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The [[ | 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 [[Bitcoin|Satoshi]] Extra-Dry. It’s an [[Blockchain|on-chain]] open bar. The vodka luge hits peak. [[Day count fraction|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-hell''oooo''. | ||
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. | |||
He knows it: ''this'' is his moment. | |||
He | He rams a [[Cayman Island rum cake|Tortuga chaser]]: that bad boy gives him wings. He rocks up. “Is this guy boring you?” | ||
She | She 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 business day convention|following]]'' me?” | |||
He spits | He cracks out his *innocent face*. “I was here first —” | ||
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., so you were ''[[preceding business day convention|preceding]]'' me?” | |||
“I figured you’d wind up here, so I just made sure I was in place.” He shrugs. “Call it [[Modified following business day convention|''modified'' following]] you.” | |||
He pops an olive. | |||
She spits her drink. | |||
The zydeco wails. They get ''close''. She’s nervous. She bites her lip. She looks about. She ''gasps'' – clocks something, some''one'', over her shoulder. | |||
She leans in. She whispers in his ear – 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?” | |||
“Work it out, big boy,” she says, and winks, and drifts away, upon a raging current of sales bullshittery and lofted canapés. “''[[Actual/Actual|Actually]]'' –” | |||
As she floats away she tosses something. He snatches it. It’s a room-key. Punched into the plastic: ''HACIENDA 547''. She floats away. | |||
“Wait – what’s your name?” | |||
She floats on. Through the chatter, a frail, tight-point whisper, hits him broadside: “[[Marissa Planasset|Marissa]].” | |||
He reaches out but she’s gone, her wake dissolving into an angry sea. | |||
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 [[Process agent|agent]].” |