James Hynes - Kings of Infinite Space

Now Olivia plucked her pencil off the table again and poked it at the screen. “We require the vendor to buy OEM parts in the first place,” she said. “So how can we make him responsible if the parts fail? It’s not his fault.”

“Parts is parts,” drawled J.J., his voice slurred by boredom.

“Whose side are you on, Olivia?” Colonel rolled the laser pointer between his thumb and forefinger. “Ours or the vendor’s?”

“Plus,” Olivia continued, ignoring him, “isn’t there a hyphen in ‘substandard’?”

Before he could stop himself, Paul said, “No!” rather hotly.

“Whoa!” chorused the men along Paul’s side of the table.

“The professor speaks!” Rick said merrily.

“Well, there isn’t,” muttered Paul. It was nearly quitting time, and they had been sitting in the overheated semidark, blinking at the screen and listening to the buzz of the projector’s fan, since eight-fifteen that morning. The meeting was supposed to have started at eight, but Paul had been so rattled by the discovery of the Tiffany’s box — the rest had never happened, he was sure of it — that he had taken longer than expected to set up. And, quite apart from the stress of sitting for hours in the same room with Olivia, he had kept an eye cocked all day at the ceiling, watching for bulges or sudden gaps or the heel of a black Oxford.

“Way-ul,” Rick was saying now, “I don’t think we’re gonna get to the end of this today.”

“I can stay late,” Olivia said.

J.J. groaned, and there was a sharp intake of breath from Bob Wier’s direction.

“Yeah, well.” Rick raised his eyebrows at his wristwatch. “I can’t. We’ll reconvene on Monday.”

“Yesssss,” breathed J.J., and there was a long, slow creeeeak as he shifted in his chair. Paul’s gaze shot to the ceiling again. He’d spent hours listening to every squeak and groan of every chair in the room, and yet each little noise still took him by surprise, stretching his nerves a little tighter. “What’s that?” he gasped.

Rick stretched in his own chair, making it creak as well. “What’s eating you, son?”

“You been acting hinky all day,” said Colonel. “You see a ghost or something?”

Across the table Olivia rapped on the tabletop with the sharp end of her pencil. “Could we at least finish this paragraph before we leave?” she said.

All the men groaned except for Paul, who didn’t make a sound.

“At least,” insisted Olivia, raising her voice, “at least let’s have Paul enter the revisions so far before he goes home tonight. . ”

“I don’t believe Paul has the level of badge,” said Colonel, “that allows him to remain in the building after business hours.”

“I have a pretty low-level badge,” Paul said.

“One of us could stay with him,” Olivia said. “As I said before, I can stay late.”

Paul’s hands began to tremble over the laptop, making the keys rattle. This was even worse than he’d imagined: Not only would he have to be here on his own time, after hours—“You’d never catch me in there after dark,” Nolene had said — but he’d be alone with Olivia . On Monday morning his coworkers would find him dead in his chair, a gray, desiccated, bloodless husk.

“Not tonight you can’t,” said Colonel heartily. “Have you forgotten already?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Olivia.

“Karaoke night, my good woman,” boomed Colonel. “My house, tonight, seven P.M. sharp. I believe I announced it when we convened this morning?”

He glanced round the table, and J.J. and Bob Wier nodded eagerly. Olivia glanced wildly at Paul, as if afraid he might get away.

“I, uh, can’t make it tonight.” Rick tapped his own wrist-watch, and he put his palms on the table, preparing to heave himself up. “I have other, uh. . I won’t be able to. .”

“How about tomorrow morning?” snapped Olivia, restraining Rick with a hand. “Saturday morning, Paul?” she said, fixing Paul with her gaze. “Can you meet me here tomorrow?”

Before Paul could say a word, Colonel grasped his wrist and said, “Yes he can, on one condition.”

Olivia glanced furiously from Colonel to Paul and back again. Rick subsided into his seat. “What condition?” she said.

“Well, it seems we can’t prevail upon our redoubtable leader here to favor us with a tune this evening.” Colonel glanced at Rick, who looked like a whipped dog. “But surely Olivia will grace us with her presence,” Colonel continued. “Perhaps the SMU fight song. Or even a cheer or two.”

Olivia scowled. She was clearly calculating just how much face she could afford to lose.

“Because if you put in an appearance,” Colonel went on, “I can guarantee the professor here will be at your beck and call tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

“Wait a minute. .,” Paul began, and Colonel silenced him with a really brutal squeeze of his wrist.

“Go Ponies,” said Colonel, crinkling his eyes at Olivia.

Olivia lifted her eyebrows at Paul.

“Professor?” said Colonel. “Tomorrow morning? Eight A.M.?”

“Sure,” said Paul, miserably. He and Olivia would be alone, but at least it would be daylight.

“That’s settled, then.” Colonel popped his laser pointer into his breast pocket and placed his palms on the tabletop. “I believe y’all will find an e-mail in your inbox with directions to Casa Pentoon.” He stood, and J.J. and Bob Wier stood as well. The meeting was over.

“And remember!” cried Colonel, as Olivia minced out the door. “Everybody sings!”

“I CAN’T DO IT,” Paul said.

“Can’t do what?” Callie’s passenger door was open, and she already had one foot on the curb.

“I can’t go in there.” Paul had stopped his noisy little car in front of Colonel Travis Pentoon’s house in Westhill, the well-to-do community across the river from Lamar. The sun had still been up when he and Callie had entered the labyrinth of winding, leafy streets, and even though Colonel lived in the flatter, more down-market region of the neighborhood — the really expensive homes were higher up, along private drives or behind security gates — Paul had gotten lost. As the rat-a-tat of his decrepit old Colt reverberated off the creamy walls of $200,000 ranch houses, twilight had slowly gathered under the carefully tended stands of live oak. Callie hadn’t been any help; instead of navigating, she had frankly rubbernecked, bending towards Paul to peer out his window or hanging halfway out her own to get a good look at someone’s cavernous two-car garage or expensively landscaped lawn.

“Dang,” she breathed. “Ain’t we in a drought? How do they keep the grass so green?”

Paul had said nothing. He was searching among the looming hedges and ornamental shrubbery for the sign to Wicker Way, Colonel’s street.

“They must spend more on water,” Callie said, “than I do on rent.”

At last Paul had found the street, and they had crept through the twilight until they found the address stenciled on the curb. Colonel’s long, redbrick ranch house sat a little lower than the street, under the canopy of a huge, old live oak that filled the front lawn like a banyan tree. One massive branch stretched out and up from the broad-chested trunk, like a bodybuilder flexing his biceps. A couple of Japanese lanterns hung motionlessly from the branch in the breathless heat, casting a mellow glow over a limestone-bordered Japanese garden and a little flagstone walk. Another red lantern hung over the imposing front door instead of a porch light. Colonel’s enormous SUV was berthed out of sight somewhere, but three other cars — a family minivan that must have been Bob Wier’s and a couple of newish subcompacts — were parked in his wide driveway. Paul couldn’t even bring himself to switch off the engine, and his car rattled angrily in place. The last thing he wanted to do tonight was spend more time with these people.