Template:Opco business day convention scene

The final panel Q&A wraps up: five hundred delegates hit the bar hard: Actual/actual chit-chat is thirsty work.

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. This is the moment.

He rams a Tortuga chaser. That bad boy gives him wings. He sidles up.

She blows her fringe. She contrives boredom. “You following me, youngster?”

He cracks out ol’ *innocent face*. “Look, lady: I was here first.”

She looks him up and down. “Is that a fact.” 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?”

He shrugs. “I guess I figured you would wind up here eventually, so I just made sure I got here first. I was, ahhh — modified following you.”

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

She’s nervous. She looks about. She gasps – clocks something, someone, over her shoulder.

She gets closer.

She gets suuuuper close.

His dander is up. It’s aching, bad.

She leans in. She whispers in his ear – her lips touch his lobe. He wants to explode.

“Have you got something for me?”

He whispers back. His lips touch her lobe. “Do you want something?”

“I’ll take anything. No questions asked.”

“Anything?”

“Come find me. Come find yourself.”

“When?”

“End of the month. For business.”

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

“Nice piece.”

“Tomorrow?”

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

His professional circuits click in fast. Tomorrow is Saturday. It is the thirtieth. It is month-end proximate. 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 –”

“I – Actually? But wait – what’s your name?”

As she floats away she tosses something. The Negotiator snatches it. It’s a room-key. There is a number punched into the plastic. HACIENDA 547. He turns to look at her but she is further downstream. The ocean closes up, and she is gone. Through the chatter, there is a tight-point whisper, and it hits him broadside: “I’m 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.”