Jennifer Government Part 22

Gregory raised his eyebrows. "Jennifer?"

"Long story," John said. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

Gregory considered. "Don't expect the company to help you, John, if the Government gets you for this. It won't accept responsibility for a criminal act."

"Then maybe the company should hand over the billion dollars my criminal act just made it."

Gregory was silent.

"Uh-huh," John said. He smiled at the girl with curly hair.

"Does it bother you, John? That you're responsible for those kids?"

John looked at him. "How do you mean?"

"Forget it," Gregory said.

"Hey," John said, nettled. "It's my job to increase sales. Is it my fault that was the best way to do it? If the Government had the muscle to enforce the law, it wouldn't have made economic sense, but they don't, and it did. This is the world we live in. If you don't take advantage of the rules, you're a sucker."

"I see," Gregory said. He was disappointed, John realized. You could never do enough for some people. No matter how much you delivered, they always wanted more. "For now, deal with your Government problem. And call me from London."

"Sure." He tried to end on a positive note. "You can count on me."

He watched Gregory's back until he disappeared onto the street. He had overstepped his mark there. He had mouthed off. The talk about Jennifer Government had thrown him. The idea she was still tailing him gave him the creeps.

"Another?" the bartender said.

"Sure," John said. He looked around the bar. The girl with curly hair was still there, talking with her friend. She looked at him, smiled, and looked away. She was maybe sixteen. John smiled back at her. He could end L.A. on a positive note, too.

Georgia picked up on the first ring. John was pleased: it was eight A.M. in Melbourne, and most P.A.s would be taking advantage of his absence. John liked Georgia Saints-Nike; he'd used her since Maher. The only thing she lacked was a knockout body and a penchant for skimpy outfits, but John had been down that road before and it never worked out. Other managers got jealous, your diary never got organized, and after you'd been f.u.c.king them a few months they turned whiny and disobedient.

"Georgia, good girl, in early. I've got some work for you."

"Hi, John. How's LA?"

"Great." He was calling from the airport gate; he had his finger plugged into his other ear. "I'm going to London today. Has the Government been around?"

"The Government?"

"You know: cheap suits, dour expressions, always asking for money."

"No John."

"You haven't heard from Jennifer?"

"Jennifer Maher? No, John."

"Okay." Superficially, that was good; fundamentally, it meant Jennifer was chasing him but being sneaky about it, which was bad. "If they come knocking, I'm in Cuba."

"Cuba?"

"Or some country I might actually visit, I don't know. Make something up."

"All right, John. Can I get a number for you in London? An address?"

"I don't know where I'll be. Just use my cellphone." The flight had started to board: attractive women in short skirts were processing business-cla.s.s tickets. "I have to go. If anything's not clear, get John to sort it out."

"He's still in a coma."

John blinked. "Still? How long is that guy going to take to get back to work?"

"The hospital said it's hard to tell."

"Jesus," he said. "Those places have no accountability. Look, I'll call you from London."

"With an address?"

"Sure, yeah. You clear on my instructions?"

"Yes, John."

"Good girl," he said. "I can always rely on you."

"Business cla.s.s?" one of the women called. "Business cla.s.s?"

"Right here," John said, handing her his ticket. He looked into her eyes and smiled.

Ten hours later he was wandering around the Heathrow lounge looking for anyone with a JOHN NIKE sign. He did two vague laps, then settled into a plastic bench seat with his briefcase on his lap.

After a long time, a kid wearing baggy pants and a puffy jacket wandered into the lounge. "You John?"

"Yes."

"Sorry I'm late, man. The airport is, like, two hours out of this city."

"Really?" John said. "Well, how about you turn around and go back there."

"Say what?" said the kid.

"You see those things on your feet? That's my company. There are some people you can leave waiting for thirty minutes, and I'm not one of them. I don't get met by trainees, especially when they're an hour late. So go back to London and tell your boss that when a real person wants to talk to me, I'll be at the Hilton." He stood.

"Dude," the kid said, "no need for hostilities. I'm a Liaison, too."

John started. "You're the Sh.e.l.l Liaison?"

"PepsiCo. We'll be working together with Sh.e.l.l."

"Pepsi."

"So are we cool?"

"You're the Pepsi Liaison."

"Straight up."

John sighed. Consumer marketing could be so tiresome.

"So can we move?" the kid said. "My Ferrari's double-parked."

"I've never been to England before," the Pepsi kid said. He had mentioned his name, but John hadn't bothered to remember it. "I gotta say, I'm disappointed. I thought it would be all cottages and meadows and s.h.i.+t. But it's just another city."

"Mmm," John said. He looked out the window as they roared past a Mini.

"I mean, I'm glad it's not all, you know, European Union and police. But I thought there'd be some some differences." differences."

"Where'd you get the car?"

"I just asked my P.A. to get me something hot." He glanced at John. "It's a 550 Barchetta. You like?"

"It's all right." He decided to get Georgia to rent him a Porsche.

"You wanna drive?"

"No."

"Twelve cylinders, dude, it's like wrestling a crocodile."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-four. But trust me, I'm competent." The kid swerved through lanes. "Hey, I saw this old British movie, all the people spoke so different, you could hardly understand them. But everyone here speaks American as good as you and me. What's with that?"

"It's a smaller world these days," John said. "Where are we going?"

"Oh, sorry, man. We're going straight to the stock exchange. Didn't they tell you? Sh.e.l.l's buying out ExxonMobil. They launch a hostile takeover bid in..." He looked at his watch. "Thirty minutes."

"That's why we're here? To watch a bunch of bankers?"

"Brokers, dude. It's a serious event. If this one comes off, US Alliance controls two-thirds of the world's heavy fuels."

"And what are we meant to do?"

"Crowd control." The kid grinned.

John said, "I'd really like to speak to the Sh.e.l.l Liaison."

"We're meeting him there."

John said nothing. This was very screwed up. He wondered if he should call Gregory.

"And what's with these road signs?" the kid said. " 'Motorway'? What's wrong with 'interstate'? "

"They don't have states. They call them s.h.i.+res."

"Why?"

"They just do."

"Huh," the kid said. He was silent for a while. "Well, I guess that's different."

41 Intersection

Buy was halfway into a new s.h.i.+rt when the buzzer went. He b.u.t.toned and hurried into the kitchen. He could see Jennifer in the fuzzy screen of his intercom, wearing a long coat.

He suddenly decided not to answer. He shouldn't have called her in the first place: that had been pathetic. He might as well have said, "Hi, Jennifer, this is Buy with a cry for help." He felt embarra.s.sed at his failure to competently kill himself.

The buzzer rang again. On the intercom screen, Jennifer s.h.i.+fted impatiently. He pushed the b.u.t.ton. "Hi."

"Oh, good. You're still here."

"Uh," he said. "Yes. Come on up."

He buzzed her in. His apartment looked plain and embarra.s.singly bachelorlike. Buy wished he had some flowers, or knick-knacks, or something.

She knocked. Buy took a breath and answered the door.

"Hiya," she said.

"Hi! Come in, let me take your coat."

"Thanks." Jennifer wandered in and looked around, almost professionally. "Nice view. How much does a place like this cost?"