Wetware by Craig Nova Page B

lover.
    “Harold,” he said. “How nice to see you. And McCourt. Of the
Financial Times.
Well, well.”
    “Wendell,” said Harold. He looked sick.
    “Yes,” said Blaine. “Would you like to explain yourself?”
    “I’ve been having second thoughts,” said Harold.
    “Second thoughts,” said Blaine. He looked around. “About what?”
    Harold licked his lips.
    “Policy,” said Harold. “Like the announcement you are about to make.”
    “Announcement?” said Blaine.
    “Fascination” continued to play, the violin rising to a yearning peak.
    “Which one, in particular, are you talking about?” said Blaine. The colors in the room had a luminescence, a throbbing pulse, which Blaine supposed was a reflection of how the blood was moving through the veins in the backs of his eyes.
    “Look,” said the editor, “Harold has been telling me that you are about to make an announcement.”
    “Is that right?” said Blaine. “That was quite considerate of him, from your point of view, don’t you think? Harold, it was pretty considerate, wasn’t it?”
    Blaine looked around. Ten, perhaps fifteen people in the lobby. He tried to see each of their faces, and he knew that any one of them could be someone who should not see Blaine, the member of the board, and a reporter from the financial papers looking sick in public. He turned back. Harold had tears in his eyes.
    “I guess the pressure got to me,” said Harold.
    “Would you excuse me for a moment?” said Blaine.
    He went across the heavy carpet and around the palms, putting his hands in his pockets, and when he came to the desk, he asked the clerk if he could have a room. He needed to discuss a couple of personal matters. The clerk gave him a card, which Blaine filled out.
    “I’ll take the key,” said Blaine. “I can find it.”
    “Are you sure?” said the clerk.
    “Yes,” said Blaine.
    He went back to the lobby and said to Harold and the reporter, “Let’s go upstairs.”
    “Why?” said Harold.
    “I think we could use a little privacy,” said Blaine.
    Blaine made a small gesture toward the room, the green palms, the white tablecloths, the dark furniture, around which people sat, each one of them glancing at Blaine when they had the chance.
    “We can talk here,” said McCourt.
    Blaine smiled, although it wasn’t very warm.
    “I don’t think so,” he said.
    “Oh,” said Harold, looking around. “Yeah. I guess that’s right, isn’t it?”
    They stood up and walked through the room, all of them with their shoulders square, and as they went, Blaine made a joke, a rare one, and as McCourt smiled, as much in shock as in recognition of something funny, the people in the room turned away. If they were smiling, it couldn’t be that much. Not really. The elevator slid open and they stepped in, all staring into the distance, which was chopped off by the closed elevator door. The grain in the wood, which usually looked elegant, now appeared to Blaine like flames in hell. Warren took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “Christ,” he said.
    They went down the hall, Blaine leading the way and thinking that at least he had been able to get them out of the lobby. He pushed open the door and saw a sitting room with gray walls, a sofa in light blue, an easy chair, a coffee table. The lights were on. Blaine stood until the others sat down.
    “Would you like something to drink?” said Blaine. “Something hot? A cup of tea?”
    McCourt took out a notebook and put it on the table.
    “That’s all right,” he said.
    “I just got to thinking,” said Warren.
    “Did you?” said Blaine.
    “It seems like a bad idea,” said Warren. “A lot of people are going to be hurt, and then I thought that there had been no public discussion, and so I called McCourt.”
    Warren looked even worse up here, his skin pale and greasy, his shirt dirty.
    “I think Harold is a little overwrought,” said Blaine. “But, yes, we are going to make an