Tanya gasped in shock and scrambled away, rolling off the table. Mayeaux fought back the urge to laugh. She snatched her pantyhose, pulling them up and yanked the smooth peach fabric of her dress back into place. As she brushed back her hair, Mayeaux thought he saw a look of relief on her face.
Mayeaux buckled his pants and turned to call through the door. “Dammit, Weathersee, couldn’t you knock?” But he could never be angry at Weathersee—the man had saved Mayeaux’s butt too many times in the past.
The door inched open. “Sorry, sir.” Weathersee dropped a stack of papers on the floor. “These are the briefing materials you wanted in preparation for the trip to Kirtland Air Force Base. It’s for the Tech Transfer Act.” Poking his head into the room, he glanced at the speech writer, then back at Mayeaux. “And whenever you’re finished here, sir, Vice President Wolani is on the phone for you.”
Without a word, Tanya fled past him. Mayeaux scowled, but looked admiringly at her ass as she went out. He wondered when they would be able to finish what they had started. Or, if not with her, he’d get somebody else.
For now, he’d just as soon have kept the Vice President waiting.
Chapter 17
After spending the morning in jail, Todd didn’t mind the long drive to Alex Kramer’s house, as long as he could keep the window rolled down and the fresh air blowing in his face.
A load of crap had come down since that morning, and the rolling Marin foothills calmed him. He turned up the radio, tapped on the wheel, and sang along with an old Willie Nelson song. He was ready to unwind at the Oilstar “victory party” at Alex’s home. By spraying Prometheus, Todd had turned on the light at the end of the tunnel.
As expected, Oilstar bailed Todd and Alex out after only a few hours in the Contra Costa County jail. Oilstar lawyers had been prepared and waiting. By early afternoon, Emma Branson had gone on TV, railing at the interference from do-nothing government agencies.
Todd had never been in trouble with the law before, and having an arrest on his record really ticked him off; but once the charges were dropped, his sheet darn well better be clean. He’d placed an awful lot of confidence in Kramer’s microbes.
Unexpectedly, he came upon Alex’s ranch house, half-hidden in the tall trees; he braked quickly in his Ford pickup, coming to a dead stop in the road before turning right into the long gravel driveway. Among the cars parked on the lawn and in the drive, no vehicle looked more than three years old, and there were more foreign cars than American ones. He shook his head. These same mineral-water-drinking lamebrains complained about America’s economy and then handed their buying dollars to some German or Japanese car company.
Getting out of the truck, he jammed his cowboy hat down on his head. As he crunched up the driveway, he glanced at the split-rail fence extending along the one-story ranch house; a small barn stood just around the corner. He took a deep breath. The familiar damp, musty smell of manure told him Alex kept horses. Not what he expected from the quiet scientist.
One of the secretaries from the bioremediation offices answered the doorbell. Not a secretary, he corrected himself; in California, the women called themselves ‘administrative assistants.’ She wore lots of makeup and was dressed to kill. He wondered what she would look like in jeans.
Todd didn’t have time to say anything before she waved him inside. “Hey, everybody, our other convict is here!”
Pianos and violins played snooty classical music on the stereo. People milled around the main living room near a small wet bar where they served themselves. Prepackaged hors d’ouvres sat out on a table: crackers, cut vegetables, cheese. A sliding glass door stood half-open, leading to a patio and the back yard. Other people chatted and laughed in the kitchen, leaning against the tile counters. From their dress, Todd supposed the guests had stopped by on their way home from work.
He hadn’t yet seen the host. He wondered if Alex lived alone in such a big place. Somehow, this did not strike him as a bachelor pad. Even with all the gathered people, the sound of the music, the conversations, the house felt… unused, as if it had been closed up for a long time.
Todd got himself a bottle of Coors from the small wet bar and stood nursing it, sloshing the foamy taste around in his mouth. He stood by himself in between other conversations, looking at all the people he didn’t know. He tried to smile as he shook hands, accepting congratulations for getting the work done and for bucking the system. Trying to escape further conversation, he wandered down a narrow hall.
Someone squeezed past him to the bathroom. Poking around, he opened the door to a closed room. Medals, newspaper clippings, and a battle streamer hung on the wall, just above the photo of a young man in a starched Army uniform. Other pictures surrounded the memorial—Alex himself standing by the boy in hiking gear, the boy crouched by the ocean holding an abalone shell.
An adjacent wall featured a young girl. Photos of her at various ages were arranged in a circle: a ballerina, a Pioneer girl, a high-school cheerleader next to her mother—everything a proud and loving father would put together…
Todd’s musings were interrupted by a loud voice and a slap on the back. “Cowboy Todd! Come on, loosen up, celebrate!”
Todd turned to see Alex’s big-mouthed deputy, Mitchell Stone. “Mitch, how are ya?” He wondered if Mitch had gone to some expensive college to learn to be such a horse’s rear-end.
“Just friggin’ great.” Mitch hung an arm around Todd’s neck. A fruity wine-cooler smell surrounded the man, mixed with the aroma of cheese dip. Mitch took a sip from the glass he held in one hand. “You know, the way things are going, we’re going to owe you a lot more than that consulting fee.”
“How’s that?”
“You made us heroes!” Mitch roared. Todd couldn’t figure out what was so funny. “It’s a great day for the future!”
Todd squirmed out from under Mitch’s arm and steered him into the hall, closing the door behind them. He wondered about the pictures—who were those people? The displays of Alex’s… children?… made him uncomfortable. He wanted to protect Kramer’s privacy.
“Give the bug time to work, Mitch, before you—”
“Hell, I saw it with my own eyes. It can’t fail.” He raised his glass to Todd; it held a peachy drink with tiny bubbles rising to the top.
Todd held up his half-full bottle of beer. “I think I’ll get a refill. See ya!” He escaped before Mitch could articulate a reply. He hurried down the hall back to the crowded room, hoping to lose himself among the fifteen or so people. Todd wished for some Outlaws, or Charlie Daniels, or any country music, but the foot-stompin’ beat might stir things up too much.
He thought about going to the patio, maybe take a look at the horses, when he spotted Alex Kramer standing alone outside, leaning on a porch rail and holding a drink. Alex had a bemused look, holding his folded eyeglasses in his hand as if pondering a secret joke. Squinting into the distance, he studied the rolling hills behind the house. He barely seemed aware of his own party.
Todd started toward the sliding glass door when he bumped into someone backing away from the bar. A plate fell to the floor. “Gosh, I’m sorry!” Todd said, looking at the petite woman stooping down to pick up spilled munchies. She wore a bright red blouse and black pants.
“I didn’t expect you to be a ballerina wearing those cowboy boots,” Iris Shikozu said, then snatched her glass from the floor. “But I would hope for a little bit of coordination.”
Todd glanced down at his large boots with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “Who backed into who?” he asked, bending to help her.