Free About Face by James Calder Page B

“Please, Mrs. Plush, I’ve hired him to do a film.” He took another gulp of his martini. He was already beyond his limit. I’d need to keep an eye on him, too.
    â€œThe film’s done, though, isn’t it, dear?” Wendy said. Connie seemed surprised that Wendy was on her side. I wondered again what was going on with those two and Dr. Plush.
    By now a Sylvain man was listening in. “If it’s all the same to you, Rod—”
    â€œIt’s not,” Rod cut in.
    This stunned the Sylvain man into temporary silence. He looked at Mrs. Plush. “Well, if there’s no real danger . . .”
    She glared at him. “You’re on the hook for this. I don’t want to hear about some insider-trading case down the line.” The glare turned on me. “No cameras during dinner.”
    Our little group disbanded. Connie had lost out, and I could see by the way she marched the doctor to his seat that she wasn’t used to it.
    â€œI’ll bring you a doggie bag,” Wendy said, putting her hand out to give me a pat.
    I stepped out of her reach and said, without smiling, “My bite’s worse than my bark.” She withdrew her hand quickly.
    In the end, I was squeezed in next to Mike. Rod’s face had a numb look by the time the first course was served; it had been anesthetized by alcohol. His lips remained parted in a blubbery kind of way. I was the recipient of a certain amount of sympathetic small talk from people nearby, who had seen my encounter with Connie Plush. It gave me the sense that I was not the first to get the treatment from her. I responded politely, wishing the courses would move along.
    Just before dessert, Wendy excused herself to use what she called “the little girls’ room.” I was pretending to listen to a discussion between Mike and an Eternaderm scientist. I’d draw too much attention if I bolted after Wendy, so I waited fifteen seconds before excusing myself as well.
    As I got to the door, the waiters came marching in with dessert. I stepped aside to let them pass, then went into the corridor. A closed ladies’ room door stared at me. I knocked and called Wendy’s name. Somehow I knew I wouldn’t get an answer. I knocked again to make sure no one else was in there, pushed open the door, and called, “Hello?”
    A quick inspection of the stalls confirmed that she’d given me the slip. I burst down the corridor and into the main restaurant. Scanning for Wendy, I froze when I saw a form I knew. It was the receptionist from Silicon Glamour, the beefy man with the thick mustache. He wore a polo shirt. His arms were huge.
    â€œDid you see her?” I said.
    He didn’t look up from his beer. “See who?”
    â€œAlissa. Wendy.”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” he said, then turned away.
    I ran out to the parking lot just in time to see a pair of exiting taillights. My keys were back in the dining room, in my cameracase. I went back inside and stood behind the SG guy. “Tell Rupert he can get off of Rod’s back about Alissa.”
    His head didn’t move an inch. “You better get off
my
back.”
    His voice was a soft, deep rumble. Speaking low as he did, he left me with the sense that he could blow my eardrums out if he chose to. His argument was convincing, and in any case I couldn’t leave Rod alone with those vodka martinis. I was left to return to the private room, cue up Rod’s film, and ponder why Wendy would go to such lengths to pass herself off as her daughter.

7
    Algoplex was in motion the next day. Now that the deal was sealed, teams were being assigned, milestones scheduled, supply chains activated. The halls were abuzz with the task of tailoring Rod’s software to Plush’s program.
    The only person looking less than energized was Rod himself. It was eleven o’clock and his desk was an uncharacteristic