Who Hunts the Hunter (10 page)
In the frenzy of those moments, a gun roars beside her ear, but she hardly feels the sting of fur and flesh being torn from the side of her skull. She drives a paw against a head and the head hits the passenger-side window and one of the cops goes limp, alive, but unconscious. The other one is disabled as quickly.
That leaves her with another problem, one becoming too familiar. What does she do for clothes?
She eyes the cops’ blue uniforms.
“Amy? ...
Amy
!”
Startled, Amy looks up and around.
Tonight, she’s wearing her newest, most costly evening gown, her Armante Starlight gown, clinging cloth-of-gold speckled with faux diamonds that cast a subtle golden halo all around her. The gown really belongs on someone with a figure far more stellar than her own, but she felt persuaded to make the investment, and to take the incumbent risk, on account of the man sitting opposite her.
Just across the glittering crystal table sits Harman Franck-Natali, wearing the Saville Nights suit that makes him seem so much the successful exec. Amy notices that Harman’s looking at her like he’s either puzzled or angry, and that’s odd. Harman is usually the picture of self-control. What’s going-on?
Beside the table stands an older, gray-haired man, a waiter in a tuxedo, the very picture of Old World elegance and dignity. He fits his background perfectly. The main dining room of Avant Tout is lit subtly by the suffused light sifting up through the crystal tables. Rainbows shine softly against the ceiling. Whalesong plays discreetly from hidden speakers. The atmosphere is one of understated opulence.
“Would you care to order?” Harman asks.
On the table before her is a sparking
haut
ton
menu. Of course, she’s barely glanced at the listings and now everyone’s waiting for her decision. Harman’s waiting again. She kept him waiting almost half an hour, earlier this evening, while she finished dressing."What are you having?” she asks.
“We’ll be a few minutes,” Harman tells the waiter.
“Of course, sir. Madame.” The waiter bows and goes off. Harman turns his right hand palm up as if to ask what’s going on, and says, “Am I putting you to sleep?”
“I’m sorry,” Amy says, suddenly recognizing the disappointment in his eyes. She barely suppresses a moan."I’m spoiling it all.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s work. I can’t get it off my mind.”
Harman hesitates a moment, watching her, then says, “Why don’t we forget dinner? It’s been a long day for me, too. We can grab some food somewhere, and I’ll drive you home. We can talk on the way.”
Amy nods, grateful, and sad and disappointed, but resigned.
Harman had wanted this to be a special evening. They’ve been seeing each other for exactly a year, and it seems like their relationship is really heading somewhere. Lately, they’d begun talking about the future in terms of “we” and “us”. Amy likes that. She’s been a long time getting around to meeting someone with whom she could talk like that. She has a definite feeling that this could be the one, a someone she might spend the rest of her life with. She hopes so. She hopes he understands that her problems tonight have nothing to do with her feelings for him.
They head for the door. Harman rescues her shawl from the checkroom and drapes it carefully about her shoulders. She manages a smile of thanks. A tuxedoed doorman escorts them outside, to the broad semicircular walk embracing the sparkling fountain before the restaurant’s main entrance. A black-suited valet brings Harman’s stately Mitsubishi Patrician. The doorman opens Amy’s door.
“
Au
revoir,
Madame
."
“Yes. Thank you. Good night.”
Harman turns the car onto Seventh, heading downtown. Just a few blocks north of Times Square is one of the city’s small treasures: The Second Avenue Deli. Tourists look for it over by Turtle Bay, but it’s actually right at the heart of things, just off Duffy Square. Harman goes in alone, gets them hot pastrami sandwiches, a carafe of wine, and two cups of dessert coffee. They eat in the car, parked right there at curbside, accompanied by classical melodies from Harman’s extensive stereo collection.
“Picnic in Midtown,” Harman says.
“It’s fine.”
What better place to eat than so near the theater district, where scripter’s dramas strive to illuminate the melodrama of life? It’s safe enough. Cars marked for NYPD Inc. pass by nearly every time the traffic lights change. A pair of uniformed officers from Winter Systems stand right outside the deli, keeping a watchful eye on things.
“It must be your Tokyo auditors,” Harman says."They’re stirring things up?”
Amy nods. She supposes it’s time for the talk Harman mentioned. She doesn’t want to burden him with her work problems, but neither does she want to shut him out. She struggles with that minor dilemma, and finally decides it’s important that he should know. He’s become as important to her as her career, perhaps even more so. She shouldn’t keep secrets. But where should she start? “You know what a mess things were when I joined HC. It was taking some departments months just to order software prepacks.”
Harman nods, smiles."You did a hell of a job straightening that out.”
“I did what I could,” Amy agrees, “but I’m only one person. The purchasing process seemed like the obvious priority. Unfortunately, I still have lots to do on the other side of the equation, and that’s what the auditors are looking at.”
“Resource consumption?”
“Tracking, consumption . . .” Amy nods, recalling her “discussion” with Kurushima Jussai."We bought a dragon’s hangnail for some metascience experiment. Did we ever use it? Well, it cost us half a million nuyen. Why don’t you have any answers?”
“I wasn’t aware that dragons could get hangnails.”
“I’m being facetious.”
“As am I.” Harman’s smile turns from apologetic to warm and sympathetic."I’m sorry. I don’t mean to belittle your situation. It’s just rather surprising ... half a million nuyen.
Sometimes it seems that my people spend that much on drinks in a week.”
“I know.” Amy watches the play of emotions across Harman’s face, then leans near enough to kiss his cheek."I know exactly what you mean.”
And, in truth, Harman’s reaction is perfectly natural. He is Managing Director of Sales for Mitsuhama Systems Engineering, a division of Mitsuhama UCAS, part of one of the world’s most powerful megacorps. Hurley-Cooper’s parent corp, KFK International, is pretty big too, but comparing HC to Harman’s division is simply ridiculous. Harman’s sales force spans the globe and brings in billions. Hurley-Cooper Laboratories does important work, and turns a tidy profit, but in terms of nuyen it’s strictly small-time.
“Don’t you have a resource director?” Harman asks.
"Yes, Bob Ganz,” Amy replies."He’s Director of Resource Management. That’s another problem.”
“Tell me about it.”
A year ago she might have looked at Harman and wondered why the Director of Sales for Mitsuhama Systems Engineering was so interested in her problems. She doesn’t suffer from doubts like that anymore. Harman’s voice is soft, his expression is concerned. He wouldn’t waste a second over a little corp like Hurley-Cooper except that it’s her little corp and that makes all the difference. She trusts him to keep this just between him and her.
“Bob isn’t a very imaginative person.”
“That’s not good.”
“And he uses BTLs.”
Both of them know what that means. Through the miracle of virtual experience, BTLs give thrills even
Better
Than
Life
. They’re a variety of high-gain, mega-output simsense chip, perfectly addictive."Then he should go,” Harman says softly.
“It’s not that easy.”
“Chipheads aren’t going to do you or HC any good."
"Bob’s been with HC almost thirty years. He worked his way up from nothing. He’s one of those people who always worked twice as hard as everyone else because he knows he has limitations. I think that’s how he got hooked on BTLs, trying to take up the slack, pushing himself.”
“He’ll burn out sooner or later.”
“Maybe. I gave him a pep talk and an ultimatum. You’re a good man and you do good work, but get into a program. Get clean or you’re out. I think he’s making progress."
"And you believe he deserves the chance to redeem himself.”
“Yes, I do.”
“So, meanwhile, your resource group is limping along and now you’re personally in a hole.”
Amy looks at him and nods.
“Is it worth it?”
That’s a question Amy’s asked herself at least a few million times. Somehow, she always comes up with the same answer. She forces herself to say it now with conviction."If I’m not prepared to back up my beliefs, then I shouldn’t be in the game.”
“I admire your pertinacity.”
“You’d do the same thing.”
“In your position? I like to think so. I hope I’d have your courage. There are changes I’d like to make right now, only I’m surrounded by sharks.”
“Harman, you don’t have to apologize.”
“I want you to understand.”
“I do understand. I do.”
Harman’s situation is really quite different from hers. People don’t matter at Mitsuhama, not in Harman’s division. The only issue there is “product” or “sales.” Harman seems to spend most of his time fighting defensive battles against superiors who want to kick him down a few notches, or subordinates who want to cut his legs out from under him, preferably with as much gore as possible. Harman can’t take the time to address human issues. He’d be a fool to even try. It’s that brutal an environment.
“Have you thought any more about getting out?”
“I’m thinking about it very seriously,” Harman says, definitely."I really envy your position. That’s what gets to me, you know. Here you are, a vice president for a little group of labs, but your work makes you feel like you’re contributing something to the world. I’ve got people all over hell’s creation and I feel like I’m swimming through a pool of piranha, and accomplishing nothing.”
“Do you want my opinion?”
“I already know it.” He smiles, reaches over and takes her hand. Their fingers intertwine."You know, I wanted to talk about us tonight.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. We’re both having an off day, I think. Maybe we can try this again next week, when you get those auditors out of your hair. In the meantime, I’d like you to think about us, and what you want. You know what I’m talking about.”
Amy nods."I love you.”
“And I love you, darling.” Harman stops and smiles, and says, softly, “Should we leave it at that?”
Amy nods, smiles."Yes. Let’s.”
The drive home begins with the ride uptown. Traffic slows to a stop-and-go crawl at the entrance to the Triborough Bridge. Amy gazes out the side window at the night. Her concerns about Hurley-Cooper and KFK and, above all, Kurushima Jussai come seeping back into her mind.
By late this afternoon, the chief auditor’s list of unaccounted-for resources—materials, equipment, arcane supplies—had grown very long, to crisis proportions, for all practical purposes. On the one hand, Amy can’t believe that more than a hundred separate items could have slipped through the cracks; on the other, her worst expectations about the arrival of the Tokyo staff seem to be coming true.
“Amy. Hon?”
Harman touches her shoulder. She finds him gazing at her expectantly. So is the uniformed Port Authority officer looking in through Harman’s window.
“Sometime tonight, lady,” the officer says tartly.
Abruptly, Amy realizes what’s happening. It’s one of the more charming aspects of a visit to Manhattan. One must have the proper pass to get in or out, or expect a great big hassle from the police. Amy got her pass through Hurley-Cooper, along with the other senior execs, one result of HC taking office space on New Bronx Plaza. She digs the gray card out of her purse. Before she so much as looks up, card in hand, the Port Authority officer is waving them ahead.
Harman takes them across the bridge to the Bruckner Expressway, then on toward Scarsdale, the corporate side of town. Amy has her resident pass already in hand as they slow before the gatehouse to her highrise condoplex.
“Have a better tomorrow,” the guard says cheerfully.
Harman replies, drolly, “Echo that.”
The van’s tires scream as they round the corner, nearly rising onto two wheels. Monk grabs at the door and puts a hand out to the dash and manages to stay mostly upright in his seat. Flashing signs, traffic lights, the lights of other vehicles and crowds of people on crosswalks, sidewalks, and other kinds of walks all zip by in a blur.
Minx shoots him a glance and grins."Hang on,
you
booty
!” she cries. And the tires scream again.
Monk sways across the center console, and sways back the other way. He takes a final deep drag on his cigarette, then drops the butt out the window. Just an ordinary Millennium Red, but it’s made him feel like he’s flying, flying high, right into orbit.
Zoom! zoom!
and
away
he
goes!