Free Wolfman - Art Bourgeau by Art Bourgeau Page A

closely. She was still twirling the sizzle stick between her
thumb and forefinger. He wondered why she had put the question that
way. Time wasn’t a factor. Time wasn’t going to run out. Not
until you were dead.
    "What would you recommend that I invest in?"
    "There are many things . . ." he said,
feeling strangely unsure of his judgment. "Blue chips, growth
stocks, bonds, funds, commodities . . ."
    " Tell me your favorites."
    She was smiling. Why?
    "Right now I'm fond of a Japanese company. An
electronics firm," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully.
    "What do they do?"
    "The usual — televisions, stereos, tape
recorders, office machines. They also have a computer department . .
."
    "Maybe I'm being naive, correct me if I'm wrong,
but they sound like a lot of other companies. I mean, doesn’t
everyone make those things?"
    The waiter returned with their orders. Loring turned
his attention to his soup to give himself a moment to decide how much
to tell her. As he brought the first spoonful to his lips he was
assaulted by a smell so putrid he almost gagged. He tried not to show
his surprise. This just didn’t happen, not in one of his favorite
restaurants. A bad dish never came out of their kitchen. He stared
down. The soup looked innocent enough, creamy white with flecks of
green that should have been parsley.
    He lowered his spoon and began to talk to cover his
feelings.
    "What you say is true, very perceptive. But I
think there's going to be a takeover attempt."
    "Could you explain that a little more?"
    . . . Maybe I'm imagining again, there's nothing
wrong with the soup. He lifted a fresh spoonful to his lips. Again
the awful smell, and this time he could identify it. It was the smell
of rotten, decaying meat. They must have used a stock as a base in
the soup and the stock was obviously spoiled. That had to be it . . .
    "Is there something wrong with your soup?"
he heard her say.
    Don't make a fuss, not now. He pushed the soup away
and reached in his pocket for the belladonna bottle.
    "No, no, sorry, it’s not the soup, it’s me,
I'm afraid. The old gut, goes with the territory, brokerage business
. . . sorry . . ." He counted the droplets as he squeezed the
medicine dropper into a glass of water. "Like I said, it’s an
occupational hazard. Nervous stomach, most brokers have it. The
strain of dealing with the market . . ."
    A good way to handle it, he decided. But on the way
out he would have a quiet word with the manager, be sure they threw
out the soup before some less understanding customer tried it and
suffered the consequences . . .
    "As I was saying, I think there's going to be a
takeover attempt by another company — a credit-card company. One of
the real giants. I don't know if you’re aware of it, but a couple
of the international credit-card companies are so strong that they've
virtually created a private, world-wide currency."
    "Really? That seems incredible — "
    "Are you familiar with the Japanese word honko?
It’s a small seal issued to each citizen, and it's used instead of
a signature on many official documents."
    "Like a Chinese chop?"
    " I guess . . . Anyway, what this company is
doing is researching something that will replace the signature, the
honko or chop, and ultimately maybe even currency. It’s a magnetic
implant with a code similar to the bar code, the ISBN number you see
on packages. When it's perfected it will be implanted under the skin
on a person’s hand at birth and all he’ll have to do is pass his
hand by a scanner to record whatever his activity. This isn't public
knowledge, which is why I’m pretty excited about it."
    "It all sounds very futuristic to me," she
said. "Almost ominous, something like the mark of the beast.
Isn't that what they used to say?"
    Her choice of words startled him, to put it mildly.
 
 
    CHAPTER 6
    MERCANTO PICKED up the keys to Stanley Hightower's
apartment from police headquarters on Race and drove to nearby
Washington Square. From the