says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he exaggerates a fact or two along the way.”
“Really?”
“Oh, sure. You know that beat-up old briefcase he keeps on his desk beside his computer?”
“The tan one he seems to take with him everywhere he goes? Even to the bathroom?”
“That’s the one. And he doesn’t seem to take it with him everywhere he goes. He does .”
“What’s so special about it?”
“Well, he says he keeps a loaded revolver in it.” She puts a finger on her cheek and her expression turns serious, like she’s trying hard to remember something. “A forty-four Magnum, I think he said once. But I don’t know much about guns.”
Normally I would dismiss a piece of information like this as ridiculous, just office gossip, but Slammer seems like the type who might do something crazy. I don’t know how else to explain it, but he gets that right-on-the-verge-of-going-ballistic look in his eyes sometimes. And last week I thought I heard him talking about ammunition while he was on the phone. “Has anybody ever said anything to Michael Seaver about the possibility of a gun in the office?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think Seaver should be aware of something like that?”
Mary laughs. “Max doesn’t really keep a gun in his briefcase. It’s all about image with him. He wants us to think he’s tough so he can convince himself he is. Beneath all of that bravado is a pussycat. I bet he wasn’t even in the military. Like I said, I’ve caught him exaggerating before. When we first met he told me he drove a Porsche and owned a four-story town house in Georgetown. Turns out he drives a used Honda and rents a basement apartment from an old lady out in the country.”
“Are you sure there’s no gun in his briefcase? Have you ever looked?”
“I don’t have to. I know his type. All bark and no bite. He’s harmless.”
Our waiter arrives. I order a Coke and Mary has a glass of white wine. I suspected that she wasn’t very serious about day trading, and now I’m certain. No serious trader would let her judgment be clouded by alcohol during market hours.
“What are you doing at Bedford?” I ask when the waiter leaves. Usually I’m not so blunt, but the word on the floor is that Mary has a sugar daddy who keeps her in the expensive clothes and diamonds. That she doesn’t really have to work, and that the day trading gig is simply a diversion.
“You mean, why don’t I just sit at home watching soaps and eating bonbons?”
“That’s not what I mean at all.”
“Yes, it is,” she says confidently, reaching across the table once more. “I know what you think. It’s in your smile.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“The smile’s in your green eyes and your thoughts.” As Mary’s fingers slide from my arm, her nails gently rake my skin and it gives me chills. The good kind. God, it’s been so long since a woman touched me that way. “I can read your mind,” she whispers.
I roll my eyes and chuckle.
“I’m serious, Augustus.”
I chuckle again. I don’t give much credence to the paranormal.
“You don’t believe me.” Mary pouts. “I can tell.”
“Maybe I just don’t have much experience.”
“I’m a very spiritual person. I believe in astrology, extrasensory perception, and reincarnation. It only makes sense that those things should exist when you stop and think about it. So many advanced cultures down through history have believed in them.”
I believe those things are simply ways of explaining coincidence, or are tools used to manipulate, but I don’t tell Mary that. It wouldn’t do either of us any good to talk about it because we’re not going to change each other’s mind.
“I’m not a psychic,” she continues. “I can’t constantly sense people’s thoughts the way those who have the gift can. But sometimes I really believe I can tell what people are thinking. Like just now with you.”
“Uh-huh.” She seems to sincerely believe what
“Really?”
“Oh, sure. You know that beat-up old briefcase he keeps on his desk beside his computer?”
“The tan one he seems to take with him everywhere he goes? Even to the bathroom?”
“That’s the one. And he doesn’t seem to take it with him everywhere he goes. He does .”
“What’s so special about it?”
“Well, he says he keeps a loaded revolver in it.” She puts a finger on her cheek and her expression turns serious, like she’s trying hard to remember something. “A forty-four Magnum, I think he said once. But I don’t know much about guns.”
Normally I would dismiss a piece of information like this as ridiculous, just office gossip, but Slammer seems like the type who might do something crazy. I don’t know how else to explain it, but he gets that right-on-the-verge-of-going-ballistic look in his eyes sometimes. And last week I thought I heard him talking about ammunition while he was on the phone. “Has anybody ever said anything to Michael Seaver about the possibility of a gun in the office?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think Seaver should be aware of something like that?”
Mary laughs. “Max doesn’t really keep a gun in his briefcase. It’s all about image with him. He wants us to think he’s tough so he can convince himself he is. Beneath all of that bravado is a pussycat. I bet he wasn’t even in the military. Like I said, I’ve caught him exaggerating before. When we first met he told me he drove a Porsche and owned a four-story town house in Georgetown. Turns out he drives a used Honda and rents a basement apartment from an old lady out in the country.”
“Are you sure there’s no gun in his briefcase? Have you ever looked?”
“I don’t have to. I know his type. All bark and no bite. He’s harmless.”
Our waiter arrives. I order a Coke and Mary has a glass of white wine. I suspected that she wasn’t very serious about day trading, and now I’m certain. No serious trader would let her judgment be clouded by alcohol during market hours.
“What are you doing at Bedford?” I ask when the waiter leaves. Usually I’m not so blunt, but the word on the floor is that Mary has a sugar daddy who keeps her in the expensive clothes and diamonds. That she doesn’t really have to work, and that the day trading gig is simply a diversion.
“You mean, why don’t I just sit at home watching soaps and eating bonbons?”
“That’s not what I mean at all.”
“Yes, it is,” she says confidently, reaching across the table once more. “I know what you think. It’s in your smile.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“The smile’s in your green eyes and your thoughts.” As Mary’s fingers slide from my arm, her nails gently rake my skin and it gives me chills. The good kind. God, it’s been so long since a woman touched me that way. “I can read your mind,” she whispers.
I roll my eyes and chuckle.
“I’m serious, Augustus.”
I chuckle again. I don’t give much credence to the paranormal.
“You don’t believe me.” Mary pouts. “I can tell.”
“Maybe I just don’t have much experience.”
“I’m a very spiritual person. I believe in astrology, extrasensory perception, and reincarnation. It only makes sense that those things should exist when you stop and think about it. So many advanced cultures down through history have believed in them.”
I believe those things are simply ways of explaining coincidence, or are tools used to manipulate, but I don’t tell Mary that. It wouldn’t do either of us any good to talk about it because we’re not going to change each other’s mind.
“I’m not a psychic,” she continues. “I can’t constantly sense people’s thoughts the way those who have the gift can. But sometimes I really believe I can tell what people are thinking. Like just now with you.”
“Uh-huh.” She seems to sincerely believe what
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