Thursday evening--
"If that sight isn't enough to curdle your stomach, I don't know what is," Mr. Wallace Roberts, the loud, chunky purchasing rep for Llanfer Industries said as he sat directly across from Jon at a bar table in the hotel lounge. "Christ almighty!"
Jon Palmer turned to his right to look at whatever ungodly spectacle Wally the buyer referred to, and saw just another reason why he couldn't stand spending time with Mr. Wallace Roberts. Six new people were about to check into the hotel at the front desk. Five of them were black.
When Jon had checked into the hotel, the sign on the exterior of the Hampton Inn read: "Welcome Cumberland Family Reunion." He'd thought it was a nice touch considering the amount of money the hotel would pull in from such a painless gesture.
Wally continued to bitch. "The Cumberland -goddamned -Afro-fuckin' American family reunion booked into a respectable hotel like the Hampton Inn and now this...this...shit!"
"What's the matter, Mr. Roberts?"
"You color blind, Palmer?" Wallace Roberts replied. "Christ, take a closer look. Damn! This used to be such a decent place."
Okay, what was Wally's problem, this time? Then Jon finally saw it. It had been bad enough for Wallace to have to walk around a hotel lobby packed with dozens of African Americans gathered for the Cumberland family reunion without having this new twist being thrown into his face. Checking in were a large black man in his late thirties, a very attractive white woman who looked to be a touch older than her companion, and three mixed race children who appeared to be tending to a baby carrier with yet another biracial infant. No, technically the three kids were trying to pawn the baby off on each other while their parents checked into the hotel.
"If I'd known this kind of shit was going on, I'd've set our meeting at the Fairfield Inn across the highway."
Jon smiled to himself.
Cheers, Wally!
he thought. Jon knew Roberts couldn't stand watching the world around him change, and so he held onto every moment of Wallace Roberts's discomfort like a sip of fine brandy.
A sales engineering representative, Jon Palmer sold industrial parts to those giant megalomaniacal multi-national corporations whose names most people don"t recognize, but who eventually own the little factories and distribution centers in all the Hicksvilles of the world. For years he not only had to put up with a lot of horseshit from their chief purchasing agent, he also had to wine and dine the son of a bitch with his own money. Tradition said Jon had to endure this fat, balding, chain-smoking, alcoholic, racist each time that he needed to make a sales call at Llanfer, and like all buyers, Wallace Roberts figured that it entitled him to be Wally, Lord High God Of The Unsigned Contract. Didn't this drunken bastard ever go home to his wife?
"Yes, we have a reservation held for you from Kensington books, Ms. Kincaid, they've put you and your family into a double suite," the desk clerk said.
Jon's ears perked up at the sound of that name. Kincaid? It couldn"t be. The lady at the desk didn't quite look like the picture he remembered seeing on the internet, but then again she was fully dressed. Then again, after a second look, there was no doubt in Jon"s mind that this might be just the woman he'd known for years as a cyber connection. To top it all off, this woman looked as if she'd just given birth to a baby a few months back, so the timetable concerning the infant carrier was right on.
Holy shit.
"I've got to run to the men's room, Mr. Roberts," Jon said. "I'll be right back."
"'Course you"ve gotta go," Wally responded. "It's enough to make any decent person puke. I'll order us a couple of more drinks. You want a double""
"I'm fine," Jon shook his head. "You go ahead and order." Maybe with any luck, the ceiling over their table would fall and crush Wally to death while Jon was away. Thankfully there were restrooms just on the other side of lobby from the reception desk area, so Jon could keep an eye on the little group checking in and still stay out of Wally"s sight.
"Mommy!" A little girl about the age of ten with skin the color of dark mustard pulled on the white woman"s skirt. "I don't want to watch Marcus any more--you watch him."
"Mommy has to fill out the hotel register, sweetheart," the blond lady said. "I can"t take him now."
She wasn't a natural blond, Jon could tell that by matching the coloring of her hair with that of her eyebrows and eye-lashes. Still her hair looked gorgeous, she must have gotten it done professionally within the last few days. Up close like this, he got a better look at that face--it had to be her. Okay the face was a bit more mature than the one he was used to seeing on his monitor, but she'd told him once that the shots over the had been taken over three years ago.
Damn, she really was one very sexy broad.
"But I want to see the reunion!" the young girl cried out. "Are there any rides?"
"It's not a carnival, ya dork," the middle boy said. "It's just a bunch of old people talking about who just died."
"Damon!" the large black man spoke once. Jon smiled. You can always tell who's the real disciplinarian in a family group.
But soon Jon's eyes strayed back to the round hips, the curvy bottom, and those inviting legs of the woman trying to check in. By this time she was digging into her purse trying to locate something. Probably the license number of their vehicle, he thought. Her breasts strained against her blouse. It was true about nursing mothers, their breast did expand proportionately to their milk supply. He fought an impulse back to breathe a little harder and a little heavier. She had to put glasses on to read the numbers off her license.
I didn"t know she wore glasses,
he thought.
"Then let's go to our room," the honey-colored little girl said. "We can wait for mommy there."
"We don't have a room yet, Trini," the black man said. "That's why we're still here." Then with a huge sigh, he reached for the carrier. "Here, I'll take the baby for a while. You three relax--quietly."
"Dad," the boy named Damon asked his father. "What are we going to do first?"
"I'm going to see if there's a children"s slave market here in the hotel, so I can have all of you appraised for sale."
The young man rolled his eyes as if he'd heard that line dozens of times before.
"Mommy," the little girl sudden whined. "Daddy's going to sell us."
"Probably not until after the reunion, sweetheart," the blond replied. "He doesn't want to upset his Great Aunt Hallie before her birthday celebration."
"Who are you kidding?" the black man said as he picked up the infant carrier. "Once I married a white woman, I was written right out of her will."
"Palmer, Jon Palmer!" An unexpected voice caught Jon by surprise.
Christ no, Wally! Not now.
Carefully the woman checking in at the front desk turned toward Jon, caught him staring at her and held his eyes directly for a split second.
A little kiss, a little tongue, a whiff of me to turn you on.
She smiled at him. Now there was absolutely no doubt in Jon"s mind. In a millisecond, her eyes told him that the name "Jon Palmer" had a very specific meaning for her as well.
"You okay, boy?" Wally called out as he closed the distance between them. "Thought you got lost in the john, Jon!"
Funny man. Jon hadn"t heard that one before--not in the last ten minutes anyway.
Jon didn"t want to take his eyes off her face, as he was certain she"d evaporate into the evening like a phantom. "I...I thought I'd...uhh...check to see if I had any messages, Mr. Roberts."
"You do that boy. I gotta use the can, and then I"d better get outta here. The little woman's probably holding dinner for me. I'll see you tomorrow." Then Wally stuck his nasty breath in really close to Jon's face so that nobody would hear the words that everybody knew he was going to say. "Far away from all these fuckin' nig...."
"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Roberts," Jon cut him off. "You..uhh..you drive safely."
Better yet, wrap your car around a tree.
"May I help you, sir?" A desk attendant asked Jon politely.
He tried to be casual as he stood as closely as he could to Ms. Kincaid, but Jon felt as if he was shouting. "Are there any messages for Jon Palmer-- room 419?"
The woman in question glanced toward him once, and then turning back toward her family, she announced: "Okay gang, we"re in suite 353."
"Mommy what's a sweet?" her daughter asked.
"You are, Trini," she bent down and hugged her little girl close to her. Then, she moved from son to son and finally to her husband throwing her arms around each of them in turn just like Dorothy saying goodbye to all of her friends at the end of the Wizard of Oz. "My very first book signing at a national bookstore--Schuler's Books, here we come."
"Sir?" Fascinated by the scene before him, it took Jon a moment to realize that the desk clerk"s voice had been directed toward him. "Sir? There aren't any messages, Mr. Palmer."
Nodding, he thanked her. Jon slowly turned to watch the family of five and walk out to their car in order to park closer to suite 353. Well to be totally honest, Jon watched the mother's walk far more than anyone else. Suddenly he turned to the desk clerk and asked a question he'd never expected to ask.
"Listen I'm not absolutely certain my business is going to be completed by tomorrow. May I keep my room for two more nights?"
Friday noon--naturally Wally didn't want to meet at the Hampton Inn. Jon, on the other hand, didn't want to leave the hotel at all.
The news at lunch had all the makings of a fiscal disaster thriller novel according to Wally Roberts. He'd let it slip purposely that Invisible Multinational Limited had been making under the table threats of a hostile takeover, while Gobbledy-Gook Incorporated had stolen all their regular customers away. Now the boys upstairs told him that the banks had tied everybody's hands when it came to what the company could afford, and, anyway he thinks out loud that he can get a better price from Lying-Cheating Supply Company. Before Wally dished out any more horseshit on a serving plate, Jon informed him that he wouldn't be dining on it any more.
"You know, Wally, that's probably true, you pea-brained, son-of-a-bitch," Jon interrupted him. "You can get a better price from Lying-Cheating Electronics."
"What did you just call me?" Roberts's face reddened.
Jon ignored his question. "Lying-Cheating Electronics probably will give you a cheaper price than we would. And for the first two or three shipments you might get as much as forty percent of your components actually made to standards and specifications. But as you'll be shipping one-hundred percent product, you'll be delivering inferior quality merchandise to all your major customers."
"What did you call me?"
"That ought to put you in rock solid with the board." Jon threw his napkin down on his plate. "At least, it'll give the boys upstairs an easy scapegoat to target when all hell finally does break loose and you finally give up your last customer." Jon stood up at the table.
"Where do you think you"re going?"
