Page 114 - Just Deserts
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The Sirocco Lites 26K Run for the Money
mean, the situation has been written up in the ‘Isla Views’ advertiser,
but maybe you haven’t seen it.”
Kevin interrupted cracking with his teeth ice cubes from his water
glass to respond. “Oh, sure, all of us in the club know about it. We
just figured the concession money was getting siphoned off into the
wrong hands. Didn’t seem like the turnout was any less last year.”
Holden ignored the implicit criticism. “Club? What club?”
“The North Coast Racing Vets. You didn’t know we were the
wheelchair group in the race every year?”
Comprehension slowly dawned on the politician’s pasty face.
“Then you must be the, uh...”
“President of the club. That’s right. That’s why Ace La Manza
contacted me. Same for you?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Holden felt the comparison unfair, but tried
not to show it. “He suggested we get together on this, to present a
united front.”
“Yeah, in case the citizens get upset by at having their home-
grown marathon hijacked by a cigarette company.”
Holden reddened and started to sputter, “No, no, that’s not the
way to—”, but the food arrived at that moment.
Kevin Caltrop, apparently unruffled by the conversation, tore
lustily into his glistening collation. Holden stared unhappily at the
multicolored scoops of bean salad on a procrustean bed of wilted
lettuce before him, then hacked desultorily at a half-circle of pita
bread in late rigor mortis.
“Sorry,” Caltrop managed mid-mastication. “Didn’t mean to be so
blunt. Not used to talking to guys in suits. Don’t let it bother you. It’s
not my business how much he’s slipping you to deliver the city
council, and I wouldn’t want you looking into my bank account next
week.”
Holden looked furtively to the right and left. The patio had few
diners left at this hour. “Understood.” He replied, adopting the other
man’s telegraphic language.
“Point is this,” continued the club executive, “you can count my
guys in, one hundred percent. In fact, they’re all pretty gung-ho since
I explained the benefits.”
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