant psychoanalysis. “It is hard to be proud of what you do sometimes . . .”
“You’d be surprised how common that feeling is among entrepreneurs. I’ve learned how to overcome it. Even when the work doesn’t pan out.”
Tom could see the cogs turning as Carter glanced in Josiah’s direction.
“Well, hypothetically,” said Carter, “if someone like you became involved in Prometheus, you could motivate research toward your ends.”
“True, but my motives are simpler than that. I missed out on the ground floor of the computing revolution. If I miss out on biotech, especially when it might benefit me, then I’m just an idiot, aren’t I?” Tom laughed. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to invite myself into your company, Carter. You don’t know me from Adam! I’m just excited by your prospects and, as you know, I have a lot to offer, especially with my knowledge of global markets. We could keep each other on the straight and narrow, couldn’t we?”
Carter took a very long time to swallow.
The rest of the evening was interminable with self-congratulatory speeches by people who couldn’t be elected dogcatcher endorsing those who should have remained dogcatcher. Women chattering about plastic surgery for pets, men holding forth about golf handicaps and measuring the size of their genitals by comparing tax shelters and transportation. Carter and Amanda were the center of attention, except when Carter and Josiah had a quiet conference in the corner of the ballroom about Tom. The hidden bugs picked it up: Carter told Josiah about Tom’s offer of partnership. Josiah not only encouraged it, he demanded it. And he told Carter of Lobo’s unacceptable behavior during the dinner. Carter was surprised at the vehemence of Josiah’s reaction.
It wasn’t until Tom and Talia prepared to leave that Josiah pulled him aside.
“I just took an informal poll of our members. If you enjoyed who you met, barin’ that little display on Bruce’s part and some catty women, who, if you don’t mind my sayin’, are simply envious of your beautiful and clever lady, I’d like to plan your initiation in DC.”
“Please don’t worry about it,” said Tom, smoothing the waters. “I don’t take it personally, and it made for an amusing evening. I’d be honored to join.”
“The sooner, the better to get you safe from your . . . problems. You don’t want to miss camp. It’s too much fun to wait a whole ’nother year.”
“I’d hate to wake my pilots from their beauty sleep. I could leave in the morning.”
“Good.” He pumped Paine’s hand. “I’ve ordered an accelerated process. Initiation tomorrow night or the night after. Gotta scare up a quorum in the meantime.” He patted Tom’s back. “See ya soon, son.”
Alone, Tom reached out and found a chair back to anchor to until Talia could tow him to the car. A hand touched his shoulder. A hand he knew.
“Hi . . . it’s Amanda Potsdam again.”
How could her touch make him love her and hate her at the same time? Did emotions have quantum states of nonlocality and entanglement like subatomic particles, flipping from one emotion to the other with observation? Resisting the impulse to clasp his hand on hers and kiss it, he turned, and her hand fell. She took up his to shake.
“I wanted to say good night. It was a pleasure to meet you . . .” She paused, regarding their gripped hands, her fingers subtly rubbing his skin. Slowly, she turned his palm up. Her face paled like that only once before: when she lost their baby. Would she believe her feelings or brush them off as impossible?
“It was a pleasure to meet you, too,” he replied. Her grasp triggered a twenty-year rush of memories that suffocated his critical faculties. Was she feeling the same, or was her troubled face guilty? The room spun to catch with his whirlwind of thoughts. She was so close . . . he could snap her neck in an instant . . .
He slid his hand from hers and clung to the chair back for dear life.
“I still have morning sickness,” she said. “Please excuse me . . .”
“I’m sorry. Of course. Good night . . .” Amanda stood there a moment longer, chewing her thumbnail, not sure if she could leave him. She caught a glimpse of Carter, laughing loudly with Josiah at the exit. Then she hurried away.
After a minute, Talia rushed up to hi
m. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t ever leave me alone like that again,” he hissed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Their chauffeured car drove along Sunset Boulevard and up Pacific Coast Highway, past darkened homes illuminated by security and streetlights. No one said anything. Talia tried to speak, but Tom shook his head, unable to speak freely in transit. While he’d bug-proofed the car, they might be tailed, or a new bug could have been introduced that evening. He’d developed a code with the driver, a security expert hired by Talia. If either of them tuned the music to “Galileo” by the Indigo Girls, it meant they were being followed. If they tuned it to Johnny Cash’s “Man in Black” it required evasive action. He had already played “Galileo” once tonight.
Closing his eyes, Tom tried to meditate, but only his synthetic cortex concentrated on the flow of breath. The organic cortex fantasized various revenge scenarios. It wasn’t calming in the least. Frustrated, he played back the party’s jacked recordings, culling them for clues.
Talia led Tom into their Malibu home in silence. While eavesdropping was always an issue, Tom had taken many steps to secure the building even before Lobo’s gang infiltrated it during his party. Their enormous windows were made of two layers of glass with nanowire mesh and, in the space between panes, music was piped in to garble detectable sound vibrations. He chose the playlist with irony in mind, alternating selections like Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture” with John Fogerty’s “Bad Moon Rising” and Elton John’s “The King Must Die.” In addition, the windows were covered in clear counterintelligence film that blocked wireless radio frequencies into and out of their home, so hackers couldn’t pick up transmissions or attack them with electromagnetic interference. The film bounced laser mics, infrared sights, and even photography. Likewise, aluminum-iron oxide paint covered the walls, blocking and absorbing airborne data. He installed a signal scrambler to neutralize “house-fly bugs” flown through open doors and windows and “barnacle bugs” discovered attached to the building’s pilings. He mentally ordered his security system to increase randomized, distracting signals appropriate to each room, hoping the club’s spy personnel were as disorganized and cocky as the government’s, which would buy some time.
