Makers Part 89

"I'm calling security dispatch now."

A moment later, Luis's phone rang and the kid listened intently, nodding unconsciously. Once he'd hung up, Sammy pa.s.sed him his backups, hardcopy and computer. "Let's go," he said.

"Right," Luis said, and led the way.

It was a short ride to the casting office building, where Guignol had his office. The wind felt terrific on his face, drying his sweat. It had been a long day.

When they pulled up, Sammy let Luis lead the way again, badging in behind him, following him up to the seventh-floor board-room. at the end of the Gold Coast where the most senior offices were.

Guignol met them at the door and took the materials from Luis, then ushered Sammy in. Sammy caught Luis's eye, and Luis surprised him by winking and slipping him a surrept.i.tious thumbs-up, making Sammy feel like they shared a secret.

There were eight on the executive committee, but they travelled a lot. Sammy had expected to see no more than four. There were two. And Hackelberg, of course. The lawyer was the picture of saurian calm.

Sammy sat down at the table and helped himself to a gla.s.s of water, watching a ring pool on the table's polished and waxed wooden surface.

"Samuel," Hackelberg said, shaking his head. "I hoped it wouldn't come to this."

Sammy took a deep breath, looking for that don't-give-a-s.h.i.t calm that had suffused him before. It was there still, not as potent, but there. He drew upon it.

"Let's put this to the committee, shall we? I mean, we already know how we feel."

"That won't be necessary," Hackelberg said. "The committee has already voted on this."

Sammy closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked at Hackelberg, who was smiling grimly, a mean grin that went all the way to the corners of his eyes.

Sammy looked around at Guignol and the committee members. They wouldn't meet his eye. Guignol gestured Luis into the room and handed him Sammy's computer, papers, and backups. He leaned in and spoke quietly to him. Luis turned and left.

Guignol cleared his throat. "There's nothing else to discuss, then,"

he said. "Thank you all for coming."

In his heart, Sammy had known this was coming. Hackelberg would beat him to the committee -- never let him present his side. Watching the lawyer get up stiffly and leave with slow, dignified steps, Sammy had a moment's intuition about what it must be like to be that man -- possessed of a kind of cold, furious power that came from telling everyone that not obeying you to the letter would put them in terrible danger. He knew that line of reasoning: It was the same one he got from the TSA at the airport before they bent him over and greased him up. *You can't understand the grave danger we all face. You must obey me, for only I can keep it at bay.*

He waited for the rest of the committee to file out. None of them would meet his eye. Then it was just him and Guignol. Sammy raised his eyebrows and spread out his hands, miming *What happens now?*

"You won't be able to get anything productive done until IT gets through with your computer. Take some time off. Call up Dinah and see if she wants to grab some holiday time."

"We split," Sammy said. He drank his water and stood up. "I've just got one question before I go."

Guignol winced but stood his ground. "Go ahead," he said.

"Don't you want to know what the numbers looked like?"

"It's not my job to overrule legal --"

"We'll get to that in a second. It's not the question. The question is, don't you *want to know*?"

Guignol sighed. "You know I want to know. Of course I want to know. This isn't about me and what I want, though. It's about making sure we don't endanger the shareholders --"

"So ignoring this path, sticking our heads in the sand, that's *good*

for the shareholders?"

"No, of course it's not good for the shareholders. But it's better than endangering the whole company --"

Sammy nodded. "Well, how about if we both take some time off and drive down to Hollywood. It'd do us some good."

"Sammy, I've got a job to do --"

"Yeah, but without your computer..."

Guignol looked at him. "What did you do?"

"It's not what I did. It's what I might have done. I'm going to be a good boy and give Hackelberg a list of everyone I might have emailed about this. All those people are losing their computers to the big magnet at IT."

"But you never emailed me about this --"

"You sure? I might have. It's the kind of thing I might have done. Maybe your spam-filter ate it. You never know. That's what IT's for."

Guignol looked angry for a moment, then laughed. "You are such a s.h.i.thead. f.u.c.k that lawyer a.s.shole anyway. What are you driving these days?"

"Just bought a new Dell Luminux," Sammy said, grinning back. "Rag-top."

"When do we leave?"

"I'll pick you up at 6AM tomorrow. Beat the morning traffic."

Suzanne was getting sick of breakfast in bed. It was hard to imagine that such a thing was possible, but there it was. Lester stole out from between the covers before 7AM every day, and then, half an hour later, he was back with a laden tray, something new every day. She'd had steaks, burritos, waffles, home-made granola, fruit-salad with Greek yogurt, and today there were eggs Benedict with fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice. The tray always came with a French press of fresh-ground Kona coffee, a cloth napkin, and her computer, so she could read the news.

In theory, this was a warm ritual that ensured that they had quality time together every day, no matter what. In practice, Lester was so anxious about the food and whether she was enjoying it that she couldn't really enjoy it. Plus, she wasn't a fatkins, so three thousand calorie breakfasts weren't good for her.

Most of all, it was the pressure to be a happy couple, to have cemented over the old hurts and started anew. She felt it every moment, when Lester climbed into the shower with her and soaped her back, when he brought home flowers, and when he climbed into bed with her in the morning to eat breakfast with her.

She picked at her caviar and blini glumly and poked at her computer. Beside her, Lester hoovered up three thousand calories'

worth of fried dough and clattered one-handed on his machine.

"This is delicious, babe, thanks," she said, with as much sincerity as she could muster. It was really generous and nice of him to do this. She was just a bitter old woman who couldn't be happy no matter what was going on in her life.

There was voicemail on her computer, which was unusual. Most people sent her email. This originated from a pay phone on the Florida Turnpike.

"Ms Church, this is -- ah, this is a person whom you recently had the acquaintance of, while on your holidays. I have a confidential matter to discuss with you. I'm travelling to your location with a colleague today and should arrive mid-morning. I hope you can make some time to meet with me."

She listened to it twice. Lester leaned over.

"What's that all about?"

"You're not going to believe it. I think it's that Disney guy, the guy I told you about. The one Death used to work for."