Catie shook her head. “You should do what Mom suggested, and reschedule the builders for later. Then we could all go away somewhere for a week, while the place is all torn up. Up to the Jersey Shore, maybe…or over to Assateague…”
Her father looked thoughtful. Then he shook his head. “Nope. The sooner it’s done, the sooner I can get back to work.”
Catie smiled slightly. It was easy to forget sometimes how much her father loved what he did, when most of her classmates could talk about nothing but how their folks disliked their jobs and couldn’t wait to get away on vacation. If she was lucky, some day she would be in the same position, when she got a job at Net Force. She refused to think of it in terms of if.
And that reminded her. “Oh,” Catie said, “I was going to tell you last night, but you were busy. Hal’s friend the spatball player from South Florida Spat is going to be in town tomorrow…we’re going into Georgetown to see him at lunch.”
“Hey, that’s great for you. You need a ride?”
She shook her head. “We’ll go public…between the Metro and the tram, it’s not a problem.”
“This is their big star, huh?”
“So I hear. A lot of people are interested in South Florida all of a sudden…I assume that’s why he’s coming up here in the first place.”
He nodded, having another drink of his beer and looking at the painting. “…Why do you think they’re so popular just now?”
Catie looked at her father quizzically. “You getting interested in sports all of a sudden?” she said. It was an unusual concept, for though he might render sports themes in the course of his work, he wasn’t particularly a fan of any of them. In fact, her dad routinely claimed that his introduction to commercial art was when he learned to forge his parents’ signatures on “notes from home” asking that he be excused from gym; and later, until he was caught, he had run a small but lucrative business forging other kids’ parents’ signatures at five bucks a shot.
“Me? Sports? Not a chance,” Catie’s father said. “But the psychology of this particular situation…maybe.”
Catie thought about that. “I don’t know for sure,” she said. “It could just be the underdog thing, I guess. People enjoy seeing an unlikely winner taking on the ‘big guys.’”
Her father nodded, pulled out the turpentine rag again, and sat down on the poor beat-up, paint-spattered couch, where he started scrubbing once more at the back of his left hand, where it was still blue and green. “Maybe. I guess I’m not clear on how they managed it in the first place, though.”
“If I understand it right,” Catie said, leaning against the tube-and bottle-cluttered desk near the studio door, “somebody in the first organizing body of the sport actually had the brains to set themselves up as a licensing body as well, to make sure they kept control over it. I don’t understand most of the legal stuff, but I think Hal told me they had to do that in order to get permission to keep using cubic on the International Space Station for those first few tournaments. He said the first organizers wanted to make sure the sport didn’t lose the amateur feel, even when it started to get professionalized — they were smart enough to see that coming over the horizon, eventually — and when the league structure started to be set up, they wrote it specifically into the structure document that Spat International would not allow strictly professional leagues. They could call themselves something else if they went professional, but they couldn’t call it ‘spatball.’”
Her father nodded slowly. “You’re telling me they decided to license the brand, as much as the game itself.” He chucked the rag into the little self-sealing ceramic garbage can nearby where his flammable disposables went, and picked up his beer glass again. “Possibly a very smart move.”
“Seems that way,” Catie said. “Hal says the big teams have tried a couple different ways to break the license or weasel around it, and every time they try, they get blown out of the water in one jurisdiction or another. Apparently the player who drew up the structure document as part of the original license was also a lawyer with a specialty in international trademark and patent law, and he really knew what he was doing.”
“Huh,” her father said, having another drink of Duvel.
“But this is still kind of unusual, I take it.”
“Oh, yeah,” Catie said. “The structure of the yearly spat schedule usually seems to shake out all but the very best teams early on, and mostly the ones who’re left are the professional teams. Partly it’s because the professionals have lots of money to recruit the most talented players from the semipro and amateur teams. Seems like the semis and amateurs have been complaining about that for a long time. In the normal course of the competitions, most of the amateur teams usually fall by the wayside by the mid-season break. But not this one….”
Her father finished his beer, got up, and picked up the rag can, glancing one last time at the painting. “Well,” he said, “it’s going to be interesting to see how the rest of the season unfolds for South Florida. I would imagine the pressure on them is increasing to levels they wouldn’t normally experience as a purely amateur team.”
Catie nodded as they walked back toward the kitchen. “That’s sort of why I want to meet their team captain,” she said.
Her father raised his eyebrows at her as they went into the kitchen and he kept going, toward the door that led to the garage, the side of the house, and the sealed disposal for the flammable garbage. “So you’re telling me that it really doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that People described this guy as having ‘the best physical aspects of a young god’?”
He was out the door before Catie could think of an appropriate response to that. Her brother was still stirring the same pot he had been stirring before, looking both intent and angry, and he was reaching for another eggon-a-dish.
“Chemistry?” Catie said, looking at him in complete bemusement.
“Blast yourself out of here,” Hal said, not looking up, “before I call whichever public agency is in charge of having a close relative’s body donated to science.”
Smiling slightly, Catie went on down the hall to her room to change out of her school clothes.
About a hundred and fifty miles away, in the top-floor lobby bar of the Marriott Hilton Parkway in Philadelphia, two men sat across a low bar table and looked down the length of Ben Franklin Parkway, toward the faux-Greek, painted portico of the art museum. Two long lines of trees stretched up the parkway toward Museum Circle, but not a breath of wind stirred them. Every leaf hung still and flat-looking in the heat and the odd light. In the west, thunderclouds were piling up in curdling heaps of white and livid blue, threatening one of those four o’clock thunderstorms to which Philly is prone in most summers. But it was some time from happening yet, and everything outside the big floor-to-ceiling windows of the bar lay in a breathless, panting stillness of heat and humidity, waiting for the storm to break.
The two men who sat there in the bar and looked down the parkway, rather than at one another, were both wearing dark clothes in cuts that were designed not to stand out in any particular way. They had taken off their sunglasses because wearing sunglasses inside was a good way to make you stand out, and they were both drinking nondescript drinks that might or might not have had alcohol in them, to the casual observer.
It was the first time the two men had met nonvirtually, and they had made the discovery about each other that so many people make in such circumstances — that the seeming each of them routinely wore was an almost exact opposite of his real appearance, and therefore could have been used to predict one another’s genuine appearance, if either one had been bothered to try. Darjan turned out to be a short fair man, a little on the bulky side, with hair surprisingly long for the styles that year; and Heming turned out to be tall and slim to the point of boniness, swarthy, and with very close-cropped dark hair. The revelation did not move either of them to like the other one anymore…and it would hardly have been possible for them to like one another less, especially since circumstances had forced them to meet nonvirtually, and thereby lose whatever cover their seemings had until now provided them.