The Operator
Page 48
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The plastic covering Michael’s suit rustled as Bill took it from the bathroom. His pace slow in thought, he stepped out into the cold again, grimacing at the bright light and the black line of clouds to the west. “Good God!” Bill heard faintly as he stomped down the stairs, gesturing for one of the drivers to open the trunk. “Why is it so cold?”
“It’s January,” someone answered, and Bill carefully laid the suit in the back. It whined shut of its own accord, and Bill slid in beside Michael, appreciating the warm, running car. He didn’t have to say a word. The driver knew where they were going better than he did.
Michael was still groggy, but his eyes were focusing again. Wanting to test his reflexes, Bill tossed a comb at him. Michael caught it, and the two men exchanged wary glances.
“We’re going to see Helen Yeomon,” Bill said, noting there was only one attendant at the airport entrance as the white bar rose up to let them leave. “She’s the one making sure you have cookies in your jar and that Aston in your drive. Call her ma’am.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
It was breathy and disinterested, and Bill fought the urge to smack him again. “She likes you,” he said. “Don’t fuck this up.”
Michael chuckled—probably because he’d gotten Bill to swear. “Then maybe you should tell me what I’m doing here.”
Bill let his irritation show. It was the easiest way to manipulate Michael. “She’s worried about her investment,” he said, careful with his word choice since everything would end up in Helen’s ears.
“She’s worried about me?” Michael was oblivious to the homes becoming more expensive the closer to the coast they went: marble and stone, Victorian, French, and Italian Renaissance—all with a view of the Atlantic. Newport had once been the summer playground of young-America’s rich, and one by one, the abandoned mansions were being reclaimed from the local preservation society as a new class of wealthy began to entertain once again on a large scale.
“I’m not the one being dragged back to your stable kicking and screaming,” Michael complained, not impressed by the million-dollar palaces slumbering under the snow, waiting for the summer’s party season. “You’re the one she should be worried about, continuing to withhold an advancement that will widen my abilities.” He glanced warily at Bill. “I’m not working with any more anchors. I saw what you did to Peri, and I won’t let you wipe me.”
Bill cleared his throat, not wanting to tell him that the investment Helen was worried about was Peri. “You need to trust a little, Michael. No one is going to wipe you. As you say, you’re a team player. Peri . . . not so much. Think of this as your chance to impress the hell out of her so we can change the schedule.”
Michael snorted, his motions more steady as he took a swig of his water and set it carefully in the cup holder. But Bill watched him the entirety of the short drive through Newport and back into the outskirts. As he had expected, Michael’s expression evened out at the hint this might be the way to get what he wanted, and he stifled a smile when Michael pulled down the vanity mirror to check his hair.
Muttering something about the scratch under his eye, Michael smacked the mirror back up, his attention going to the manicured surroundings as they pulled into a gated double-lane drive. Security waved them through without hesitation, but Bill’s eyes narrowed when a golf cart with two men followed them up the plowed and brushed road to a half-hidden white edifice at the edge of a dropoff. The extra security was new.
The house was sprawling, all of it one story and strikingly modern in comparison to the surrounding elegant three-story mansions they had passed on the way in. The snow looked as if it had been carefully removed from the private drive, not randomly piled out of the way, and Bill decided it had simply been melted by low-voltage heating units right in the pavement. The pristine evenness of the snow in the yard caught and scattered the sun even as the clouds threatened to overtake it.
“You sure you don’t want the suit?” Bill asked, hiding a smile when Michael silently pushed the door open before the driver could get to it.
The flush of cold air pulled Bill out, and he sighed when Michael gave security a hard time when they searched him. Bill simply let them do their job, having known better than to bring anything that might be construed as a weapon.
“You didn’t think they’d just let you walk in, did you?” Bill said when they got the okay to head up the shallow steps to the front door, where another man in security black waited. “Helen is the third-wealthiest woman after Oprah and Niks Sangdow.”
“Sangdow?” Michael asked as he readjusted his shirt.
“Drug and flesh dealer in Asia,” he said, nodding his thanks when the door security opened it and gestured them in. The air was markedly warmer and moist, and he coughed to clear his lungs, surprised when the expected echo was absent. Though appearing one story from the drive, the house was really three, the entrance on the uppermost floor and the rest dropping with the fall of the cliff it was built into. Most of the newly wealthy went for the safe bet of marble and cold spaces. Helen was no exception, her up-and-coming architect creating an environment perched on the edge of the Atlantic that somehow captured the power it looked out upon. Wide three-story windows faced them, twin staircases leading down to either side. Icy and dark, heaving water crashed on a rocky shore with no beach not a hundred feet away. Bill couldn’t help feeling a slight foreboding. There was no dock. The ocean was too unforgiving here.
“This way,” their escort prompted, and both he and Michael brought their gazes back from the icy, angry Atlantic and followed the slim man down the wide stairway and across the great hall to an opulent office overlooking the ocean. The cold harshness made an odd contrast with the girl kneeling at the coffee table, glue, crayons, and glitter strewn across the expensive wood and thick, warm rug. She was maybe six, and she never looked up as they were announced.
“Bill!” a mild voice exclaimed, spinning them both around. “Thank you for coming.”
“It is always a pleasure, Helen,” Bill said as Michael tugged his casual shirt to cover his worn belt. Helen set her pen down and stood from behind a small desk. There was a larger one on the other side of the room in the shadows, just as neat and precise as the woman herself. Her hair was short, the gray highlights lost among the original blond. Faint wrinkles about the corners of her eyes hinted at too much sun, but Bill was confident they were there because she wanted them. The rest of her face was tight enough to imply a youthful presence. Slim and well dressed in low heels and nylons, she came forward with a warm smile, dismissing the security with a small gesture.
“It’s January,” someone answered, and Bill carefully laid the suit in the back. It whined shut of its own accord, and Bill slid in beside Michael, appreciating the warm, running car. He didn’t have to say a word. The driver knew where they were going better than he did.
Michael was still groggy, but his eyes were focusing again. Wanting to test his reflexes, Bill tossed a comb at him. Michael caught it, and the two men exchanged wary glances.
“We’re going to see Helen Yeomon,” Bill said, noting there was only one attendant at the airport entrance as the white bar rose up to let them leave. “She’s the one making sure you have cookies in your jar and that Aston in your drive. Call her ma’am.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
It was breathy and disinterested, and Bill fought the urge to smack him again. “She likes you,” he said. “Don’t fuck this up.”
Michael chuckled—probably because he’d gotten Bill to swear. “Then maybe you should tell me what I’m doing here.”
Bill let his irritation show. It was the easiest way to manipulate Michael. “She’s worried about her investment,” he said, careful with his word choice since everything would end up in Helen’s ears.
“She’s worried about me?” Michael was oblivious to the homes becoming more expensive the closer to the coast they went: marble and stone, Victorian, French, and Italian Renaissance—all with a view of the Atlantic. Newport had once been the summer playground of young-America’s rich, and one by one, the abandoned mansions were being reclaimed from the local preservation society as a new class of wealthy began to entertain once again on a large scale.
“I’m not the one being dragged back to your stable kicking and screaming,” Michael complained, not impressed by the million-dollar palaces slumbering under the snow, waiting for the summer’s party season. “You’re the one she should be worried about, continuing to withhold an advancement that will widen my abilities.” He glanced warily at Bill. “I’m not working with any more anchors. I saw what you did to Peri, and I won’t let you wipe me.”
Bill cleared his throat, not wanting to tell him that the investment Helen was worried about was Peri. “You need to trust a little, Michael. No one is going to wipe you. As you say, you’re a team player. Peri . . . not so much. Think of this as your chance to impress the hell out of her so we can change the schedule.”
Michael snorted, his motions more steady as he took a swig of his water and set it carefully in the cup holder. But Bill watched him the entirety of the short drive through Newport and back into the outskirts. As he had expected, Michael’s expression evened out at the hint this might be the way to get what he wanted, and he stifled a smile when Michael pulled down the vanity mirror to check his hair.
Muttering something about the scratch under his eye, Michael smacked the mirror back up, his attention going to the manicured surroundings as they pulled into a gated double-lane drive. Security waved them through without hesitation, but Bill’s eyes narrowed when a golf cart with two men followed them up the plowed and brushed road to a half-hidden white edifice at the edge of a dropoff. The extra security was new.
The house was sprawling, all of it one story and strikingly modern in comparison to the surrounding elegant three-story mansions they had passed on the way in. The snow looked as if it had been carefully removed from the private drive, not randomly piled out of the way, and Bill decided it had simply been melted by low-voltage heating units right in the pavement. The pristine evenness of the snow in the yard caught and scattered the sun even as the clouds threatened to overtake it.
“You sure you don’t want the suit?” Bill asked, hiding a smile when Michael silently pushed the door open before the driver could get to it.
The flush of cold air pulled Bill out, and he sighed when Michael gave security a hard time when they searched him. Bill simply let them do their job, having known better than to bring anything that might be construed as a weapon.
“You didn’t think they’d just let you walk in, did you?” Bill said when they got the okay to head up the shallow steps to the front door, where another man in security black waited. “Helen is the third-wealthiest woman after Oprah and Niks Sangdow.”
“Sangdow?” Michael asked as he readjusted his shirt.
“Drug and flesh dealer in Asia,” he said, nodding his thanks when the door security opened it and gestured them in. The air was markedly warmer and moist, and he coughed to clear his lungs, surprised when the expected echo was absent. Though appearing one story from the drive, the house was really three, the entrance on the uppermost floor and the rest dropping with the fall of the cliff it was built into. Most of the newly wealthy went for the safe bet of marble and cold spaces. Helen was no exception, her up-and-coming architect creating an environment perched on the edge of the Atlantic that somehow captured the power it looked out upon. Wide three-story windows faced them, twin staircases leading down to either side. Icy and dark, heaving water crashed on a rocky shore with no beach not a hundred feet away. Bill couldn’t help feeling a slight foreboding. There was no dock. The ocean was too unforgiving here.
“This way,” their escort prompted, and both he and Michael brought their gazes back from the icy, angry Atlantic and followed the slim man down the wide stairway and across the great hall to an opulent office overlooking the ocean. The cold harshness made an odd contrast with the girl kneeling at the coffee table, glue, crayons, and glitter strewn across the expensive wood and thick, warm rug. She was maybe six, and she never looked up as they were announced.
“Bill!” a mild voice exclaimed, spinning them both around. “Thank you for coming.”
“It is always a pleasure, Helen,” Bill said as Michael tugged his casual shirt to cover his worn belt. Helen set her pen down and stood from behind a small desk. There was a larger one on the other side of the room in the shadows, just as neat and precise as the woman herself. Her hair was short, the gray highlights lost among the original blond. Faint wrinkles about the corners of her eyes hinted at too much sun, but Bill was confident they were there because she wanted them. The rest of her face was tight enough to imply a youthful presence. Slim and well dressed in low heels and nylons, she came forward with a warm smile, dismissing the security with a small gesture.
