knowing nothing would happen again, and reminded that next Wednesday at two p. m. ”
he had an appointment with his urologist.
Vft Brazil was running down the escalator, deciding to take matters into his own hands.
He pushed through several sets of doors, finally entering the rarified, air- conditioned
space where Brenda Bond ruled the world from an ergonomically-correct green fabric
chair with rollers. Her feet were on an adjustable footrest, her valuable hands poised over
a contoured keyboard designed to prevent carpal tunnel syndrome.
Bond was surrounded by IBM and Hewlett Packard mainframes, multiplexor, modems,
cabinets containing huge tape reels, decoders, and a satellite feed from the Associated
Press. It was her cockpit, and he had come. She could not believe that Brazil was
standing before her, had sought her out, and wanted to be with her and no one but her this
very second
in time and space. Her face got hot as she looked him up and down. God almighty, was he built, and he knew it, and was already showing his contempt for her.
“I think someone’s getting into my basket and going through my files,” Brazil announced.
“Impossible,” Bond, the genius, arrogantly told him.
“Unless you’ve given out your password.”
“I want it changed,” he demanded.
She was studying his uniform trousers and the way they fit him, particularly in the area of
his zipper, appropriating, and full of her superiority. Brazil made a big point of looking
where she was looking, as if there must be something on his pants.
“What? I spill something?” he said, walking off.
twIt was not that his trousers were too tight, nor were they provocative in any way.
Brazil never wore anything for the purpose of drawing attention to himself or impressing
others. For one thing, shopping had never been an option. The entirety of his wardrobe
could be accommodated by two dresser drawers and about twenty coat hangers.
Mostly, he had uniforms, and tennis clothes supplied by the tennis team, and by Wilson,
which had put him on a free list when he was in high school and consistently ranked in
the top five juniors in the state. Brazil’s uniform trousers were, in truth, baggy, if
anything.
Yet people like Brenda Bond still stared. So did Axel.
When Brazil was in midnight blue and black leather, he had no idea what effect it had on
others. If he had paused to analyze the matter, he might have discovered that uniforms
were about power, and power was an aphrodisiac. Axel knew this for a fact. He got up
and trotted out of the newsroom, in pursuit. Brazil was notorious for his sprints down the
escalator, and into the parking deck. Axel worked out in the Powerhouse Gym every
early morning, and was rather spectacularly sculpted.
Axel drank Met-Rx twice a day, and was very much admired when he was gleaming with
sweat, and in a tank top and a weight belt, pumping, veins standing out, in his skimpy
shorts. Other fit people stopped what they were doing, just to watch. He had been
stalked several times by residents of his apartment complex. In truth. Tommy Axel
could have anybody, and probably had at any given time. But he was not into aerobic
exercise, because it was not a spectator sport. He got winded easily.
“Shoot,” Axel said when he burst through glass doors leading into the parking deck, as Brazil was driving his old BMW out of it.
^^2 W Publisher Panesa had a black-tie dinner this night and was going home unusually early. The publisher was starting his silver Volvo, with its unrivaled safety record and
two airbags, and was witness to Axel’s shameless behavior.
“Christ,” Panesa muttered, shaking his head as he pulled out of his reserved space in the center of the best wall, no more than twenty steps from the front glass doors. He rolled
down a window, stopping Axel cold.
“Come here,” Panesa told him.
Axel gave his boss a crooked, sexy Matt Dillon smile, and strolled over. Who could
resist?
“What’s going on?” Axel said, moving in a way that showed muscle to its best
advantage.
“Axel, leave him alone,” Panesa said.