Syrup (28 page)

“I thought you were
different
.
”
She shakes her head, slowly, but her eyes never lose their intensity. “I can’t
believe
I fell for that.”

“6, please. Don’t get—”

“Don’t
you tell me what to do.”

“6,” I say carefully. Calm but forceful. Like handling a snake. Or so I would imagine. “There’s no reason to be jealous. We were just—”

Her eyes bulge alarmingly. “You think I’m
jealous?
”

I stop. “Well—uh, aren’t you?”

“You obviously have
no
idea about me.”

I’m starting to think she’s right. “6, let’s just talk about this.”

“I need some space,” she says. Her eyes narrow. “You’re crowding me.” My jaw drops. “I don’t think you should stay with me tonight.”

She turns on her heel, leaving me standing stupidly in the coffee room.

“Oh boy,” I say to myself. “Oh,
boy
.
”

I can’t believe I’m homeless again.

I actually consider getting a room at the Beverly Wilshire, just to rack up expenses, and get so far as raising the phone to my ear, already imagining late-night room service and wide-screen TVs. But then a better idea occurs to me: I can go to Coke. Then, when this is all over and 6 asks me what I did, I can say, “Well, 6, I spent the weekend at work.”

The security guard lets me in without comment, as if it’s not uncommon for Coke executives to head back to work on a Friday night. I catch the elevator to the 14th, wander around the deserted office reading the cartoons taped up on the cubicle walls, then settle down in my office.

For a while I feel pretty cool, putting my feet up on the desk and staring out at the city. I feel like I’m a high-flying, hard-working marketing executive, rather than a penniless, homeless chump, and frankly, the former feels much better.

When I can’t sustain the fantasy any longer, I boot up the computer and hunt around for Minesweeper. To my disgust, 6 has already deleted it in favor of some corporate messaging utility, so I have to roam the cubicles for a more entertaining PC. I discover a disturbing dearth of games on all machines until I come across one guy’s computer that seems to have nothing else. Then I get embroiled into a bizarre game called Death Clowns, which has me blasting away until four in the morning.

When I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, I wander back into my office and settle into the big chair. I fall asleep immediately and dream, alas, not of 6, but of giant menacing clowns.

I have a feeling when I wake up that it’s pretty late, but it’s not until I crane my neck around to peer at the wall clock that I see that it’s almost seven P.M. I’ve slept through almost the whole of Saturday.

My first thought is to call 6. She hasn’t heard from me for more than twenty-four hours, and she won’t like having me out of her control like that. I reach for the phone.

Then I stop. I mean, I’m not the bad guy here. Cindy and I were just talking; 6 is the one who overreacted and threw me out. If she can’t deal with her own feelings, then maybe she’s learning something now. I lean back in the chair, bathing in the yellow evening sunshine, and look out over the city. I don’t think I will call 6.

When I’m through feeling smug, I raid the office fridge for food. There’s only a block of chocolate and a bowl of fruit salad, but I make do with it: for some reason I don’t feel like leaving Coke today. I feel like staying in my corporate tower, playing computer games and feeling superior. So I do.

Two hours later, I’m so wrapped up in Death Clowns I don’t even notice @.

“Hi,” @ says.

I yelp and literally jump an inch in the air. On the screen, maniacally grinning clowns fall on me and start bludgeoning me with sausage dogs. “@!”

She is so white: I am surprised all over again. It’s hard to tell where her skin stops and the peroxide begins. She shifts from one foot to the other, her men’s business suit creasing attractively. “Scat,” she says softly.

The “Scat” tells me that something is going on. It’s not a
Shit-what-are-you-doing-here Scat,
or a
I’m-going-to-wipe-the-floor-with-your-ass
Scat. It’s just Scat. “Uh,” I say, turning off the clowns, “how are you?”

“I’m good,” @ says. She pauses. “How are you?”

“Good. I mean, busy. With the film and all.”

“Yes,” @ says. “I’m sure.”

There’s a long pause.
@
just stands there, searching me with her glowing blue eyes. “So,” I say eventually, “is there anything I can do for you?”

@ thinks about this for a while, although I’m pretty sure she already knows the answer. “Yes,” she says finally. “Yes, there is.”

“You’re wasting yourself,” @ says sadly, leaning forward. I’m in the leather chair, gripping the sides so I don’t flip over backward. “6 is a lost cause.”

“6 is okay,” I say carefully.

“No,” @ says, shaking her head. Her blond hair ripples like a sheet of sunshine. “No, she’s not. She’s not up to
Backlash.
It’ll swallow her.”

A little laugh pops out of me. “Uh, @, have you even
seen
6? If anyone on this
planet
is up to
Backlash,
it’s her.”

“She has an act, and that’s all.” She shrugs lightly. “It’s not enough.”

“Hey, look,” I say, nettled. “Let’s not bad-mouth 6, okay? She’s my partner.”

@
regards me sadly. “No, she’s not. You just think she is.”

“Oh,” I say. “Oh, right. You want to tell me what that’s supposed to mean?”

“She’s not on your side,” @ says simply. “You must already know this. 6 is looking out for 6. You’re expendable.” Her eyes search me. “Do you really trust her?”

I open my mouth, then stop. Finally I say, “Sure I do.” But even I hear the uncertainty.

“She’s dragging you down, Scat,” @ tells me, leaning across the desk. And I have to say, in this moment, she is gorgeous. I’m not sure if any part of her is real, but I’m also struggling to remember why that’s important. “She’s not good enough to win, and she’s going to take you down with her. Is that what you want?”

“Without 6, I wouldn’t even be on
Backlash.
She’s helped me more than you know.”

“Has she?” @ says, and I see with amazement that @ even has a little eyebrow movement of her own. It’s not as good as 6’s—not as practiced, maybe—but in its own way it’s quite funky. “Who did Brennan invite into the project: you or 6?”

“Well, me. But—”

“Who comes up with the ideas? The summer campaign, Fukk cola, the changes to
Backlash
—whose ideas are those?”

I stare at @ for a moment. “6 does the ... management. Ideas aren’t ... just aren’t her strength.”

@ rises from her chair and walks around the desk, her eyes pinning me. “Scat,” she says quietly. She slips her behind onto the desk and rests a hand on my shoulder. “I know you like her. I know it’s hard to get past that. But you have to.”

“And what?” It’s meant to come out aggressive, but somehow it gets tangled up in @’s perfume and ends up low and forced. “Help you and Sneaky Pete instead?”

“Let’s not worry about Sneaky Pete,” @ says. She is leaning in to me, her white hair falling around her face, filling my world. “Let’s just worry about you ...”

“Wait,” I say, and that’s not aggressive at all. That’s just a croak.

“And me,” @ says, her hand snaking around the back of my head. Her lips are slightly parted, leaning in to mine.

I hesitate, but it’s just for a second. To be honest, it’s not a
Should-I-or-shouldn‘t-I.
It’s just a
Yes-I-think-I’m-going-to.

@’s fingers release her top shirt button and move down to the next. “If you want,” she says, her breath coming a little fast, “you can call me 6.”

“Get out. »

Her breath catches in her throat. I see it happen. “What?”

“You heard me.” I push her hand away from my face. “Get out of my office.”

“Scat,” @ says, “wait. I’m sorry. Okay?”

“Save it,” I say. I push away from the desk and stand up so I can point to the door with a little more authority.

“You’re making a mistake. You don’t—”

“No, I
almost
made a mistake,” I say.

@ stares at me for a moment. Then she slowly rises from the desk, open hostility spreading across her face. Suddenly I’m not finding her nearly as attractive. “You have
no idea
how bad your position is.” There is real venom in her voice. “He is going to
destroy
you.”

“Sneaky Pete?” I try to act like I don’t care. “I doubt—”

“He will do
anything
to beat you,” @ says. “He will do
anything.
Do you understand?”

“Just get out.”

“You’ve already lost,” @ says, “and you don’t even know it.”

“Get
out,”
I say, and now my voice even scares me. @ wheels and strides out, slamming the door behind her. I watch her through the blinds until she’s disappeared down the hallway to the elevators, then sink back into my chair.

When I’m sure it’s safe, I exhale.

As soon as I’m confident of avoiding @, I leave Coke and catch a cab back to Synergy. I knock and wait expectantly, rubbing my hands against the night’s chill, and in the few seconds before 6 opens the door, I go over exactly how I’m going to tell her about this.

But 6 doesn’t open the door. Oh so gradually, it dawns on me that 6 isn’t home. “No way,” I say. “Oh, no way.”

I search around the building for a while, looking for a way to break in, but only succeed in attracting quick, scared glances from passersby. So I guess I should now get a cab to a nice hotel for the night and meet 6 tomorrow morning. This makes a lot of sense: a hell of a lot more than sleeping on the streets of central Venice. But I don’t do it: I don’t want to risk missing 6. So I stuff my wallet through the mail slot, curl up in the doorway, and try to look derelict.

Despite the cold and the fact that I’ve been awake for something like five hours today, I get drowsy pretty quickly. I’m looking up at the streetlights and wondering, for some reason, how many shopping days there are until Christmas, and the next thing I know, it’s morning and 6 is prodding me with her foot.

“Here,” 6 says, handing me a coffee. I take it and start slurping gratefully. “You look terrible.”

“Cold,” I gasp between sips. “Dirty. Hungry.”

6 settles into her Captain Kirk, smoothing her black pants. It abruptly occurs to me that I’ve never seen 6 slop around in old clothes: I can’t even imagine her in a tracksuit.

“I came around last night. You weren’t home.” I take a long slurp. “Where were you?”

“I do have a life of my own,” 6 says.

“Oh.” I think for a second. “Were you at Tina’s?”

6 frowns irritably, so I know I’m right. “I’m going to bring her on set next week, to help us out. Where were you?”

“Ah.” The coffee is working wonders: I feel stronger already. “Well, that’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Son of a bitch,” 6 says. She picks up a pen and starts tapping it fast against the desk. “That son of a bitch.”

“@?” I ask, wondering if 6 is engaging in a little non-gender-specific wordplay.

6 sniffs. “@’s a pawn. Trust me, this is all Sneaky Pete.”

“Oh.”

“She said, ‘You don’t know how bad your position is’? That we’d already lost but didn’t know it?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

“Son of a bitch,” 6 says again.

“I mean, I assume she was just blowing smoke. Trying to scare us.”

“I don’t think so,” 6 says. “No, we’ve missed something. Something big.”

I put down the coffee. “What?”

“I don’t know,” she says, her jaw tightening. “We’ve started shooting the new scenes, and we’ll get them done inside a month. We had a bad start with the committee, but we’ll get back on track. I’ve reviewed the budgets. I’ve reviewed the schedule.” She looks up. “Are the post-production people ready for us?”

“Uh,” I say. I clear my throat. “Actually, I haven’t got around to talking to them yet.”

6’s razor eyebrows descend.

“Monday,” I promise. “First thing Monday, I’ll talk to them.”

“Scat,” 6 says grimly, “we can’t afford slipups. If post-production needs more than a month, we’re in real trouble. Talk to them.”

“Got it,” I say, trying to inject a note of reliability into my voice.

“There’s a committee review meeting tomorrow. I’ll be on set, but you have to go. Check the post-production with them. And double-check our schedule.”

“Right,” I say. “Will do.”

6 stares at the desk. “I don’t like this.”