Tek Kill by William Shatner

for the part.”
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œThe casting android for the StanCo Pharmaceuticals account likes auditioning actors to show a bit of initiative and imagination,” continued the man in the white coat. “Another friendly tip—you’re a mite too weather-beaten to do a convincing physician.”
    â€œThink so?” asked Jake.
    â€œI see you in tobaccosub spots, maybe booze and brainstim. That kind of muscular stuff,” said the actor. “I don’t know your work. What are your credits?”
    Jake grinned. “Actually I’m not here to audition for anything,” he said. “I’m waiting to see an agency art director.”
    â€œNot an actor, eh?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œOdd, very odd. Because you have that mixture of cockiness and desperation that characterizes our profession.”
    â€œThat could be because—”
    â€œMr. Cardigan?” said the voxbox embedded in the reception desk.
    He stood up. “Yeah.”
    â€œDoor G, please. That will lead you to the Persuasion, Ltd., wing of AdVillage.”
    Jake bowed toward the portly would-be physician, gave the desk a lazy salute, and headed for the designated doorway, striding across the multicolored imitation tiles.
    MARGO LARIAR WAS an extremely blond woman in her middle thirties. Her attention was divided between Jake, whom she’d nodded onto a polka dot couch, and the six large compscreens on the wall facing her.
    â€œWhich color scheme up there makes you feel less anxious?” Dwight Grossman’s former wife asked.
    â€œI don’t feel anxious.”
    â€œWell, hell, play along, Cardigan,” she urged. “Assume you are, which, Jesus, most every other living soul in Greater LA is. Which of those rough-intrusion ads would soothe you?”
    â€œWhen intrusion ads pop onto my vidwall or my compscreen, I merely get ticked off. There’s not a one of them would soothe me,” he answered. “Now, about the—”
    â€œHow about the one that’s all blues?” Margo touched the keyboard that sat on her small white desk. “Or is this better now? You’ll notice that I’ve subdued the shades of blue and added a—”
    â€œYou’ll notice I’m standing over you, looking notably unsoothed.”
    She turned to face him. “Oh, I’m sorry as can be. I tend to get all tangled up in my work and ignore the—excuse me.” Her fingers went flickering over the keyboard again. “But there. Doesn’t that number-five layout have increased appeal now with more yellow in it?” She nodded to herself. “Where was I? Oh, yes, how can I help you, Cardigan?”
    He nodded at her desk. “Suppose you switch to the sofa and I sit here?”
    â€œWell, I feel uneasy when I’m not in my familiar—”
    â€œMaybe you can use some—what the hell is it called?” He looked over at the rough ad layouts on the wall. “Yeah, some Kalmz.”
    â€œOh, hell, I’d never take that swill.” Slowly, a bit reluctantly, she left her desk to move to the polka dot couch.
    Jake began, “First off, I don’t believe Walt Bascom killed your husband. So can—”
    â€œ Former husband, erstwhile spouse,” she quickly corrected. “I’m Margo Lariar now.”
    â€œAnd you felt well rid of the guy?”
    Margo smiled, nodding. “Dwight was an extremely unsatisfactory man. He was violent, possessive, fastidious beyond belief. And he loved to do those dreadful company reports of his, to burrow into all sorts of places he shouldn’t even have been, to bribe information out of—”
    â€œWe’ll get to those reports,” cut in Jake. “I take it you left him?”
    â€œYou bet your ass I did, yessir.” She swung her right hand rapidly through the air. “Fast as I could.”
    â€œDid he harass you after that?”
    â€œAbsolutely.