Part 19 (2/2)
”You're a G.o.dd.a.m.ned idiot, you know that?”
Art knew it. He also knew that here was an opportunity to get back to EST, to make a good impression on the Jersey clients, to make his name in the Tribe and to make a bundle of cash. His back be d.a.m.ned, he was sick of lying around anyway. ”I've got to go, Linda.”
”It's your life,” she said, and tossed aside the covers. ”But I don't have to sit around watching you ruin it.” She disappeared into the hallway, then reemerged, dressed and with her coat on. ”I'm out of here.”
”Linda,” Art said.
”No,” she said. ”Shut up. Why the f.u.c.k should I care if you don't, huh? I'm going. See you around.”
”Come on, let's talk about this.”
East-Coast pizza. Flat Boston tw.a.n.gs. The coeds rus.h.i.+ng through Harvard Square and oh, maybe a side trip to New York, maybe another up to Toronto and a roti at one of the halal Guyanese places on Queen Street. He levered himself painfully out of bed and hobbled to the living room, where Linda was arguing with a taxi dispatcher over her comm, trying to get them to send out a cab at two in the morning.
”Come on,” Art said. ”Hang that up. Let's talk about this.”
She shot him a dirty look and turned her back, kept on ranting down the comm at the dispatcher.
”Linda, don't do this. Come on.”
”I am on the phone!” she said to him, covering the mouthpiece. ”Shut the f.u.c.k up, will you?” She uncovered the mouthpiece. ”h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?” The dispatcher had hung up. She snapped the comm shut and slammed it into her purse. She whirled to face Art, snorting angry breaths through her nostrils. Her face was such a mask of rage that Art recoiled, and his back twinged. He clasped at it and carefully lowered himself onto the sofa.
”Don't do this, OK?” he said. ”I need support, not haranguing.”
”What's there to say? Your mind's already made up. You're going to go off and be a f.u.c.king idiot and cripple yourself. Go ahead, you don't need my permission.”
”Sit down, please, Linda, and talk to me. Let me explain my plan and my reasons, OK? Then I'll listen to you. Maybe we can sort this out and actually, you know, come to understand each other's point of view.”
”Fine,” she said, and slammed herself into the sofa. Art bounced and he seized his back reflexively, waiting for the pain, but beyond a low-grade throbbing, he was OK.
”I have a very large opportunity in Boston right now. One that could really change my life. Money, sure, but prestige and profile, too. A dream of an opportunity. I need to attend one or two meetings, and then I can take a couple days off. I'll get Fede to OK a first-cla.s.s flight -- we get chits we can use to upgrade to Virgin Upper; they've got hot tubs and ma.s.sage therapists now. I'll check into a spa -- they've got a bunch on Route 128 -- and get a ma.s.sage every morning and have a physiotherapist up to the room every night. I can't afford that stuff here, but Fede'll spring for it if I go to Boston, let me expense it.
I'll be a good lad, I promise.”
”I still think you're being an idiot. Why can't Fede go?”
”Because it's my deal.”
”Why can't whoever you're meeting with come here?”
”That's complicated.”
”Bulls.h.i.+t. I thought you wanted to talk about this?”
”I do. I just can't talk about that part.”
”Why not? Are you afraid I'll blab? Christ, Art. Give me some credit. Who the h.e.l.l would I blab *to*, anyway?”
”Look, Linda, the deal itself is confidential -- a secret. A secret's only a secret if you don't tell it to anyone, all right? So I'm not going to tell you.
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