“Seriously?” Morty demanded. “The Accord Ball? That bastard wants us to hang around outside like paparazzi for him, and he’ll mingle with us after dinner? Screw that shit.”
Xiomber shrugged. He handed the letter over to Morty and took a step back. Likely moving out of range before he got an angry fist to the snout.
Morty controlled his temper and read the note. Yes, that was exactly what it said. He and his egg-brother had tickets to the after party, while Omerlon would be at the banquet itself, being seen and famous.
“Hey,” Xiomber said to get his attention. “There’s another card in here. It’s for a tailor who owes the man a favor. We’re supposed to call him and get fitted for something nice, on Omerlon’s dime.”
Morty found that at least mollifying. Power, showing itself off. Omerlon was one of the power players on this planet. He was making that point, aggravating as it was.
But it he was willing to throw in a new suit as an enticement, Morty was willing to be enticed. He had worn nothing but grungy jeans and T-shirts for so long he might not even own anything nice enough for a public event like this. So even if they didn’t end up getting a job offer they liked, they’d come out ahead.
Not that he’d be able to wear it in prison, but at that point, maybe something else would come up.
“Fine,” Morty groused. “Anybody we know?”
“Nope,” Xiomber said helpfully. “Want me to look him up?”
“Yes, please,” he said. “Don’t want to end up looking like a clown here.”
“More like a clown?” Xiomber asked serenely.
Morty growled at the Yuudixtl. Xiomber laughed and pulled out a pad, typing furiously with one hand.
“Let’s see,” Xiomber said after a few moments. “Shit’s gone really weird, this season, with an emphasis on flesh and glitter, if I read the guy’s brochure correctly.”
“We’re scientists,” Morty reminded his egg-brother. “We’re supposed to look like nerds. Dark and severe would be my preference.”
“Yeah, you ain’t got the gams to pull off an outfit like this,” Xiomber turned the screen to show him something a self-respecting Nari woman might hesitate to wear to the beach, let alone a ball. “We doing this?”
“Make the call and set us up an appointment,” Morty groused some more. “I’ll find us a place close for dinner reservations. Might as well try and make this stupid charade work.”
Seriously? They wanted a quiet, sit-down kind of meeting to talk turkey with Omerlon, and the man wanted a spectacle.
Were all the criminals these days turning into congenital idiots?