Margo found herself grinning as she took Mr. Jackson's arm. Maybe, finally, her luck had changed for the better. Just wait until Kit Carson heard about this! He'd choke on his eggs again. And after the way he'd treated her, he deserved it! Dreaming of thrills, adventure, and plates of heaped bacon and pancakes, Margo accompanied her new teacher out into the bright, busy Commons of Shangri-la Station.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Down Time's pool room was a snoop's paradise. Thanks to the acoustics, it was possible to hear snatches of several conversations at once. Kit had always wondered if the place had been purpose-built. He lined up a shot, called it, and put the two ball neatly in a side pocket. Out in the bar proper, somebody was laughing about an invasion of grasshoppers at TT-37.
"Came right through a random gate into Commons. Tourists screaming, Station Pest Control tearing hair and swearing. Must've killed a million of 'em, minimum. Took days to sweep 'em all up in another corner, Robert LI's unmistakable bass voice rumbled, "...so when Wilkes said that, Bull told him all ATF courtesy passes were canceled, effective immediately ...."
Kit grinned. Another wrinkle in the continuing saga. The station manager's battle to keep ATF's nose where it belonged-out of everybody else's business-had spawned an entertainment form unique to La-La Land. Known as "Bull Watching," it involved avid betting on the outcome of any random encounter between Bull Morgan and Montgomery Wilkes.
Kit called and sank another ball, then lined up his next shot. Over in the corner, Goldie Morran frowned, looking every inch the disapproving dowager one might see on the Paris Opera House's grand marble staircase opening night, dressed to the nines and staring down that long, thin nose of hers like a Russian aristocrat. Even the hair-a particularly precise shade of purple Kit still associated with seventh-grade English teachers and aging duchesses-contributed to the overall impression.
Goldie eyed the line of Kit's cue stick and sniffed. "I knew I would regret this game. You're too lucky."
Kit chuckled. "Luck, dear Goldie, is what we make it." The next ball he called rattled musically into the far corner pocket. "As you, of all people, should know"
She only smiled, a thin hawkish smile that spoke volumes to those who knew her well. Kit suppressed the urge to look for the knife about to plunge into his back. He lined up his next shot and was just about set when Robert LI's voice interrupted from the doorway.
"Ah, Kit, there you are."
La-La Land's antiquarian, a long-time friend, knew that interrupting a game for anything less than catastrophic emergency was considered a hanging offense. Particularly when the opponent was Goldie Morran. Playing Goldie took concentration if you wanted to leave the room still wearing the shirt you'd come in with. Kit had momentary visions of Tokugawa samurai pouring through the Nippon Gate into the Neo Edo's main lobby, demanding room service.
"What is it?" he asked warily.
Robert lounged against the door frame and idly inspected his fingernails. "Seen the Wunderkind lately?"
The Wunderkind could refer to only one person: Margo.
Oh, great. Now what's she done?
In her four days at La-La Land, she had managed to set more tongues wagging than Byron and his sister had in four months of Sundays.
"Uh, no." He lined up his shot again. "Don't much care if I ever do, either."
He began the shot.
"Well, she's been hanging around with Skeeter Jackson. Says he's going to teach her to time scout."
The shot went wild. Kit's cue actually raked the felt table, leaving an ugly mar in its smooth surface. He swore and glared at his so-called friend, then at Goldie. She widened her eyes and shrugged innocence, reminding Kit unpleasantly of Lucrezia Borgia that night he'd accidentally surprised her in the infamous walled garden ....
"Huh."
Kit surrendered the table with as much grace as he could muster and said goodbye to the game. Robert LI, whose maternal Scandinavian heritage-fair skin and rosy cheeks-was overshadowed by a Hong Kong Chinese grandfather's legacy, only grinned. A completely scrutable scoundrel, he settled his shoulder more comfortably against the doorframe to watch. During the next two minutes, Goldie ran the table, hardly pausing for breath between shots. She -spun the final shot off Kit's scratch, giving the ball just enough English off that long mar in the felt to sink it with a rattle like doom.
"Tough luck," she smiled, holding out one thin-boned hand.
Kit dug into his pocket and came up with the cash, paying her off wordlessly. Robert, still standing in the doorway, grinned sheepishly as she passed him on the way out.
"Sorry, Kit."
"Oh, don't mention it. I just love ruining a perfectly good pool table and losing a week's profits."
"Well, gosh, Kit, I just thought you'd laugh. How was I to know you'd take the news so personally? Don't tell me the famous Kit Carson has fallen for that redheaded imp?"
Wisely, Robert made himself scarce. But the antiquarian chuckled all the way out to Commons. Kit muttered impolite words under his breath. With such friends ...He unscrewed the sections of his cue stick and slipped them into their leather case, then settled up the damages with Samir Adin, the night manager.
"You what?" Samir asked in gaping disbelief.
"I scratched. Here, this ought to cover the cost of refelting it."
"You scratched. Unbelievable. Did I miss the earthquake or something?"
Kit scowled. "Very funny Frankly, I'd say it hit at least 7.5 on the Richter. Had Goldie's name all over it. Give me a Kirin, would you?"
Samir chuckled and dug for a cold bottle. "I keep telling you, Kit. If you want to beat Goldie Morran, play her when she's unconscious."
Kit downed the Kirin in five long swallows and felt better immediately. "Well, a man can dream, can't he? Hillary had Everest, Peary had the Pole, and I cling to the dream of beating Goldie Morran at pool."
Samir, a deeply sympathetic soul, broke into song, giving him a stirring rendition of "To Dream the Impossible Dream."
"Oh, you're no help," Kit grinned. "Why do I come in here, anyway?"
Samir chuckled. "That one's easy. All time scouts are gluttons for punishment. It's in the job description." .
Kit laughed. "You've got me there. I wrote the damned thing."
Samir thumped him on the back byway of condolences and sent him on his way. Kit shoved hands into pockets, cue case tucked under one arm. Well, that story ought to be a nine-day wonder. It'll be all over La-La Land by bedtime. He strolled glumly through Urbs Romae, going nowhere in particular, then sniffed appreciatively at the scents wafting from the Epicurean Delight. Dinner sounds good, after that beer. Hmm...
He wondered what Arley Eisenstein had written on didn't make corporate decisions. He just dealt with the field problems and gritted his teeth while making the home office a ton of money.
Kit eased Connie down to the bench. "There," he smiled. "All safe and sound."
She winced and wriggled to avoid pins, then sighed. "Thanks a million. Computer design may be my forte, but it just doesn't take the place of field testing. Sometimes," she grimaced at her feet, "it's a little rough on body and soul."
Kit stooped and eased off her shoes, earning a deep sigh. Connie's feet, clad in tabi socks, were visibly swollen even through the cotton. He rubbed gently. She collapsed bonelessly against the backrest.
"Oh, God ...I love you, Kit Carson."
Kit chuckled. "That's what all the ladies say. Had dinner yet?"
She peeled one eyelid. "No, but I don't have time. Still have a special order for the London run to finish designing and after that I have a new batch of sketches from Rome and some samples that you just wouldn't believe, how gorgeous they are ...."