5

Unburdened now, he talked his way through the crowd, sparring with the

long nails and dark lipstick of aggressive women, and constantly,

imperceptibly scanning.

    Emmett Payne stood leaning on the wall, drink in hand, chatting

systematically with a fairly attractive woman. The woman leaned against

the wall too, splaying her chest, jutting her hips. She was young, and

obviously inexperienced. Emmet detected boredom beneath his father's

pleasant expression. He took a few steps forward.

    His father spotted him quickly, and the reaction, though subtle, was

immediate. Emmet stopped.

    Payne gestured to the girl, spoke apologetically, patted her arm

consolingly. She pouted, put her hand to her overflowing bosom, even

dabbed at her eye-- all very melodramatic, much too melodramatic. This

was a sophisticated party, high-class, didn't she know? The educated were

not won over with grisly showings, but with slow, dimly-lit ones, framed

by glitter-lace luxury.

    ***********************************************

    Looking away from her, Payne gestured with a nod, and his son moved

to meet him upstairs in his office, where they might talk in private.

    His son. Emmett hadn't seen the boy in at least twenty years, since

Lorissa had mailed the baby photos to him. His name is Emmet, she'd

written, after you... funny girl she was, Lorissa, didn't she know no father

ever cared? Why should he care? As he scrolled down, transfixed by

picture after chubby picture, he reminded himself how he didn't care. And

he hadn't replied.

    He had changed his plans, but it was merely a change of plans, merely

coincidental. And he had sent money, but only because he had enjoyed

Lorissa so, because he might need a favor sometime, because, because,

because, because, he did not know why. He'd signed for it in secret, fingers

jittering, and he put Lorissa in the list of pensioned former employees so

no one would ever look twice, no one would ever suspect...

    And one day the check had returned with an error message, and then

again, and when he looked her up she was dead. And he hadn't cared then

either, hadn't cared at all, all cold...

    “Emmet,” he said, when they were in relative quiet. Emmet raised an

eyebrow.

    “My name is Alfreck-- Alfreck Painter. I assume you are Mr. Payne. A

pleasure to meet you.”

    Payne nodded, courteously.

    “And you, Alfreck.”

    Emmet smiled, and Payne tried to read beneath it, aware that his son

was doing the same.

    “I came on business,” Emmet told him, expressionless-- Payne sensed,

or imagined he sensed, a tremor beneath Emmet's faceless face. He nodded

again.

   ***************************************************************

    Emmet's mouth was knotted together and the hollow behind his eyes

was dry and throbbing. He caught a familiar flicker of weariness in Payne's

face, and relented momentarily, caught by surprise.

    “I need the code.”

    There was a brief, nearly imperceptible tightening of the brow and jaw;

Payne remained silent. Emmet waited.

    “I can't give you that.” That was all.