And if you’re a reporter, mister, you’ll end up wearing what’s left of my breakfast ….
”My name is Fisk, Harry Fisk.- He offered a business card, which gave Kit no real clues other than his office was in Miami. “I represent the management of TT-27, located in the Caribbean Basin. We’re looking for a consultant…”
Kit heard him out: The job sounded intriguing. A lucrative, full-time consultantship, unlimited trips to a time he was pretty sure he’d never visited, as primary consultant to the Time Tours agent looking to develop a new gate destination, paid apartments at TT-27’s finest luxury hotel.. .
It was a magnificent chance to escape Neo Edo’s paperwork and the endless stream of raucous, thieving tourists. Kit scratched his chin and thought about it Leaving TT-86 meant leaving friends. And he did owe it to Jimmy and the other retired time scouts in his employment to look after them. He wouldn’t sell out to just anyone.
”No,” he decided, “I don’t think so, Mr. Fisk. I have a hotel to run.”
”We would be more than happy to install a full-time manager for the duration of your consultantship, Mr. Carson. Time Tours wants the best for this project.”
Huh. Now there was a fat offer. Paradise for as long as he wanted to live in it and he kept his steady income, too. And somebody else did the paperwork. The image of Margo, her face pinched and white as she stood over his table staring him down, flashed through his mind.
Dammit, kid, stay out of my head.
Kit toyed with his cold eggs, scooting them back and forth on the plate with the tines of his fork. He’d been waiting for something like this for a long time.