The Loyal Nine by Bobby Akart Page B

noncommittal as they examined the menu. Sensing their need for additional time, John suggested an appetizer.
    “Perhaps we could start you out with the pan-sautéed crab cakes, or everyone’s favorite—baked macaroni and cheese balls.”
    “I think we’ve had enough talk about macaroni tonight,” said Sarge, trying to keep his composure.
    He made eye contact with Julia, and they both started laughing at the Marconi reference.
    “Sorry, guys, inside joke. We’ll both have a couple of single malts, make it Glengoyne, with a splash,” said Sarge, putting on his best “I’m sober, really I am” demeanor.
    “Yes, sir,” said John. “I take it no appetizers this evening?”
    “No, thank you. We’ll take a moment to look at the menu,” said Sarge, still avoiding eye contact with Julia.
    As John-Angie tucked tail and hustled off, Sarge thought it safe to look at Julia and found this to be in error. She had both cheeks puffed out like she just swallowed a mouthful of baked macaroni and cheese balls. Damn, it was on again, he thought as the both of them burst out in simultaneous laughter.
    “Now listen,” said Sarge, leaning back in his chair. “You are causing a disruption in this establishment, and we may get kicked out.”
    “Me,” defended Julia. “You started this whole macaroni thing. Are you going to let me tell you about the Marconi or not?”
    Angie delivered the fifteen-year-old Scotch whisky to the table.
    “Give us a little time before we order, Angie,” said Sarge, sharing a clink of the tumblers with Julia.
    His first sip of full-bodied Scotch went down smoothly, not that he expected any different from the Glengoyne distillery.
    “This is a big deal ,Sarge,” began Julia.
    “I know, Julia. I’m well aware of the prestige associated with a Marconi. Congratulations.”
    The National Association of Broadcasters established this award in honor of Nobel Prize winner Guglielmo Marconi over twenty-five years ago. The Marconi Award recognized radio stations and broadcasters for their excellence in a variety of categories. The award had never been given to a predominantly Internet broadcasting medium, until now. In yet another first for Julia, and the Herald , the Marconi Award for News/Talk Station was granted to the Boston Herald Radio. It was a big deal.
    “We received the call today from the NAB announcing the decision. When we were included in the call for entries back in May, I didn’t think we had a chance,” said Julia, lifting her glass for a toast. “They’ve never granted a Marconi to an Internet broadcast. We’re the first.”
    “I am so proud of you,” said Sarge, clinking her glass and taking a sip.
    He could see his words warmed Julia, further recognizing the deep-seated effect on her. Her talents and accomplishments amazed him.
    “As you know, the concept of taking Internet radio to this level had less to do with winning awards and more to do with the dissemination of information worldwide. Our friends ,”said Julia, with a nod of her head toward downtown Boston, “were very supportive of the project when we approached them in 2012.”
    There it was, the reminder—the aide-memoire. Their lives were dependent upon an association, known only to a few, that prevented a normal relationship. Sarge leaned forward to speak.
    “You and I have discussed this many times. I am proud of what we have accomplished with our side work, ” said Sarge with a hushed voice. “But I get the sense our participation is going to escalate in a big way.”
    “What do you mean?” asked Julia, her inquisition interrupted by their servers.
    “So, what may we serve you for dinner tonight?” asked John.
    They both scrambled to take a last minute look at the menu.
    “I will have the Asian yellowfin tuna salad, please, and another cocktail,” said Julia, noticing Sarge’s smirk.
    Sarge ordered the Irish stew.
    “What?” asked Julia, after the servers disappeared.
    “Asian, imagine that. I could