6:30 p.m. Twentieth Floor. Waverly Hotel.
"How's it goin'? Nice to see ya'."
Mack Conwell signed in at the registration table, clipped his name tag to his jacket and strolled down the plush hallway that led to the skywalk and banquet room, shaking hands with all the fascists and death merchants, a bunch of fat executives, mostly, a couple golf buddies, defense honchos from all over the west coast. The Secret Service robots were getting into position now and everybody started to make their way over to the skywalk, whispering, excited. Conwell had to snicker. Some of the biggest wheels in the defense industry and they were all giddy because President Buzard had finally showed up to beg for their money.
"Wait for me, Mr. Conwell." Marci Lynn Anderson, his very own personal assistant, stumbled over to him, pinning her ID to her sleeveless blouse and fussing with her hair. "Are we going to meet the President?" she asked, tripping along beside him in those ten-foot heels, martini in one hand, hanging onto his arm to keep her balance. The dumb cooze was all hot and bothered. Buzard was a lady killer, the youngest president in US history, blah-de-blah. Seeing her all a-twitter kind of ticked Conwell off.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States."
They had just reached the lobby when Buzard got off the parking garage elevator at the other end of the skywalk and headed towards them with his entourage—press secretary, a couple lackeys, five or six goons in suits. The Secret Service was holding everybody back, watching their hands, ready to beat them into submission if they got too close to His Majesty. Buzard was a handsome bastard, all right: slender, fit, dark hair, piercing eyes, cool smile. He was one of those East Coast neoliberal technocrats Conwell could never stand. Sophisticated. Polished. Ivy League schools. He was wearing a million-dollar suit, perfectly groomed and manicured like an army of slaves had just buffed him down with a horse brush and a couple of floor-polishing machines. Scanning the crowd, he gave them a detached smile like he was secretly amused to find himself in the company of this button-down rabble. An aristocrat. Big-whoopee-do.
"Hello," Buzard said, shaking hands as he walked by. "How are you? Hello."
"Mack Conwell," Conwell said, grabbing the royal flipper. "Transportation Services Director. Revok Industries. This is my executive secretary, Marci Anderson."
"Mr. Conwell." Buzard had these dead eyes. Camera eyes. They zoomed in for a second, flickering, curious, scanning Conwell, then moving past him, focusing on Marci.
"Mr President," she gushed. "I'm your biggest supporter."
Conwell almost laughed out loud.
"Well, thank you." Buzard smiled. "I appreciate that."
He passed down the line and entered the banquet room to general applause from the other suits who had already taken their seats. Big turnout this year. Almost three-hundred people. NORCAL always pulled out the stops. Conwell and Marci followed with the rest of the peons, shuffling along in a babble of voices. Time to chow down. Buzard was going to deliver the keynote address, something about "The Challenges Of The Next Thousand Years" or some kind of futuristic crap like that. Conwell didn't care one way or another. He was starving. He'd sit through a sermon if there was a dead cow at the end of it.
"They're watching you," Marci whispered as they entered the banquet room.
"Huh? What're you talking about?"
"Those Secret Service guys." She glanced around. "They've been watching you the whole time. One of them moved over next to me when the President got here. There was another one right behind you. Didn't you see them?"
"Don't worry, baby." Conwell patted her butt discretely. "They're just checking out your hooters."