clearer my mind became.
A line of poetry unreeling in my head,
. . . your first betrayal was the coldest one.
I had a mug of black coffee, sat in my armchair, looking out at nothing save the nasty act I danced along. Reardon had been clear about what he’d do.
“Destroy the fucker.”
Being one of the mildest terms he’d employed about the kid who was selling him out. And true, the deal Skylar had been offered by Rogue Tech was a showstopper. She’d indeed be set for life, and all she had to do was score a sizable hit on Reardon’s research. It would, she’d said,
“Put Reardon back at least eighteen months. In the tech world, that’s like a death blow.”
I had no doubt of my own capabilities. I’d done worse, with little aforethought.
I phoned Kelly, asked,
“How are you on moral dilemmas?”
She laughed, said,
“Shaky. You need help?”
Did I?
I said,
“Be nice to buy you a late morning breakfast.”
She said,
“We call it brunch.”
“Yeah, well, here we call it a cheap lunch.”
23
Hysteroid: term describing the tendency to exaggerate the emotional component. To an ordinary person, what is sorrow would, to a hysteric, be grief; or again, to an ordinary person, what is agitation would, to a hysteric, be interpreted as a major trauma.
She always stole what had been freely offered.
—Kelly’s doctor
A new hotel had opened off Eyre Square just as the boom died; the hotel died soon after. Kelly asked if I’d meet her in the lobby there. I said,
“That hotel has been sold.”
She laughed, said,
“Yeah, to Reardon, like most of the town, sooner than later.”
I’d some time before our meeting so caught up on the football. Bad to saddest worst. Irish style. Out, after three games. All the hopes, aspirations, the Trapattoni worship, ashes now.
1. Croatia beat us three–one.
2. Spain beat us four–nil.
3. Italy beat us two–nil.
Jesus.
And the rugby, somehow, we’d pull consolation out of the European fiasco with them but, against the Kiwis, we had an all-time record-breaking defeat.
Sixty . . . nil .
Dazed, I’d watched England against Italy go to a penalty shoot-out and, argh, the Brits lost. My sympathies had been with Hart, the English goalie. To have to watch the ferocious Balotelli bear down on goal was to see Armageddon in a blue shirt.
But, hey, you take comfort where any crumb is available. Right?
The European bridge championships were being held with considerably less fanfare and we were in the quarterfinals.
That mattered, didn’t it?
Preparations for the Volvo Ocean Race were in full pace, the race terminating in Galway in a few short weeks. As I waited in the hotel lobby for Kelly, I read through the city preparations to receive the yachts. Meant a sizable payday to the city. No wonder Clancy and the city hotshots refused to entertain the concept of C33, a vigilante running loose, with world media lurking. No, had to keep that bogey under wraps.
Heard,
“Yo, sailor.”
Kelly, dressed in tight white jeans, tight black T-shirt, her face radiant. I felt the stir, if not of echoes, then yearning. She leaned over to do that ridiculous air kiss, then suddenly veered to a kiss, her tongue deep in my mouth, then withdrew, said,
“Suck that.”
Jesus.
A waitress appeared, looking all of sixteen and suddenly making Kelly seem . . . extreme? Kelly snapped,
“Lolita, get us a pot of coffee before the yachts arrive.”
I said, recovering some tarnished dignity,
“You have the essentials of leadership down.”
She gave me a mischievous grin, asked,
“What would they be, mon amour?”
“Rudeness and hostility.”
She laughed as the coffee came, said to the girl,
“Put it on Reardon’s tab.”
The girl was confused, waited,
I said,
“He owns the hotel.”
She lit up, went,
“Oh, Mr. Reardon.”
Kelly sat back, said,
“Take a hike.”
I asked,
“Are you working on being a bitch, or is it, you know, natural?”
Gave me a long look,
A line of poetry unreeling in my head,
. . . your first betrayal was the coldest one.
I had a mug of black coffee, sat in my armchair, looking out at nothing save the nasty act I danced along. Reardon had been clear about what he’d do.
“Destroy the fucker.”
Being one of the mildest terms he’d employed about the kid who was selling him out. And true, the deal Skylar had been offered by Rogue Tech was a showstopper. She’d indeed be set for life, and all she had to do was score a sizable hit on Reardon’s research. It would, she’d said,
“Put Reardon back at least eighteen months. In the tech world, that’s like a death blow.”
I had no doubt of my own capabilities. I’d done worse, with little aforethought.
I phoned Kelly, asked,
“How are you on moral dilemmas?”
She laughed, said,
“Shaky. You need help?”
Did I?
I said,
“Be nice to buy you a late morning breakfast.”
She said,
“We call it brunch.”
“Yeah, well, here we call it a cheap lunch.”
23
Hysteroid: term describing the tendency to exaggerate the emotional component. To an ordinary person, what is sorrow would, to a hysteric, be grief; or again, to an ordinary person, what is agitation would, to a hysteric, be interpreted as a major trauma.
She always stole what had been freely offered.
—Kelly’s doctor
A new hotel had opened off Eyre Square just as the boom died; the hotel died soon after. Kelly asked if I’d meet her in the lobby there. I said,
“That hotel has been sold.”
She laughed, said,
“Yeah, to Reardon, like most of the town, sooner than later.”
I’d some time before our meeting so caught up on the football. Bad to saddest worst. Irish style. Out, after three games. All the hopes, aspirations, the Trapattoni worship, ashes now.
1. Croatia beat us three–one.
2. Spain beat us four–nil.
3. Italy beat us two–nil.
Jesus.
And the rugby, somehow, we’d pull consolation out of the European fiasco with them but, against the Kiwis, we had an all-time record-breaking defeat.
Sixty . . . nil .
Dazed, I’d watched England against Italy go to a penalty shoot-out and, argh, the Brits lost. My sympathies had been with Hart, the English goalie. To have to watch the ferocious Balotelli bear down on goal was to see Armageddon in a blue shirt.
But, hey, you take comfort where any crumb is available. Right?
The European bridge championships were being held with considerably less fanfare and we were in the quarterfinals.
That mattered, didn’t it?
Preparations for the Volvo Ocean Race were in full pace, the race terminating in Galway in a few short weeks. As I waited in the hotel lobby for Kelly, I read through the city preparations to receive the yachts. Meant a sizable payday to the city. No wonder Clancy and the city hotshots refused to entertain the concept of C33, a vigilante running loose, with world media lurking. No, had to keep that bogey under wraps.
Heard,
“Yo, sailor.”
Kelly, dressed in tight white jeans, tight black T-shirt, her face radiant. I felt the stir, if not of echoes, then yearning. She leaned over to do that ridiculous air kiss, then suddenly veered to a kiss, her tongue deep in my mouth, then withdrew, said,
“Suck that.”
Jesus.
A waitress appeared, looking all of sixteen and suddenly making Kelly seem . . . extreme? Kelly snapped,
“Lolita, get us a pot of coffee before the yachts arrive.”
I said, recovering some tarnished dignity,
“You have the essentials of leadership down.”
She gave me a mischievous grin, asked,
“What would they be, mon amour?”
“Rudeness and hostility.”
She laughed as the coffee came, said to the girl,
“Put it on Reardon’s tab.”
The girl was confused, waited,
I said,
“He owns the hotel.”
She lit up, went,
“Oh, Mr. Reardon.”
Kelly sat back, said,
“Take a hike.”
I asked,
“Are you working on being a bitch, or is it, you know, natural?”
Gave me a long look,
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