Template:Opco business day convention scene

The business day convention winds down. The final panel Q&A wraps up: five hundred delegates hit the bar hard: TARGET chit-chat is thirsty work. The MTM Grand is buzzing. The house band plays flat-stick Cajun washboard scat. They play it loud. It kicks an angsty groove.

Waiters boogie-woogie through the crowd. They flog cold beers and live crabs on overhead trays. Nippers gnash. Punters chug Satoshi Extra-Dry. It’s an on-chain open bar. The vodka luge hits peak. Daycount chit-chat hits peak. The accordion swing-jive hits peak: breakneck BPM.

Stage left: the Negotiator cuts a track through the hullaballoo. And then sees her. Hullaba-helloooo.

The counter scene is chaos. His bar presence is zilch. All the same he catches her eye — just. There’s a flicker and its gone. She looks down. She looks away. She flushes red. There: she steals another look through that tumbling fringe. The Negotiator knows it: this is the moment.

He rams a Tortuga chaser. That bad boy gives him wings. He rocks up. “Is this guy boring you?”

The stares straight at him. “Not yet.”

She blows her fringe. She contrives boredom. “Weren’t you in the day count fraction break-out session?”

The Negotiator grins. “Actually, —”

“You’re a funny guy. Are you following me?”

He cracks out ol’ *innocent face*.

She looks him up and down. She scoffs, but vibes playful. She runs a finger round the rim of his glass. Their eyes lock again. “O.K., soldier, so you say you were preceding me?”

He shrugs. “I figured you’d wind up here, so I just made sure I got here first.”

So, you were, ahhh — modified following me?”

He spits his drink. She pops an olive. The zydeco wails. They get close.

She’s nervous. She bites her lip. She looks about. She gasps – clocks something, someone, over her shoulder. She leans in. She whispers in his ear – her lips touch his lobe. It’s hot.

“Have you got something for me, big boy?”

He whispers back. His lips touch her lobe. It’s infernal.

“Well do you want something?”

“Honey, I’ll take anything. No questions asked.” She runs a finger down his gilet.

“Anything?”

She takes a step back. That half-cocked smile. “Come find me. Come find yourself.”

“When?”

“End of the month. For business.”

“End of month — ?” The Negotiator glanced at his wrist: a Rolodex Perpetual. Top of the range.

“Nice piece.”

“So, tomorrow?”

She leans in close. Her breath is hot. “Work it out, big boy.”

His professional circuits click in fast. It’s the thirtieth: month-end proximate. Tomorrow is Saturday. He tips the ambiguity right off the bat. “Wait: Following or Modified Following?”

“I like the way you’re thinking,” she says, and winks, and drifts away, on the raging current of sales bullshittery and lofted canapés. “Actually –”

As she floats away she tosses something. The Negotiator snatches it. It’s a room-key. Punched into the plastic: HACIENDA 547.

He turns to look but the ocean’s closing up.

“Wait – what’s your name?”

But she is gone.

Through the chatter, a frail, tight-point whisper, hits him broadside: “I’m Marissa.”

He says it to himself: “Marissa.”

A Bus-boy rocks by with bacon-wrapped scallops in newsprint party hats. He leans in casually, as he goes. “Careful with her, sir: She’s an agent.”