Addie Lacoe: Mona

Mona inserted a calling card in the slot outside the hotel room. The program recognized her, and the door opened.

Stepping inside, she was surprised to find only one other person in the spacious room. Was she too early? In the wrong place? Had she mistaken the day?

“Ms. Klein.” She recognized Enrique Leon’s voice, as he strode toward her.

“Where is everybody?” Caught off guard, she forgot her manners, forgot about turning on wrist recorders or presenting cards, all the protocols. She smelled gardenias and melting wax. They were alone. With soft music.

“It’s OK,” he said. “You’re safe here.”

Safe? The last thing she wanted was to be “safe” with him.

“I mean,” he said, “I’ve swept the room for bugs. You can say anything in here. If you’ll just let me explain.”

“Explain?”

“I had to talk to you first, before the actual party.”

All this to talk to her? “I’m not that hard to get to know.”

“If you don’t want to stay, I’ll understand.”

What was he saying? Of course she wanted to stay. She’d been stunned that he was such a reckless romantic, that was all. She knew how difficult it was for a man to make the first move these days, especially when she couldn’t encourage him with the usual flirtations: a cool appraising look, a coy averting of the eyes, an “accidental” touch. Enrique Leon had gone well beyond a deniable flirtation. He had put his entire reputation in her hands. “I’ll stay,” she said. “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve gone to such lengths to tell me, Mr. Leon.”

“Please, call me Enrique.”

“Enrique?” The word felt crisp and juicy, sharp, like new pickles in her mouth, whetting her appetite. She’d practiced at home: rolling the R , not too overdone, so that it came naturally to her tongue. “Please. Call me Mona.”

“Mona.”

Her given name always surprised her with its sensuous murmur and longing “o.” Falling from his lips, she felt it reverberate through her very veins.

“The corsage is for you.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” Enrique said, as he guided her fingers through the wristband attached to the flowers.

Forgive him? For touching her? For wanting to be alone with her? “For misleading me into coming?” She hadn’t expected such intimacy so soon. “Would you feel better if I signed a ‘no-offense’ form?” she offered. The standard contract covered most acts that could be performed in public. Mona wished she’d brought something more inclusive with her, just in case. Maybe he was better prepared.

“That’s for people who don’t trust each another.” He still hadn’t let go of her hand. “I want you to know that I trust you.”

It was almost easier to say “I love you” these days than “I trust you.” Had she ever completely trusted anybody outside her immediate family? It was one thing to have an affair, quite another to be left without evidence in the form of a tape or a sexual consent form to defend against a former lover’s angry charges. “I suppose I ought to tell you I have an implant that records sound.”

“I know,” he said. “Is it on now?”

“No.” But how could he be sure? On the other hand, he’d said the room was debugged, but she only had his word for it. Trust, again. “Go ahead and turn your recorder on, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Enrique said. “What I’m about to tell you—either you’ll believe me and want to help, or you won’t.” He let her hand drop. “There’s no time to waste.”

Mona wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. His words didn’t exactly sound like foreplay.

“Have you heard of Rodney Stone?”

The resident genius? “Of course, but what—?”

“I’ll get right to the point,” Enrique said. “It was Mr. Stone’s idea that you and I should meet tonight.”

“Mr. Stone’s?” She’d known the famous man worked for the company, but how did he know her? “Why would—?”

“Mr. Bartlett’s annual banquet is tonight in the ballroom down the hall. I rerouted your invitation.”

All kinds of bells went off in Mona’s head. He’d invaded her mail—her privacy. “How dare you!” She clutched her handbag, pressing her scanner’s record button through the fabric. “Who are you?” She recoiled as something brushed her hand. Her telemetry hadn’t picked up his movement on the fringe of her sensory field; it was beginning to lose definition. She groped behind her for the door.

“Please. Take it. It’s your invitation,” Enrique said. “I knew you’d be angry, but we mailed your R.S.V.P. and the party doesn’t start for another half hour.”

“What are you saying?” Mona was still backing up without coming to a wall. She hadn’t thought she’d taken more than a dozen steps into the room.

“Mr. Stone thought we should go together, but he didn’t want you to have time to think about it, and maybe get cold feet.”

Mona didn’t need time to think. She’d reached the exit.

But Enrique leaned over her, his palm against the door. “Just give me five minutes.”

Now she was frightened. He was so close, she could no longer “see” him, but she was drowning in his scent. “I’d like to leave now.” There was a noticeable quiver in her voice.

“Two minutes,” he begged.

He hadn’t hurt her, and the few words she’d recorded so far wouldn’t necessarily support her claim of a threat. “One minute,” she conceded. “After that, I’m paging the police.” She touched her hand to her watch.

“I apologize,” he said, standing away from the door. “I’m not the most tactful person in the world, which is part of why I got assigned to Special Projects in the first place, but I guess you already knew that.”

She breathed a little easier without him looming over her. “Fifty seconds.”

“We need your help,” he continued. “The department’s about to be phased out, and everybody in it’ll be laid off.”

So that was it. Enrique and Mr. Stone wanted her to plead for their jobs. They were no better than her eight-year-old classmates, who used to make her stand lookout with her hand held scanner, but called her The Bat among themselves.

How easily she’d convinced herself that Enrique’s invitation was a romantic prelude! She was ashamed to think she was so vulnerable. “I don’t see how I can help you,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“You promised me a minute.”

Mona shifted her weight and pulled the door open enough to reassure herself that she wasn’t locked in. “Forty seconds now.”

“I’m not asking just for my own sake,” Enrique said. “There are seventeen people. Most have families depending on them.”

With the door open, Mona felt less cornered. Maybe if Mr. Stone, himself, had asked her, she might have been more inclined to listen, but she had no way of knowing whether Mr. Stone was even working with Enrique, as he’d said. She hadn’t been able to access any files on the group, not even a single personnel roster. “OK. So what is it these people do?” she asked, in spite of herself.

“Nothing,” Enrique replied. “That’s part of the problem.”

Sitting across the candlelit table from Enrique, Mona’s natural sympathy had soothed her hurt pride enough so that she could listen. If she hadn’t been so new with the company, she’d probably have heard the story of these whistle-blowers, kept on the payroll but given nothing to do. This was their thanks for “making waves.”

Management had come up with a way to get rid of them. Special Projects was a dumping ground. Robotic tanks, of all things! When the group inevitably failed to land the contract, the department could be phased out or dissolved, and the workers fired without fear of repercussions. No wrongful dismissal suits, no claims of discrimination, no recourse at all. The company had done it less than a dozen years earlier.