the front door compliments of the SimCon
consortium. She wore high-heels for me, which is a huge sign to anyone who
knows Mary Ann.
We had an excellent wine with
fillet mignon at a candle-lit restaurant whose name I cannot pronounce, also
courtesy of SimCon. “No cheese-burgers here. I bet this place doesn’t even have
doggie bags,” I said, unfolding my linen napkin.
Mary Ann used a French accent to
say, “But it does, Monsieur, you must merely show us it’s pedigree first.” She
smiled, and the whole trip was worth it. A few minutes later, under cover of
chit-chat about possibility of the latest International Auto Workers Union, she
ambushed me with “Speaking of extra income, what are you going to do with the
prize money?”
This stunned me for two reasons.
First, she put a lot of faith in my rookie design and pilot skills. Second, I
had never even considered the money. I must have been thinking too long,
because she asked, “There is a prize, isn’t there?”
First prize was a cool million,
with 500 grand for second, 250 for third, and 125 each for fourth and fifth.
There were also assorted design, honorable mention, and team awards. This
sounded like a lot of money, but with entry fees, TV contracts, sponsors, and
product endorsements, the event still cleared ten or twenty million a year
after expenses. “Yes, the total purse is a few million. I honestly haven’t
thought about what I’d do with the money. After I paid the company back the entry
fee, I would probably start with a house near where I’ll be working. Hawaii is nice to vacation but the long distance bills will kill me.” Her smile came back,
stronger than ever.
“What else?”
I hedged for a little while and
played with my glass before settling on, “I’ll need to take some business
classes from one of the local colleges so that I’m not totally ignorant about
what’s going on in my own company. What about you? What would you do with the
profits?”
“I’m not after the money. I want to
be a Special Investigator some day,” she said, referring to the Patrol’s
version of Detective grade officer.
We exchanged dreams, laughed, and
gossiped for over an hour.
The more she enjoyed herself, the
more leg Mary Ann showed, and the more I drank. I was feeling no pain and
enjoying the company when the waiter brought a portable phone to my table. It
was Foxworthy. He wished us luck, let us know that the investors were watching,
and that he had some friends do a bug sweep on the hotel room for our safety.
“One last thing, Hayes—our client
wants to confer with you in private. Their agent is incognito, you understand,
so I can’t tell you his name. I can only say that he’s chosen a humorous
pseudonym, and he’s reserved a private dining room in his name at the same restaurant
you’re at tonight. Just make contact, and he’ll take care of the rest.”
I would have preferred to spend my
free time rubbing ankles under the table, but if Foxworthy said the secret
branch of the FCC wanted to talk to me before the curtain went up tonight, so
be it. Technically, I was playing with government money this week, but I was
just buzzed enough to irritate this FCC employee like I had the suits in
Bayside.
I slipped the maitre-de a twenty to
look for a friend of mine in the reservation book. I found it on the first page—Ira
Fontenelle, registered under the company Ground-Effect Defense Motors—a known
gravy-sucking defense contractor, the thinnest cover imaginable. I told Mary Ann
where I’d be and found my way to the private dining hall upstairs. Surrounded
by mahogany panels and smoked mirrors, an executive type ate turtle soup while
two guards and a toady looked on. His china was better than ours had been,
rimmed in gold, with faint pink figures laced around the border. The set looked
like a museum piece.
“Ira!” I announced as I came in.
The monkey on the left searched me for weapons, and I held up my hands to show
him I wasn’t
consortium. She wore high-heels for me, which is a huge sign to anyone who
knows Mary Ann.
We had an excellent wine with
fillet mignon at a candle-lit restaurant whose name I cannot pronounce, also
courtesy of SimCon. “No cheese-burgers here. I bet this place doesn’t even have
doggie bags,” I said, unfolding my linen napkin.
Mary Ann used a French accent to
say, “But it does, Monsieur, you must merely show us it’s pedigree first.” She
smiled, and the whole trip was worth it. A few minutes later, under cover of
chit-chat about possibility of the latest International Auto Workers Union, she
ambushed me with “Speaking of extra income, what are you going to do with the
prize money?”
This stunned me for two reasons.
First, she put a lot of faith in my rookie design and pilot skills. Second, I
had never even considered the money. I must have been thinking too long,
because she asked, “There is a prize, isn’t there?”
First prize was a cool million,
with 500 grand for second, 250 for third, and 125 each for fourth and fifth.
There were also assorted design, honorable mention, and team awards. This
sounded like a lot of money, but with entry fees, TV contracts, sponsors, and
product endorsements, the event still cleared ten or twenty million a year
after expenses. “Yes, the total purse is a few million. I honestly haven’t
thought about what I’d do with the money. After I paid the company back the entry
fee, I would probably start with a house near where I’ll be working. Hawaii is nice to vacation but the long distance bills will kill me.” Her smile came back,
stronger than ever.
“What else?”
I hedged for a little while and
played with my glass before settling on, “I’ll need to take some business
classes from one of the local colleges so that I’m not totally ignorant about
what’s going on in my own company. What about you? What would you do with the
profits?”
“I’m not after the money. I want to
be a Special Investigator some day,” she said, referring to the Patrol’s
version of Detective grade officer.
We exchanged dreams, laughed, and
gossiped for over an hour.
The more she enjoyed herself, the
more leg Mary Ann showed, and the more I drank. I was feeling no pain and
enjoying the company when the waiter brought a portable phone to my table. It
was Foxworthy. He wished us luck, let us know that the investors were watching,
and that he had some friends do a bug sweep on the hotel room for our safety.
“One last thing, Hayes—our client
wants to confer with you in private. Their agent is incognito, you understand,
so I can’t tell you his name. I can only say that he’s chosen a humorous
pseudonym, and he’s reserved a private dining room in his name at the same restaurant
you’re at tonight. Just make contact, and he’ll take care of the rest.”
I would have preferred to spend my
free time rubbing ankles under the table, but if Foxworthy said the secret
branch of the FCC wanted to talk to me before the curtain went up tonight, so
be it. Technically, I was playing with government money this week, but I was
just buzzed enough to irritate this FCC employee like I had the suits in
Bayside.
I slipped the maitre-de a twenty to
look for a friend of mine in the reservation book. I found it on the first page—Ira
Fontenelle, registered under the company Ground-Effect Defense Motors—a known
gravy-sucking defense contractor, the thinnest cover imaginable. I told Mary Ann
where I’d be and found my way to the private dining hall upstairs. Surrounded
by mahogany panels and smoked mirrors, an executive type ate turtle soup while
two guards and a toady looked on. His china was better than ours had been,
rimmed in gold, with faint pink figures laced around the border. The set looked
like a museum piece.
“Ira!” I announced as I came in.
The monkey on the left searched me for weapons, and I held up my hands to show
him I wasn’t
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