Hot Shot (20 page)

Sam came into the kitchen a little after eight o'clock. She had already dressed and she was standing at the sink drying the dishes from the night before. Normally, he teased her about her tidiness, but this morning he didn't seem to have the heart for it. She didn't need to ask why he was so quiet. They were due to pick up the printed circuit boards in an hour. But what good were circuit boards when they didn't have the money to buy the components that went on them?

He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice. Without bothering to fetch a glass, he tilted the container to his lips. She wiped off the counter with the dish towel and then hung it away neatly. Appearances, she told herself.

Appearances were everything.

He turned, really seeing her for the first time. "What are you all dressed up for?"

She wore square-heeled leather pumps and a black and white checked suit that was several years old and had never been one of her favorites. Still, it was good quality, and it was the only professional-looking outfit Paige had included. Her hair was neatly coiled at her neck with the pins she had borrowed from the Pretty Please Salon. She stepped forward. Sam had said that Yank's machine could give her courage. It was time to find out if that was true. "We've tried it your way," she said. "Now I want to try it mine."

Spectra Electronics Warehouse was exactly the sort of place most women hated. It was a vast electronics junkyard of a building with concrete floors and towering shelves filled with cardboard cartons reinforced by wire strapping. An open ceiling supported a network of pipes and jaundiced neon lights. Thick parts catalogues with dog-eared pages were mounted next to a long wooden counter plastered with Fly Navy bumper stickers.

The place felt cold and smelled like metal, plastics, and old cigarettes. It was so different from the sorts of places Susannah normally patronized that she might actually have liked it if she hadn't been paralyzed with fright.

"Hey, Sam. Howzitgoin'?" The man behind the counter looked up from a pile of invoices.

Sam swaggered forward. "Not too bad, Carl. How about you?"

"All right. No complaints." Carl pulled a pen from an ink-stained plastic pocket protector and returned his attention to the invoices. Sam was obviously not regarded as a customer important enough to warrant any more of his time.

Sam looked at her and shrugged, telling her without words that this had been her idea and she was the one who could see it through. The piece of toast she had eaten for breakfast clumped in her stomach.

When Sam saw that she wasn't moving forward, he came to the proper conclusion that she had lost her nerve and gave her a look of disgust. She wanted to show him that he was wrong—that a socialite could teach a silver-tongued hustler a few things, that she was good for something more than planning cocktail parties. But her feet felt as if they were glued to the floor and she couldn't seem to unstick them. He wandered over to thumb through a parts catalogue, separating himself from her.

Without quite knowing how it had happened, she found herself moving forward. Carl looked up. He seemed vaguely perplexed. Women in Chanel suits—even suits that were five years old—weren't frequent patrons of Spectra Electronics.

She extended her arm for a handshake, then tightened her grip when she realized it wasn't firm enough. "Faulconer," she said, introducing herself with her last name for the first time in her life. "I'm Susannah Faulconer. Sam's business partner."

Her hand was clammy. She withdrew it before he noticed and gave him a bright red business card with SysVal boldly printed in black. As she passed it over, she prayed that the ink was dry.

SysVal stood for "Sam Yank and Susannah in the Valley," the name she and Sam had been arguing over all morning, right up to the time they stood at the counter of a print shop that guaranteed business cards in an hour. Sam had wanted to give the company an antiestablishment name like General Egocentric or Hewlett-Hacker, but she had stubbornly resisted. He had yelled at her right in front of the clerk at the print shop, but their confrontation the night before had stiffened her resolve not to let him have his way when she knew he was wrong. She still could barely believe that the name on the card was the one she had chosen.

"Faulconer?" Carl said as he eyed the card, which had her name written in the bottom corner incongruously placed in front of Sam's and Yank's and—even more incongruously

—with the bold title "President" printed after it. "You have anything to do with FBT?"

"Joel Faulconer is my father," she said, "but I'm currently on sabbatical from FBT." That was vaguely true.

She turned her head as if she were knowledgeably surveying her surroundings, when actually she was just trying to slow down her heartbeat. From Sam's briefing, she knew Carl was the person they had to deal with, but what did she know about someone who owned an electronics warehouse? The building was cool but she was perspiring. She would never be able to carry this off. She was a socialite, not a businesswoman.

And then she saw the respect in his eyes generated by hearing her last name, and she found the courage to plunge ahead. "Sam tells me that you're the best dealer in the area.

He's a severe judge, and I'm impressed."

Carl was pleased by her praise. "We try," he said. "We've been here for ten years. In the Valley that's a long time." He began telling her in some detail about his business.

"Interesting," she said as he wound to a close.

He gestured toward a cloudy Pyrex pot sitting on a hot plate. "Can I get you a cup of coffee, Miss Faulconer?"

He seemed to have forgotten Sam's existence, and for the moment that was fine. Off to the side, she could see Sam thumbing through the catalogues, but she knew that he was taking in every word of this exchange.

"Thanks, but I'm afraid I don't have time. I have another appointment." She gave her wrist a brisk glance only to remember, too late, that she wasn't wearing a watch. All of her watches were in her dresser drawer at Falcon Hill—or on her sister's wrist. She surreptitiously tugged down the sleeve of her jacket before Carl could notice.

"You're obviously competent at what you do. Reliability is important to me." Her knees were starting to feel weak, but she plunged on before she lost her nerve. "For some time I've been interested in helping develop small companies outside the FBT umbrella. I've been looking for ventures that excite me—new products, new concepts, fresh people.

When Sam showed me the computer that he and his associate had designed, I knew I'd found exactly what I'd been looking for."

"Sam's a good guy," Carl said, belatedly remembering who had brought her here. "He's got good instincts."

"I think so, and I'm not easily impressed." She couldn't believe the man wasn't seeing right through her, but he continued to listen. "We're lining up suppliers now, which is why I'm here. We think this new computer marks the wave of the future. I've made the decision to commit myself and all my resources to SysVal." That was true anyway. Carl didn't have to know just how nonexistent those resources were.

"I'll be happy to help you in any way I can."

"Good. I want to make certain you'll give Sam everything he needs."

"He's got it," Carl replied enthusiastically.

"And time is important. We need reliable parts and we need them quickly."

"I understand."

She put out her hand and shook his, her grip much stronger this time. "I know you're busy, and I won't take up any more of your time. You have my business card." She hesitated at the exact moment when she wanted to appear most in control. Hoping she hadn't already betrayed herself, she said firmly, "Use that address for billing. Thirty days, normal terms."

For the first time, Carl looked doubtful. She had expected this to happen, but now that it had, she couldn't remember what she had planned to do about it.

"If we're dealing with a new company," he said, "we generally ask for payment in advance."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam's head lift from the parts catalogue. This was it.

Now the socialite had to turn into a hustler. Whatever had made her think she could pull this off? She raised her eyebrow, hoping she looked vaguely annoyed instead of sick to her stomach. "In advance? How odd. That's really going to drive my accountants wild."

"Nothing personal, Miss Faulconer. It's normal procedure."

"Of course. I understand. I should have realized this would be a problem. FBT is accustomed to working with much larger suppliers."

Deliberately, she turned her back on him and walked over to Sam. "I know that you want to get your parts here, Sam, but I'm afraid it's not possible. You have to see that this is going to cause all sorts of difficulties for me."

Sam looked properly annoyed. "The prices are better here at Spectra," he said. "You'll end up paying more somewhere else."

She managed a stiff shrug. "Cost is relative. The larger suppliers can accommodate themselves better to our accounting system. From my perspective, this is a relatively small order—"

"Now, Miss Faulconer—" Carl practically leaped around the counter. "I'm sure we can work something out."

The blood had started to roar so loudly in her ears that she was surprised he couldn't hear it. She risked glancing at her wrist again. Two hairs past a freckle. She remembered that saying from her childhood. What time is it? Two hairs past a freckle. "I'm quite late already. I really don't—"

"We'll take care of it," Carl insisted. "Don't worry. Thirty days will be fine."

It took all her self-control not to break out in a huge smile. "Are you certain? I don't want to inconvenience you."

"No inconvenience at all," Carl replied. "Now you go on to your appointment. Sam and I'll get started on your order."

She could barely restrain herself from leaping into the air like a child. She wanted to jump and shout and scream with joy at how clever she had been, how brave, how absolutely unconventional! Instead, she smiled at Carl and began walking toward the door.

As she stepped outside, she promised herself that she would do whatever she must to pay him back. She might have hustled him, but she wouldn't cheat him.

Chapter 11

That evening Angela Gamble burst into the garage like the rhythm section of a street band—charm bracelets jangling, stiletto heels tapping, Gypsy coin earrings tintinnabulating.

"Sammy Bammy! I'm back!" She stretched out her arms and dashed forward—a hot pink flash in a gauze jumpsuit cinched at the waist with a metallic fish-scale belt. Her shoulder-length cloud of black, sprayed hair barely moved.

"Hi, Mom." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes as he half-heartedly returned her hug.

She gave him a loud kiss on the chin and smacked his face with the flat of her hand.

"That's for all the trouble you probably got into while I was away." Without stopping to catch her breath, she raced toward Yank, grabbed his rear end in both hands and squeezed hard. "Gotcha, hot cheeks. Miss me?"

Yank turned and blinked. Susannah, who had been unpacking a box of parts when Sam's mother had burst in, watched in astonishment as a smile slowly spread over his face. "Hi, Angela."

At the age of forty-two, Angela Gamble was slim and small. Only an inch over five feet tall, she was pretty despite her gaudiness, and fiercely engaged in a battle against encroaching middle age. She stretched up onto her tiptoes and planted a solid kiss on Yank's mouth. Then she slapped him across the face even harder than she had slapped her son. "That's for all the trouble you
didn't
get into while I was gone."

Yank rubbed his cheek absent-mindedly, gave her another smile—this one a bit vague—

and reached for his logic probe.

She turned to Susannah. "Hi, honey. I'm Angela Gamble. You Sammy's new girlfriend?"

Susannah stepped forward and introduced herself.

Angela gazed at her curiously. "You look so familiar to me. Sammy, why does she look so familiar?"

Sam, busy sorting capacitors, said offhandedly, "She looks like that actress we saw on PBS a couple of months ago."

"I never watch PBS. I can't stand foreign accents. It's your hair. I don't ever forget a hairstyle. Not too many women still wear it in a bun like that."

Susannah felt vaguely apologetic. "I don't always wear it like this. Sometimes I wear it down."

"I'd take some of that weight out of it if I were you. Cut it just below your jaw line.

Soften it with long layers so it stays full but isn't fussy. You don't look like the fussy type."

Her suggestions were delivered so good-naturedly, Susannah couldn't take offense. "I'll consider it."

Angela's scrutiny continued. "What did you say your last name was again?"

"Faulconer," she said hesitantly.

Angela looked thoughtful for a moment and then she let out a squeal. "I don't believe it! I read a story about you in the newspaper, didn't I? You're the daughter of that big shot.

You're the one who ran away from her wedding! Ohmygod! Sammy, do you know who this is? This is Susannah Faulconer. She was getting married to this guy, and then right in the middle of this swank society wedding this other guy shows up on a Harley and—"

She stopped in mid-sentence. Her jaw dropped as her eyes flew from Susannah to Sam.

"Oh my God," she said breathlessly. "Oh my God! It was you!"

Without warning, she began to squeal in delight and pound her heels up and down on the concrete floor like a pint-sized flamenco dancer. "Sammy! I should have known. When I read that story, I got this shiver up my spine. I should have known right then. You're just like your old man! God, if he could only hear about this one."

Sam stiffened. Then he stepped forward. "Susannah is staying with me for a while."

"That's great! Oh, that's just great! If I'd known about this, I would have come back last week. Vegas was dead anyway. The town just isn't the same when Elvis isn't headlining.

And then I had to listen to Audrey going on and on about how fat he's gotten. Fat or not, the King is still the King."