Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon (2 page)

And now, less than a year later, Rob was president of a multimillion-dollar company, inventor of the hottest new computer game of the decade, and founder of Caerphilly's small but thriving high-tech industry.

Not bad for someone who knew next to nothing about either computers or business, as Rob would readily admit to anyone who asked – including
Forbes
magazine,
Computer Gaming World,
and especially the pretty coed who profiled him in the Caerphilly student paper.

At the moment, the young giant of the interactive multimedia entertainment industry was looking at George and frowning. George ignored him, of course, as he ignored everyone too squeamish to feed him. Although I noticed that when Rob was doing his phony kata, George had paid more attention than he usually did to humans. Maybe I'd accidentally invented something that resembled buzzard mating rituals. At least George wasn't upset. I'd found out, on moving day, that when George got upset, he lost his lunch. Keeping George calm and happy had become one of my primary goals in life.

„He's looking a little seedy,“ Rob said finally.

„Only a little?“ I said. „That's rather an improvement.“

„Seedier than usual,“ Rob clarified. „Sort of… dirty. Do you suppose he needs a bath?“

„Absolutely not,“ I said, firmly. „That would destroy the natural oils on his feathers. Upset the chemical balance of his system. Play havoc with his innate defenses against infection.“

„Oh, right,“ Rob said.

Actually, I had no idea what washing would do to a buzzard. All I knew is that if George needed washing, I'd be the one stuck doing it. And I suspected it would upset him. No way.

„Then what about birdbaths?“ Rob said.

„For small birds,“ I said. „Songbirds. And they only splash gently.“

„That's right,“ Rob said, his face brightening. „They clean themselves with sand.“

„Exactly.“

„We can get him a sandbox, then,“ Rob said. „You can rearrange the chairs to make some room for it. What do you think?“

He was wearing the expression he usually wore these days when he suggested something around the office. The expression that clearly showed he expected his hearers to exclaim, „What an incredible idea!“ and then run off to carry it out. At least that was what his staff usually did. I was opening my mouth to speak when – „Rob! There you are!“

We both looked up to see Mutant Wizards' chief financial officer at the entrance to the reception area.

„We've got a conference call in three minutes.“

Rob ambled off, and I dealt with the stacked-up calls. A sandbox. I'd been on the verge of coming clean. Confessing to Rob that Crouching Buzzard was a practical joke, not an abstruse kata.

Instead, as I whittled down the backlog of phone calls for Mutant Wizards and for the motley collection of therapists with whom we shared office space, I began inventing a new kata, one even more fiendishly difficult and amusing to watch.

Stop that, I told myself, when I realized what I was thinking. I wasn't here to invent imaginary katas. Or to mind the switchboard. I was supposed to find out what was wrong at Mutant Wizards.

It all started two weeks ago, when Dad and Michael brought me back from the emergency room with my left hand hidden in a mass of bandages the size of my head.

„Wow, what happened?“ asked Rob, through a mouthful of Frosted Flakes. He'd come over to Michael's apartment to feed and walk Spike while the rest of us were at the hospital, and had stayed to empty the pantry.

„Long story,“ I said, and disappeared into the bathroom for a little privacy. Michael went to the kitchen to fix me some iced tea, while Dad, a semiretired general practitioner, began telling Rob in excruciating detail exactly what was wrong with my hand and what the doctors at Caerphilly Community Hospital had done to repair it, along with a largely favorable critique of their professional expertise. I sighed, and Michael reached over to pat my good hand.

Yes, I know I said he was in the kitchen and I was in the bathroom. The kitchen of the Cave, as we called Michael's one-room basement apartment, consisted of a microwave and a hot plate perched atop a mini refrigerator. The bathroom was separated from the kitchen by a curtain I'd hung five minutes after walking in the door on my first visit. The seven-foot ceiling felt claustrophobic to me, so I could only imagine how it affected Michael at six feet four inches. The fact that several of Michael's colleagues envied him for snagging these princely quarters showed how tight living space was in Caerphilly.

„Actually, I meant how did she injure it?“ Rob said. I could tell by his voice that he was turning a little green. Rob fainted at the thought of blood. „What happened, Meg?“

„Like I said, long story.“

„My fault,“ Michael said. „She was trying do her blacksmithing in that tiny studio I found for her, and it was just too small. She hit her elbow on a wall while hammering something, and hammered her other hand instead.“

„Too bad,“ Rob said.

You have no idea, I thought, staring into the cracked mirror, fingering the bruises and lacerations that covered my face. Michael had forgotten to mention that, along with my hand, I'd also banged the hell out of a structural wall and brought part of the ceiling down on my own head. The studio might have worked for a painter, but it was just too small for a blacksmith. Still, I'd tried to make it work. Tried desperately, because after nearly a year of looking for somewhere for the two of us to live and me to work, the tiny basement apartment and the even tinier converted gardenshed studio were the best we'd found. Apart from being painful and keeping me out of work for weeks, my injury meant that I still hadn't found a place to work in Caerphilly, and we'd have to go back to square one, with me living several hours away in suburban northern Virginia, seeing Michael only when one or the other of us could get away from work for long enough.

Although obviously I wouldn't be working for a little while, I thought, staring at the bandage.

„How long till she can do her blacksmithing again?“ Rob had asked, as if reading my mind.

„At least two months,“ Dad said.

„That's great!“ Rob exclaimed.

„Rob!“ Dad and Michael said it in unison, and I stuck my head through the bathroom curtains to glare at him.

„What I meant was, it's too bad about the hand, but I have a great idea about what she can do in the meantime,“ Rob said hastily. „Remember how I was saying that I think there's something wrong at Mutant Wizards? Maybe Meg could come and
pretend to work there and figure out what's going on.“

„That's brilliant, Rob!“ Dad exclaimed.

„Except for one tiny detail,“ I said. „What on earth could I possibly do at a computer company?“

„You can organize us!“ Rob said, flinging his arms out with enthusiasm. „You said yourself that you can't imagine how we'll ever get moved into our new offices and that we should hire a competent office manager. You're perfect for it!“

I wondered if he really was worried about the company, or if that was just an excuse to get me to come and organize them.

„I was rather thinking Meg could come back to California for the last few weeks of my shoot,“ Michael said. „You'll have plenty of time to rest while I'm filming, and then we can spend time together in the evenings.“

Nice try, but I knew better. Oh, not that he didn't mean it. But I'd seen what Michael's life was like when he was filming these TV guest shots. He'd be up at dawn for makeup call. I'd twiddle my one working thumb during the twelve to fourteen hours he was shooting. And then, over dinner, when he wasn't mumbling lines under his breath, he'd be fretting about whether playing a lecherous, power-mad sorcerer on a cheesy syndicated TV show was really how a serious actor – not to mention a professor of drama – should spend his summer break.

Maybe not. But he enjoyed it so much that I didn't have the heart to say so. And besides, it paid well.

And while the few decent houses we'd found for sale in Caerphilly over the past year were well beyond the means of Professor Waterston and Meg the blacksmith, they might not be unreachable for Mephisto the sorcerer. Especially if they signed him for several more episodes.

And if you added in what my Mutant Wizards stock might
be worth if the company continued successful, home ownership might eventually be within our means. Which, I realized, gave me more than an idle interest in why Rob thought there was something wrong at his company.

I glanced up to see that all three were looking at me expectantly.

„So, what's your decision?“ Michael asked.

I should know better than to make major decisions while taking Percocet.

Admin

I frowned at the ibuprofen bottle perched on the reception desk. Mutant Wizards had been so much easier to tolerate with Percocet. Still, having a clear mind had some advantages. I answered all the blinking lines in two minutes flat, cleared out the calls on hold, and was phoning in a cry for help to the temp agency when I heard the suite door open.

I looked up and froze with my lips halfway into a smile.

A pale young woman wearing a LAWYERS FROM
hell
T-shirt sidled into the reception area. She smiled in my general direction, but her eyes slid right over me and feverishly scanned the opening that led back to the main part of the offices.

„Hi,“ she said, absently fingering an ear decorated with at least a dozen varied rings and studs. „I wonder if you could help me.“

„Probably not,“ I said. „And anyway, why would I want to?“

I'm not usually that rude to visitors. But this wasn't your usual visitor.

„Huh?“ she gasped, finally looking at me.

„I was here last Monday when you came around, pretending you were from the plant-care service,“ I said. „And also on Wednesday, when you claimed you were bringing your boyfriend his lunch. And I'm the one who caught you trying to crawl in through a window last Friday.“

„You must have me confused with someone else,“ she began.

„Just give up, will you? Buy a copy of Lawyers from Hell II on December first, when it goes on sale. No one's going to give you a sneak preview before then, no matter how long you hang around here harassing people in the parking lot. I wasn't here when that CD-ROM found its way into your purse, but I heard about that, too.“

I'm not sure I'd have gotten rid of her, even after being so blunt – I'd been working at Mutant Wizards only for two weeks, but I'd already seen how persistent the rabid Lawyers from Hell fans could be. But help arrived: Katy, a 170-pound Irish wolfhound, strolled into the reception area and gave a gruff, bass bark.

Anyone who worked here would have known that the bark was Katyese for „Hi! Don't you want to feed me? It's been at least five minutes since I ate, and I might starve to death any second. So feed me! Please?“

The fan looked nervous, though. Not surprising; Katy was large, even for a wolfhound, and she had a disconcerting habit of not wagging her tail when she was trying to look pitiful. Or perhaps the fan was intimidated by the frantic growling that emerged from beneath the reception desk. If she could have seen Spike, the source of the growling, she'd probably have laughed – ironic, since Spike, though only a nine-pound fur ball, was much more liable to cause grievous bodily harm than mild-mannered Katy. Fortunately, Spike was confined to a dog crate, on the theory that eventually he'd calm down enough to participate fully in the Mutant Wizards' Bring Your Dog to Work policy. I wasn't betting on it.

Just then, the suite door opened, and a tall figure in a blue police uniform jingled his way into the reception area.

„Can I help you, ma'am?“ he said.

The persistent fan turned and fled. If she'd been paying attention, she might have noticed that the uniform fit rather badly. Or wondered if many real police officers wore black leather Reeboks and hung PEZ dispensers from their belts in addition to handcuffs and nightsticks.

„Ma'am? Ma'am?“ he called, following her into the hall. „Hey, lady, come back, please!“

The fan pressed the elevator button and then, when she saw he was following, bolted into the open door to the stairwell. Which was how most people came and went anyway, since the World War II – vintage elevators rarely arrived in less than ten minutes.

„Jeez, Meg, I'm sorry,“ he said, taking off his hat and wiping sweat from his forehead. I recognized the tall, gangly figure now. Frankie, one of the junior programmers. I was still struggling to attach names to faces for most of the thirty or so programmers and graphic artists on staff. Frankie I'd tagged the first day as „the eager one,“ because he was always underfoot, trying to help with anything anyone was doing. Anything, that is, except the apparently boring programming chores that actually constituted his job.