The First Billion

Val: Pros, schmoes. Make up own mind. I buy Mercury and buy big. I have own sources. Nay to Private Eye-PO.

Dismayed, Vann frowned. No way was Val the Private Eye-PO. He sounded like a foreigner. Jumping into Krystof's chair, he tried a ruse.

Krystof [in Polish]: Hello, new friend. Welcome. You are a fellow Pole, perhaps?

Val [in Polish]: From Gdansk. The great Lech Walesa's home. And you?

"Score!" cried Vann aloud, grabbing a Nerf basketball and stuffing it for a quick two points. Then, collapsing back into Krystof's chair, he typed:

Krystof [in Polish]: Kraków. I left in '98.

Vann, whose father's real name was Wladisaw Vanniewski, didn't dare add more. His Polish was rusty; anything more than the basics would expose him as a phony. Anxious to keep the dialogue afloat, he moved to Heidi's chair.

Heidi: A friend of mine is from Warsaw. He made a fortune buying tech stocks. Can they still go up?

There was always at least one total idiot in any chat room.

Val: They can only go up. Mercury will lead way. To heaven!

Boy, thought Vann. He's a real supporter. As he slid back into Al's chair, another name popped onto the screen.

Spade: Hey, kids, you want the inside skinny? Talk to me. Your very own celebrity reporter has come to the rescue. Heidi, dear, listen closely to me if you want the oop-scay on Mercury. All the rest of you neophytes, am-scray!

Vann froze in his chair, eyes wide. "Spade" as in Sam Spade. As in the Private Eye-PO. Could it be? Scooting his chair closer to the computer, he felt his heart pounding like a jackhammer inside his chest. The bait had worked. The fish was on the line.

Wiping his forehead, Jason Vann smiled.

Now he just had to reel him in.

***

The first course had been cleared. Peter Duchin and his orchestra had begun to play an up-tempo version of "Witchcraft," the vocalist doing a very acceptable Sinatra. Couples flocked from their tables to the dance floor. Deciding he'd done enough penance for one evening, Gavallan turned to Nina and asked if he might have the next dance.

"Sorry, Jett, but I've promised Giles. He's dying to cut the rug."

Gavallan smiled understandingly, though he was a little irked. While same-sex partners might be permitted at society functions, their dancing with each other was still touchy. If Tony or Giles wanted to dance, it had to be with a member of the opposing team. Gavallan thought the whole thing ridiculous. He couldn't care less who did what with whom as long as they were happy. Still, Nina was his date and he wanted to dance. "Try and save one for me, will you?"

"Sure thing, hon."

Gavallan watched the happy couple dodge their way to the dance floor, then stood up and set off in the opposite direction. The path to the bar looked mercifully clear of congestion. If he moved swiftly, he might make it scot-free. Fifteen seconds later he was there, leaning against the oak railing and perusing his choices. Whiskey had been his daddy's drink, but Gavallan preferred vodka. Spotting a familiar bottle with yellow script, he decided on one more of the usual. And why not? It wasn't often you put all your chips on red and gave the wheel a spin. After a day like today, a guy deserved to get hammered. It might even add a few laughs to his speech.

"Hey, chief," he called to the bartender. "Let me have an Absolut Citron."

"How would you like it, sir?"

"Rocks, no twist," answered a playful feminine voice behind him. "And pour it heavy."

Gavallan felt a hand brush his shoulder and turned to face a tall dark-haired woman with glossy bangs that fell shy of amused green eyes.

"That's my line," he said.

"And my drink. You stole it."

She had chosen white for the evening, a simple cotton shift that fell to her knees. Her luxuriant hair had been cut short and barely brushed her shoulders. She wore only a trace of makeup- a dash of eyeliner and a shadow of rouge. She'd never liked coming to these fancy dos. She refused to wear high heels and was shy about her shoulders, complaining they were better suited to a lumberjack than a society maiden. She was his tomboy in waiting. His eyes passed over the swell of her breasts, the planes of her belly, the curve of her hips, remembering.

"Hello, Cate," he said. "You look wonderful."

"I wish I could say the same. You look tired. What happened? Some of your clients beating you up over that last IPO? Trivium, wasn't it?"

"Trillium," he corrected her. "And don't be snippy." Trillium Systems was a maker of enhanced circuit boards whose shares had traded down 50 percent the first week of trading. No one batted a thousand. "Just the usual really. Trying to keep the boat afloat. I'll have to have a word with the shaman to help me out."

"You and your shaman." Cate Magnus's hand went to his cheeks. She leaned closer and checked his eyes. "You okay?"

Suddenly he remembered how overwrought she could become. He used to tease her that she'd been programmed with an extra sensitivity chip. "I'm fine. Nothing that a good night's sleep won't cure."