“Hello, yes, I’m delighted to meet you!” Zann held out her right hand. The skin dye had worked, turning infectious red pimples to the more usual purple hue.
Hank sidled up beside her. ”Did you see him? Is he here?”
The small group around her turned away politely, and Zann frowned. Good grief! Had the man never learned volume control? She shook her head, then pointed towards the corner where they could talk without being overheard.
The ballroom was pretty, ceiling dripping with crystalline lights. Underfoot, the softi-tile flooring had been programmed with a fake mable finish, and this, together with the faux gold panelling on the walls, added a luxurious touch. Waiters dressed as penguins ducked and dived amongst the guests.
When they reached the corner, still mercifully free of guests, Zann leaned close to Hank, and dragged down his red head. “Listen carefully, you oaf,” she whisper-yelled, “Next time you feel the urge to speak, bite your damn tongue! This plan relies on discretion. That means not drawing attention to ourselves. Now, stop hopping about like a bunny on crack, and get back to your station.”
“Sorry,” he said, downcast. “It’s just, well, it’s been hours! He should have been here by now.”
Zann sighed. She’d tried to tell Claude that including Hank was a mistake. He had the attention span of a hyperactive gnat. “Look, he’ll be here. He’s coming. But we’ll never know if we’re standing here, arguing the point. Now, go. And in the name of all that is merciful, keep your mouth shut!”
Hank went.
And then the author died of boredom.
The End.
