really knew about chaos. An odd thing for an artist to know, she’d thought at the time. She’d even become suspicious of him, and had done some checking. But he was a legitimate painter, all right. A gorgeous watercolor nude, which nobody but she knew was O’Dell herself, hung in her bedroom, a souvenir of their relationship.
After she realized the value of the artist’s tarot method, he’d bought her a computer version so she could install it on her computer at work—the cards themselves were a little too strange, and a little too public, for a big bank. They’d done the installation on a cold, rainy night, and afterwards had made love on the floor behind her desk. The artist had been comically inept with the computer. He’d nearly brought down the bank network, and would have, if she hadn’t been there to save him. But she could now access electronic cards at any time, protected with her own private code word.
Still. When she could, she preferred the cards themselves: the cool, collected flap of pasteboard against walnut. Hippielike, she thought. McDonald referred to her as a hippie, but she was hardly that. She simply had little time for makeup, for indulgent fashion, or for the flattering of men— all the things that Wilson McDonald expected from a woman. At the same time, she obviously enjoyed the company of men, and her relationship with the artist and a couple of other men-about-town had become known at the bank. And she was smart.
As McDonald had thumbed through his box of mental labels, he’d been forced to discard housewife and helpmeet, lesbo and bimbo . When word inevitably got around about the tarot, McDonald had relaxed and stuck the hippie label on her. The label might not explain the hunting, or the manner in which she’d cut her way to the top at the bank . . . but it was good enough for him.
Fuckin’ moron.
O’Dell laid out the Celtic Cross; and got a jolt when the result card came up: the Tower of Destruction.
She pursed her lips. Yes .
She stood up, cast a backward glance at the spread of cards, the lightning bolt striking the tower, the man falling to his death: rather like Kresge, she thought, coming out of the tree stand. In fact, exactly so . . .
She shivered, pulled a cased set of books out of the bookcase, removed a small plastic box, opened it. Inside were a dozen fatties. She took one out, with the lighter, went out to her balcony, closing the glass doors behind her. Cold. She lit the joint, let the grass wrap wreaths of ideas around her brain. Okay. Kresge was dead. She’d wanted him dead— gone, at any rate, dead if necessary, and lately, as the merger deal crept closer, dead looked like the only way out.
So she’d gotten what she wanted.
Now to capitalize.
TERRANCE ROBLES HOVERED OVER HIS COMPUTER, sweating. He typed:
‘‘Switch to crypto.’’
You’re so paranoid; and crypto’s boring
. ‘‘Switching to crypto . . .’’
Once in the cryptography program, he typed:
‘‘What have you done?’’
Why?
Oh shit. ‘‘Somebody shot Kresge today. I’m a suspect . . .’’
My, my . . .
Even with the crypto delay, the response was fast. Too fast, and too cynically casual, he thought. More words trailed across the screen.
So, did you do it?
Robles pounded it out: ‘‘Of course not.’’
But you thought I did?
He hesitated, then typed, ‘‘No.’’
Don’t lie to me, T. You thought I did it
. ‘‘No I didn’t but I wanted you to say it.’’
I haven’t exactly said it, have I?
‘‘Come on . . .’’
Come on what? The world’s a better place with that fucking fascist out of it .
‘‘You didn’t do it.’’
A long pause, so long that he thought she might have left him, then: Yes I did .
‘‘No you didn’t . . .’’
No reply. Nothing but the earlier words, half scrolled up the screen.
‘‘Come on . . .’’ A label popped up:
The room is empty .
‘‘Bitch,’’ he groaned. He bit his thumbnail, chewing at it. What
After she realized the value of the artist’s tarot method, he’d bought her a computer version so she could install it on her computer at work—the cards themselves were a little too strange, and a little too public, for a big bank. They’d done the installation on a cold, rainy night, and afterwards had made love on the floor behind her desk. The artist had been comically inept with the computer. He’d nearly brought down the bank network, and would have, if she hadn’t been there to save him. But she could now access electronic cards at any time, protected with her own private code word.
Still. When she could, she preferred the cards themselves: the cool, collected flap of pasteboard against walnut. Hippielike, she thought. McDonald referred to her as a hippie, but she was hardly that. She simply had little time for makeup, for indulgent fashion, or for the flattering of men— all the things that Wilson McDonald expected from a woman. At the same time, she obviously enjoyed the company of men, and her relationship with the artist and a couple of other men-about-town had become known at the bank. And she was smart.
As McDonald had thumbed through his box of mental labels, he’d been forced to discard housewife and helpmeet, lesbo and bimbo . When word inevitably got around about the tarot, McDonald had relaxed and stuck the hippie label on her. The label might not explain the hunting, or the manner in which she’d cut her way to the top at the bank . . . but it was good enough for him.
Fuckin’ moron.
O’Dell laid out the Celtic Cross; and got a jolt when the result card came up: the Tower of Destruction.
She pursed her lips. Yes .
She stood up, cast a backward glance at the spread of cards, the lightning bolt striking the tower, the man falling to his death: rather like Kresge, she thought, coming out of the tree stand. In fact, exactly so . . .
She shivered, pulled a cased set of books out of the bookcase, removed a small plastic box, opened it. Inside were a dozen fatties. She took one out, with the lighter, went out to her balcony, closing the glass doors behind her. Cold. She lit the joint, let the grass wrap wreaths of ideas around her brain. Okay. Kresge was dead. She’d wanted him dead— gone, at any rate, dead if necessary, and lately, as the merger deal crept closer, dead looked like the only way out.
So she’d gotten what she wanted.
Now to capitalize.
TERRANCE ROBLES HOVERED OVER HIS COMPUTER, sweating. He typed:
‘‘Switch to crypto.’’
You’re so paranoid; and crypto’s boring
. ‘‘Switching to crypto . . .’’
Once in the cryptography program, he typed:
‘‘What have you done?’’
Why?
Oh shit. ‘‘Somebody shot Kresge today. I’m a suspect . . .’’
My, my . . .
Even with the crypto delay, the response was fast. Too fast, and too cynically casual, he thought. More words trailed across the screen.
So, did you do it?
Robles pounded it out: ‘‘Of course not.’’
But you thought I did?
He hesitated, then typed, ‘‘No.’’
Don’t lie to me, T. You thought I did it
. ‘‘No I didn’t but I wanted you to say it.’’
I haven’t exactly said it, have I?
‘‘Come on . . .’’
Come on what? The world’s a better place with that fucking fascist out of it .
‘‘You didn’t do it.’’
A long pause, so long that he thought she might have left him, then: Yes I did .
‘‘No you didn’t . . .’’
No reply. Nothing but the earlier words, half scrolled up the screen.
‘‘Come on . . .’’ A label popped up:
The room is empty .
‘‘Bitch,’’ he groaned. He bit his thumbnail, chewing at it. What
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