Free The Milkman: A Freeworld Novel by Michael Martineck

share.”
    “Yes. About that.” Marshall adjusted his microphone, which didn’t adjust, which Sylvia knew full well didn’t matter because it wasn’t even connected to anything. Judging by the powdery look of the steel, it hadn’t been used for its original purpose in a century. “I have yet to unmute my channels.”
    “Did you check out Gavin?”
    “He is what he seems. A man greasing himself to make any kind of slide. He makes deals. He’s gotten lucky as of late.”
    “But no word on his backers.”
    “Not yet. I’m proceeding cautiously.”
    Sylvia turned to face the wall displaying Marshall’s broadcast. “Timidity?”
    “Prudence. I didn’t get where I am through use of a single tool. Sometimes one needs a bulldozer, sometimes a sable brush.”
    “Mmmm sable. Perhaps there is an upside to the Great Lakes in winter. So why the sudden onset of caution”
    “I’ve got money in play. I’ve always got money in play. Ambyr makes sure of that. They keep the interest rates so achingly low that the only way to build any wealth is investment. I choose movies, mostly. Not exclusively. Never put your nest eggs in one basket.”
    Sylvia returned to the survey of her closet.
    Marshall continued, “As such, whoever may be involved in this Milkman movie could very well be involved in another project with me. Or has been. Or, more pressingly, will be in the future. We all keep our money moving.”
    “Ah,” Sylvia said. “The great we.”
    “Yourself included. As you make more money on the side, you’ll look for ways to nurture it; get it growing.”
    “I plan to make more movies.”
    “Man plans, the company laughs.”
    Sylvia took a pair of black pants from the closet and held them up, stretching the waist out before her. She looked at her slightly swollen belly and tossed them to the side.
    “I know you, my peach. What you really want is the ability to finance your own films. Then you don’t have to answer to people like Gavin and Gavin’s spectral financiers.”
    “Perhaps,” Sylvia said. “But like you said, that’s like putting your whole breakfast in one basket.”
    “Risk is relative. I’m at the point now where the kinds of losses that might devastate some investors don’t make me check twice. If I never have another success, I’ll still never have to return to my official company position.”
    “What was that? Do you even remember?”
    “Something to do with shoes. Who knows.”
    “So you don’t mind risking two million dollars on a movie?”
    “Oh, I mind everything. That’s my nature. I’m just saying, my risk is less risky than, well, most. I’m not some grade 10 putting his life insurance into a falafel joint.”
    Sylvia nipped a pair of white jeans off their hanger. “The ghosts behind this project. Are they like you? Is this just another roll of the dice for them?”
    Marshall leaned forward on his desk and clasped his hands in front of the mic. “The people behind this venture are gambling on something else all together. This movie is someone’s vara and you are the picador. Your job is to weaken a low grade who is, I surmise, trying to jump even lower.”
    Sylvia slapped the jeans into her trunk. “The movie’s secondary? As in, might not even get seen? It’s a… what did you call it?”
    “Vara,” Marshall answered. “A lance used in bullfighting.”
    “Like I said. This is silly. I don’t know why I’m bothering.”
    “Because,” Marshall said. “You know, and I know, they don’t know you.”
    Sylvia let the left side of her lip curl, just a little, under her nose. “Then I’m going to need a cape. White. Red’s not my color.”
    “Really? I think you can pull it off.”
    “Be a dear and send one out to me.”
    “Certainly. I know just the man for the job.”
    “You always do.”

Chapter Nine
     
    Sylvia held her eye glasses in her hand. A fresh pair, bought especially for this project. White whale bone. The interview subject would know they were