Nature saw to it that I was wide awake long before six.  By eight o'clock it felt more like midday as I waited downstairs in the lobby.  Soon Lori stepped out of the elevator, looking extremely business-like, stunningly smart and still very attractive.

      "Hi, there!" she greeted me briskly.  "Sleep well?"

      "Not bad.  Better than the night before."

      "Good!" she said.  "Come with me.  I must disappear in five minutes to go and collect John, but I'd better introduce you to someone before I go.  Listen carefully.  You just got a job with Argyle Foods in Baltimore, okay?  You're a new boy with a lot to learn, so don't rock our boat, understood?  Otherwise little Lori will get her Chapter Elevens!"

      I didn't understand entirely, but I got the general drift and promised I'd fade into the background.  I followed her down the corridor to a small conference room where a few people were setting out chairs and tables laden with Slaggs products.  With a knowing grin, Lori introduced me to a lad called David.

      "I reckon it'll be neat if you two get acquainted," she said.  "Sorry I can't stay and chat but I must pick up John from Newark.  For once his flight's ahead of schedule."

      She gave us both an athletic wave, and ran.  I turned to face David.  He couldn't have been more than twenty years old, and looked as if he'd just left school.

      "She's some girl!" he said with a boyish smirk.

      "Indeed, yes," I echoed.  "Hard to keep up her with at times!"

      "I know.  Lori used to work for us a while back till she quit the company and went south.  Did you get given a name badge?"

      "Probably not," I said feebly.  "I only got roped at short notice, so I doubt if your people even know I'm coming.  Sorry if it messes up your seating plans.  My name's Richard, by the way."

      "Glad to know you, Richard," he said, clasping my hand.  "My name's David Slagg."

      No wonder Lori had suggested we get acquainted, the mischievous girl!  I looked hard at young Mr. Slagg, but saw no family likeness.  Where did he fit into the business?  I knew that one of the brothers had married briefly, but I understood they never had children.

      "Slagg, eh?  You sound like an important man around here.  Can I do anything to be useful?  I've arrived ridiculously early, I know, but I stayed overnight in the hotel with Lori."

      David's eyes virtually nudged me in the ribs.  When I added that, of course, we weren't in the same room, his look became one of consolation.

      "Shame!  Still, you could help put these tables up, and set them along by the wall."

      "What's the form today?" I asked.  "I only got wind of this on Friday, but John and Lori seemed to think I ought to join them.  I should have done more homework before coming to New Jersey."

      "It's a marketing promotion," David explained.  "We're planning to hit the Eastern States with a new product-line to be launched first in the Tri-state area."

      I nearly said "Where's that?" but guessed it was probably common knowledge.  Instead I nodded wisely and asked how many products they already made.

      "You should know," he admonished me.  "Argyle takes our complete range."

      "Sure," I bluffed, "but I wondered if you had others we didn't yet know about?"

      "Ah!  Only one," he said, "and that's today's big announcement."

      "Sounds exciting!  So how long have you been with the company?"

      He laughed, evading my question.  "Well, whose name gets put on the labels?"

      "But Slaggs isn't a new company," I said, "and you're a young man.  Don't tell me you started the business when you were still in nappies?"

      "Nappies?" he queried.

      I was about to explain I meant diapers when I remembered my promise not to offend any relationship between Slaggs and Argyle Foods.

      "You just look so amazingly young," I said, and realised this was hardly a compliment either, not to a junior executive.  David must have yearned to look twenty years older in his dream-role as the new boss.

      As I helped set out rows of chairs, I concluded that if he were an executive of any significance, young David Slagg wouldn't be performing such a menial task.  But then it struck me - if his company failed to organise its affairs properly, then anyone might well be asked to roll up his sleeves and muck in!

      By nine o'clock the room was ready for guests to arrive, and at my suggestion David went to the lobby to find out why the welcoming coffee hadn't yet appeared.  Was this another Slaggs cock-up or an example of the hotel's indifferent service?

      Fifteen minutes later, with ten people gathered in the room, there was still no sign of David Slagg nor the much-needed coffee.  I approached several of the guests, and casually enquired about their dealings with the company.

      "I've a higher opinion of the product than I have of the clowns who make it," said a portly gentleman, puffing a large cigar.

      "Never mind the products," said another with a happy chuckle, "what about their absurd invoices?  I must be crazy, but I keep having to remind Slaggs that I owe THEM money!"

      "Used to do that myself a while back," said the cigar, "till I figured out what it was costing me.  Now, they don't see my bucks till they ask."

      "How do you find them on delivery schedules?" I asked, nodding as though I too could offer some unflattering tales.

      "No problem," he puffed, "and, you know something?  That bothers me.  If they can deliver the day I call, then I say they're over-stocked, and that sets me wondering how long the stuff's been sitting in the warehouse."

      "They get sauce into my warehouse quicker than they get cups of coffee delivered here," said another visitor, to general echoes of agreement.  Some glanced at their watches.

      "I've been here twenty minutes," said a thin man with a face like a weasel.  "I thought I was going to be late.  It's murder on two-eight-seven this morning."

      "I'll go and see what's happening," I volunteered, and made my way to the lobby where I found David Slagg chatting to a young girl in a very tight skirt, seemingly indifferent to his customers and their coffee.  I recalled Brian Smith's remark a week earlier, and wondered if young Slagg or his female attachment knew who Abraham Lincoln was!  Dare I put the theory to the test?

      David beckoned me over.  "Hey, come and meet Pixie!" he grinned.  "She's Public Relations!"

      I hinted that Slaggs' public relations were in danger of capsizing if his restless guests had to wait much longer for their coffee.

      "Didn't they bring it yet?" he scowled, as though it were suddenly my fault.

      "Nothing so far.  But you'd better get something moving, or your flock will start drifting away by the time you're ready!"

      David resumed his light-hearted conversation with Pixie and began a leisurely stroll back towards the conference room.  I followed and took a rear seat as David climbed onto the rostrum and cleared his throat to attract everyone's attention.

      "Well, um, thanks all for coming along.  Sorry about the coffee."

      "What coffee?" murmured a quiet voice, prompting a ripple of derisive laughter.

      David coughed loudly and banged the table.  "My colleagues and I have called this meeting today, because we've got something new to offer you at Slaggs."

      He broke off as a woman barged noisily into the room, wheeling an aluminium trolley with a large urn and plain white cups.  All eyes watched as she left her trolley directly in front of David's rostrum and shuffled away to a spontaneous round of applause.  Everyone got up to help himself.

      "I suggest you all help yourselves," David bleated vainly above the clatter.

      "There doesn't seem to be any milk or cream!" someone pointed out.

      While David marched off to get some, I resumed my conversation with one of the delegates.

      "Do you have many dealings with Slaggs Public Relations?" I asked, nodding towards Pixie who was sitting cross-legged on the rostrum, waiting for someone to pass her a cup of coffee.

      The man shook his head and sipped his black beverage with a grimace.

      "Good start, isn't it," I remarked brightly.  "I wonder how they're going to present this new product?  I can't help feeling they'd do just as well sending out a glossy brochure with a small sample in a sachet for us to squirt over our meals at home.  I'm sure they'd achieve the same impact with far less distress and upheaval."

      By now, my observations were beginning to attract a small audience.

      "How do you suppose they'll persuade us to taste it?" I went on merrily.  "Do we receive it intravenously during lunch, or will someone be strolling round with a small dollop on a spoon?"

      Nearby a gentleman spluttered coffee back into his cup, and turned to me with a tearful grin.  "Perhaps they pass round a large communal bottle," he suggested, "and we each take a dutiful suck."

      "Well," said the black-coffee drinker, putting down his cup, "I'll tell you what I've decided.  It's time I was off.  I've got work to do."

      "Well, I'm glad to have met you," I said.  "Personally I'm enjoying this tremendously.  Have you had dealings with the Slagg family before?"

      "The actual family members?" he snorted.  "Never met any of them."

      "But what about David Slagg?" I asked.

      "Who's he?"

      "The chap who began talking when the coffee came in."

      "Oh, him!  Didn't introduce himself, did he?"

      "No, and I'm wondering why.  For goodness' sake don't think I'm being over-critical, but I've been to gatherings like this where everything's efficiently presented, where we learn something about our host's business and products.  That would normally be followed with a thumping good lunch where we all get chatting to others in the same line of business.  It's usually very successful from everyone's point of view.  But this charade today is little short of pathetic, and I can only apologise for the time that's already been wasted.  I find it incredible, too, that the young lady up on the rostrum is supposedly this company's Public Relations expert."

      Those who had gathered to hear my words now turned to look at Pixie who was busy attending to her nails, unaware that I'd suddenly made her the focus of attention.  I lowered my voice to a confidential murmur.

      "Now, maybe I've missed the point somewhere, but would you employ a P.R.O. who sits back and allows this sort of fiasco?  Maybe she's just a decoy?  Is this candid camera?  Why are we all here?  Maybe it's a surprise party for one of our guests?"

      "Damned if I know!" said the weasel, "but I've got better things to do than hang around.  Where the hell's Quinn?  That's what I'd like to know."

      Right on cue, a big man came striding through the doorway and marched straight up to Pixie, who downed tools and sprang to attention.

      "Hallo," I whispered, "who's this character?"

      "Jonathan Quinn.  He and I play golf on Saturdays."

      The newcomer banged on the table just once, and raised his voice with enviable authority.

      "Gentlemen, and ladies, I'm so sorry.  I've been stuck in a three-lane jam on two-eight-seven for the past half-hour.  I had hoped young David would have started proceedings without me, but it seems there's been an almighty breakdown in communications.  I can only apologise.  Pixie, the door please."

      Pixie jumped down off the rostrum, and with difficulty waddled across to close the door.  It was cruel, I thought, to make her perform tricks for which she was clearly ill-prepared.

      "For those of you who don't yet know me," the man continued, "my name is Jonathan Quinn, and I'm the new Head of the Sales force for Slaggs.  Before I begin, I want to say a word or two concerning the sad news we all learned a few weeks ago, referring of course to the sudden and untimely death of our three founding fathers, our late president Arthur Slagg, and his brothers Percy and John, known to many of us as P.M. and J.W., our former vice-presidents.  Needless to say this has been a terrible personal blow to all of us, but you may be sure ..."

      "Sorry for the hold-up," blurted David as he bounced cheerfully into the room, carrying a large milk jug which looked as if it had once been part of an Edwardian washstand.  With all eyes on him he halted, transfixed, realising that he had interrupted the speaker at a delicate moment.

      Quinn used the full force of the silence to good effect.

      "Needless to say," he continued with laboured emphasis, "this has been a terrible blow to the whole organisation, not just commercially but personally for every one of us.  But we as a company are resilient enough to carry on as indeed our late masters would have wished."

      Again he made powerful use of a pause, allowing David Slagg time to place the jug on the trolley and crawl away to an insignificant seat by the door.

      "You will note that a junior member of staff has now joined us with the necessary ingredients for coffee.  However since a great deal of time has already been lost this morning, I suggest you remain seated while we serve you.  We'll proceed with the presentation, please, Miss Oliver."

      Pixie looked enquiringly at Quinn, wondering why her name had been mentioned.  Then, remembering it was her duty to operate the overhead projector, she hurried as best she could to the back of the room to prepare the equipment, despite her tight skirt binding both knees firmly together.  

      "It would seem," Quinn sighed heavily, "that we require a few minutes to set up the projector, another failure for which again I apologise.  So perhaps after all, you might care to help yourselves to coffee at this time."

      He summoned David to join him at the far end, and hoarse whispers of reproach were heard as the vice-president voiced his angry disapproval.

      It was during this hiatus that the door opened and Lori appeared with a tall, silver-haired gentleman by her side - a welcome sight indeed as though genuine star-quality had stepped into the spotlight.  I hurried over, and was introduced to John Flannery.

      "All you've missed so far," I explained, "is an entertaining charade of monumental mismanagement, and at least four embarrassing situations worthy of a good soap opera.  In the past hour I've learned nothing about this new product, and I have to say, Lori, your pal David does not impress me."

      "Well done, Richard, you score eight bonus points.  I wondered how quickly you'd size him up.  He's quite a character when you get to know him, but I'd rather not have him on my side in a game of golf.  Who's the one with legs like chopsticks?"

      "Pixie Oliver," I whispered.  "Public relations.  An unwitting source of amusement."

      "I've been telling John about our chat last night," Lori confided as I handed them  coffee.  "We'd like you to have dinner with us tonight, Richard, if that's okay.  Paid for by Argyle Foods, naturally."

      I said I was honoured and thanked them.  So, what had she privately revealed about me during their journey from the airport?

      "By the sound of it," I said, "you'll expect me to talk shop this evening."

      "Not for long," said John with a disarming smile.  "Don't worry, you'll soon discover we have a lot in common.  Lori tells me you want to keep certain matters under wraps for now, which is understandable.  But a chat over dinner about our mutual friends would be beneficial to both of us, I'd say ... we'll continue this conversation later."

      We sat down together in the darkened room, with Lori looking quite diminutive beside her employer.  After such an appalling start, the presentation was better than I'd expected, and by the time we broke for lunch I had learned a great deal about the company's intended public image and its product range.

      Delegates were each given a small sample of Slaggs new sauce, nominally a Chinese dressing with a curiously familiar yet elusive background taste.  It was certainly pleasant, though I couldn't readily identify what it reminded me of.  Of course, for me the most revealing aspect of the morning's show was the extent of the company's disorganisation.  It needed urgent attention from someone, and I knew with increasing certainty who that someone would have to be.

      The buffet lunch was none too lavish, but alcohol flowed liberally, and by the end of the meal the more susceptible visitors were reeling as though the entire hotel were revolving smoothly around the main staircase.  At three o'clock, men were seen staggering out to the parking lot, most of them in no fit state to clean their own windscreens, let alone drive themselves along a public highway.  Hadn't someone in Slaggs foreseen that a few might end up in this condition?  I shook my head in despair - it was all a shambles from beginning to end.

      John went up to Lori's room and rested on her bed for a couple of hours while she and I, who had both shown restraint in our drinking, went for an afternoon stroll towards the factory.

      "Let's go and explore," she suggested with impish glee as we walked in through the main gate past the security men.  Recognising Lori from two years ago, the guard gave a friendly wave, yelling a superficial enquiry as to her current state of health, and encouraging us to proceed.

      "If we turned up with Saddam Hussein and a fistful of grenades," she explained, "they'd be just as helpful.  Thoroughly nice chaps!  Wouldn't harm a soul."

      We walked past the customer reception block towards the main factory, and saw employees holding open air meetings on subjects clearly unrelated to work.  A few yelled "Hi, Lori, how yer doing?" as a matter of routine, but no-one made any attempt to intercept us.

      I wasn't used to the heat of the New Jersey summer, and was glad to reach the shade of the factory building.  But inside, the stench of hot vinegar was nauseous, and I wondered how the workers could possibly survive.  It was a noisy environment too, and Lori had to raise her voice as she gave me an extended tour.

      "You'll appreciate, Richard, that this is a food factory!  People all over the States are going to put these products into their mouths and swallow.  Bear that image firmly in mind at all times.  Now, you might possibly hallucinate and think you see workers smoking in a food factory.  I used to believe that I alone could see this, as though I possessed some rare psychic gift.  But don't be afraid to tell me if you notice it too - then you can prove it wasn't just me, and maybe I shan't need the treatment after all.  Oh, it's also mandatory to wear hats in a food factory, and I'll give you ten dollars if you see more than three."

      I commented on the stench, and how it seemed vaguely reminiscent.

      "Perhaps you'll get to find out what it is," she said.  "I know they use several secret ingredients, known only to a select few.  John would like to know too.  But don't let it get up your nose - a week after you're back home you won't even notice it in your laundry."

      We passed some enormous steel tanks, unpleasantly smeared on the outside with congealed brown and red stains.

      "Remember what I said, Richard; tons of the stuff goes down American throats!"

      We emerged into the hot sunshine for a moment, then entered another building full of containers, drums, and sacks of various substances.  It smelled slightly sweeter, though the intriguing background odour still lingered.

      "You'll notice too," Lori commented with an appealingly straight face, "how sensitive the employees are about letting strangers wander through, like it's a shopping mall on Christmas Eve."

      "But they all know you," I argued.  "If I were on my own, someone would soon demand to know who I was or what I was doing ... wouldn't they?"

      Lori didn't answer.  She stood still and smiled compassionately as if to a lovable child who had much to learn.

      We climbed some steel steps onto a long gallery and looked down into large vats with mechanical stirrers, each churning up a thick, evil-looking grey porridge.

      "Isn't that grotesque!" she grimaced.  "Do you feel like pouring some of that over your next burger and fries?"

      In another area we saw hundreds of bottles passing beneath a row of nozzles to be oozed full of goopy red sauce.  It looked almost too red to be true.

      "Would you eat it if it were grey?" she asked.  "If they didn't colour it up a bit, it wouldn't look like it contained real tomatoes."

      "Doesn't it?" I enquired, and was given that sympathetic look again.

      "Richard, dear heart, what the consuming public expects from a sauce is three things - flavour, texture and colour, with the possible added bonus of a little nutrient.  Why ruin simplicity by adding a tomato?"

      "You mean, tomato sauce isn't made from tomatoes?"

      That same look came up for a third time.  "Come on," she suggested, "let's take a quick canter round the sales office, then we'll go check that John's okay."

      "He's likely to be drunk, is he?"

      "John seldom drinks," she said, "and certainly not in office hours.  He's weary after getting in late last night from Chicago, and then having had to get up at five this morning for a none too useful day here."

      "You're saying it wasn't worth coming?"   I felt sad.  It was, after all, my company that had let him down.

      "I don't think it's been worthwhile yet," she responded with an air of mystery.  "We are having dinner tonight, remember?"

      "And you think that's going to be more useful than the presentation today?"

      "Richard, be a clever lad and try to figure out who's on your side."

      "Sounds like I'll be pumped for information all evening," I said.

      "And stop being so damned defensive!  It'll be painless, don't worry.  In John's skilled hands, you won't even feel the needle going in."

      I stood still, letting her walk on a few paces, until she turned back to face me.

      "Lori, please.  I'd like a straight answer to one straight question.  What have you told John about me?"

      "You call that a straight question?  Okay.  I told him we'd met - sparing certain details. I said you had admitted some undisclosed interest in Slaggs; that you hadn't a clue what they were making, yet you asked a lot of questions about how the company was run, and by whom.  Is that straight enough?"

      "It's at least a half-hour drive from the airport - is that all you said in thirty minutes?"

      "Don't be conceited!  What makes you think we talked only about you?"

      I felt suitably humbled.  All the same, I had the growing feeling that our encounter yesterday was more than a coincidence, especially as I'd been met at the airport by a hired chauffeur.  

      "Do you yet trust me enough to give a straight answer to one of my questions?" she went on.  "What's your relationship to the Slagg family?"

      "To David Slagg, you mean?"

      "I said straight, Richard, not evasive, and certainly not ridiculous."

      "Then I prefer to delay my reply till tomorrow or Wednesday."

      "Good!"  She clasped her hands together and played an imaginary golf stroke across the car park.  "That answers my question.  Do you want to see any more of this hell-hole, or shall we go and pounce on John's bed?"

      "Where's he sleeping tonight?"

      "You object to sharing?"

      "Depends who snores and who's picking up the check," I said, resorting rather easily to American English.

      "Just kidding.  John's checking into the Hilton tonight.  That's where we're having dinner."

      "Celebration of some sort?"

      "Could be," she said, "But allow little Lori to offer a word of advice to her tame Brit.  Cards on the table!  We work as a team, okay?"

      "Meaning?"

      "John has aspirations.  He's after something, for the right price.  A lot depends on who's prepared to co-operate or who wants to dig his heels in."

      "This is going to be another cat-and-mouse evening, I can tell."

      "Ah, but who's playing Pussy and who's after the cheese?" she taunted.  "Seen enough for now?"

      "Enough for today, and I've smelt enough to last me a life-time."

      Lori had a hard job trying to get the dull-witted receptionist to call her room.  She made the mistake of asking for John Flannery in Room 422, and was told he wasn't staying there.  Then she asked to be put through to Lori D'Amico's room, and was told she was out at a meeting.  And when she tried to explain that she was Lori D'Amico from Room 422, the clerk couldn't see why she needed to speak to herself in her own room when she was standing there in the lobby.

      We exchanged despairing glances and raced one another to the elevator.  Outside room 422, John was ready and waiting.

      "I watched you two from the window," he said.  "You get a good view from in there."

      Lori and I chorused: "We know!"

      "Well," John said, "the night may be young for you two, but I've been up since dawn.  What do you say to an early dinner?  And the answer had better be Yes, because I booked a table for seven."

      "Seven?" chirped Lori.  "Are you drunk?  There's only three of us."

      John gave her a playful punch on the nose.  "Lori's in a perky mood, Richard - we'd better make her sit on the opposite side of the table this evening."

      As we drove to the Hilton, I wondered what Lori planned to use for transport now that John had reclaimed his Buick.

      "If you're sleeping at the Hilton," I asked from the back seat, "who takes Lori and me back to our cosy little hideout?"

      John's eyes caught mine in the mirror.  "D'you want to go back there?  Wouldn't you rather stay in the Hilton at my expense?"

      "Might it not mean I had to do something wild in return?" I countered.

      "No obligation!  Call it an investment.  I reckon we understand each other, Richard.  Lori tells me you ain't dumb."

      I continued to study his charismatic twinkle in the mirror as I sat back and reviewed my own strategy.

      We walked in silence across the extensive Hilton parking lot, the heat a little more bearable now, though I was still thankful to reach the cool comfort of the hotel.  I felt privileged to be entering a world of luxury I wouldn't normally have experienced back home.  We strolled through an indoor water-garden where an accomplished pianist was filling the air with gentle music, audible yet unobtrusive, echoing pleasantly as a waiter escorted us to our table.

      This, I told myself, was going to cost somebody a small fortune, and if I didn't play my cards well, that somebody might be Richard Robert Downing.  I felt nervously out of my depth, bewildered by recent events which had catapulted me willy-nilly and ill-prepared into the realms of company directors and take-over bids.  I knew as we sat at our table that I was expected to be helpful, informative and co-operative.  That evening, I knew I had to make some crucial decisions.

      "This is very nice," I remarked, like a barrow-boy being led goggle-eyed through Buckingham Palace.

      "My favourite hotel in the whole of New Jersey," John assured me.  "Would you like a cocktail before we order?"

      That's when I decided that the evening's expenses would definitely be on Argyle Foods and not on Richard Downing, come what may.

      "What about you, Lori?" John asked her in quite an intimate tone.

      "G. and T. for me," she whispered, "thanks John."

      I realised these were the first words she'd spoken since we left our hotel.  Was she under strict orders to keep a low profile from now on?  Time would tell.

      The drinks arrived and John raised his glass.  "Here's to success!"

      Whose, I wondered, yours or mine?

      "Success, Sauces and Slaggs!" I replied, and we all drank.

      Then the serious discussion got under way.

      "So, Richard, what are your impressions of this morning's demonstration?  What did you learn?"

      I replied that I was about to ask John the same question.

      "Me?  I expected no more than I saw," said John, as if caught somewhat off-guard.  "But I didn't fly up here to be told about any new product-lines.  I'm on a different tack entirely.  Did you enjoy your tour round the factory?  How did it match up to your expectations?"

      Or down to them, I thought.

      "It was interesting," I replied.  "But there's plenty more I'd still like to know."

      "Well," John smiled, "Lori used to work there.  Ask her whatever you want to know."

      This was clearly a signal for Lori to deliver some well-rehearsed lines, to add her part to a scene that was being acted out for my benefit.   I decided it was my moment to forestall her and take centre-stage.

      "But before that, John, I'm keen to know what your angle is.  You clearly have an interest in Slaggs, and as you've gathered by now, so do I.  So spell it out.  What is it you want from me?  How can I help?"

      "Clear and direct!" said John, turning to Lori.  "I like that.  How's your job shaping up back home, Richard?  Enjoying it?"

      I trotted out the familiar speech, that I was with a firm of Chartered Accountants in West London and had been there a number of years, ever since I qualified.  It gave me a respectable income, but then I had an even more respectable mortgage keeping me well out of the BMW league.  

      "Having any thoughts yet about moving on?"

      "Who doesn't?  Anyone who's restless or needs more money dreams of a change for the better.  But I wouldn't be allowed to work over here, if that's what you're driving at.  The man in immigration made that very clear."

      "So what do you reckon Slaggs is worth?"

      "As a going concern?" I stalled.  "As is, warts and all ... who knows?  I'm certainly in no position even to guess, at least not yet.  But the potential - that's a different story."

      "Good man, you're talking my language.  The potential's there, if ..."   John paused for a skilfully timed drink and Lori followed suit.  "You met David Slagg today.  What do you make of him?"

      I leaned forward.  "Strictly between ourselves," I confided, "checking under the flower vase for hidden mikes, I'd size him up as a first-class prat.  Who is he, anyway?"

      With a glance John handed the question to Lori.

      "He appeared about two years ago," she said, "right out the blue.  I think we were meant to assume he was another member of the Slagg family, fresh out of college, eager and ready for the business world, a potential successor to the three brothers."

      "Ah, but what's his real status?" I asked.

      "At this moment in time?" said John.  "We've no idea, and that's one of the points I'd like someone to clear up.  With the Big Three no longer in control there are plenty of questions left unanswered, the first being whether they left some sort of will."

      "Aha," I said, involuntarily.

      "Can you throw any light on that?"  John took another long drink, his charismatic grey eyes staring benignly into mine.  I didn't say anything.   I simply took a long drink myself and returned his gaze.

      Lori intervened.  "Richard has a few details to resolve, John, before he's ready to confide in his friends."

      "Then if he counts us as friends, we must help him to resolve them," concluded John with a smile.  "Cheers!"

      As if on cue, a waiter appeared and placed needlessly large menus in front of us, diverting our attention to more mundane issues as we each debated our choices.  My big dilemma was to decide how far to trust this likeable man whom I fervently hoped was paying for dinner.  His female companion I was already prepared to trust with my life.  

      Although I knew the previous night Lori had been playing a clever, tactical guessing game, it had been neither cold nor calculating, merely fascinating.  I'd taken an instinctive liking to Lori from the moment I first saw her in the flesh.   But John was a master in the art of politics, and I was still unsure of his motives.  

      Of course, I knew clearly enough what mine were.  I was determined not to make a move until I knew whether I owned a potential gold-mine or a diseased rats' nest.

      One by one we looked up from our menus, our interlude of meditation over.  "Turkey for me," I smiled pleasantly.

      "And I'll have the London broil," Lori added.

      "Great!" agreed John.  "I'm a trout man, myself.  So, where were we?"

      "Still puzzling over David Slagg," I said.  "Whose son is he?"

      "More to the point," added John, "does he feature in anyone's will?"

      "Who actually died first?" I asked innocently. "Or doesn't that make any difference?"

      "In a plane crash, I guess they all died simultaneously," John said.

      "In which case," I added, "under English law, the eldest is deemed to have died first."

      "And the three Slagg brothers were English," Lori remarked, seizing her cue and watching  my reaction.

      "You're suggesting they might have left everything to an Englishman?" exclaimed John, with transparent glee.

      "Might I ask Richard a very personal question?" Lori continued.  "He likes personal questions, I know, with or without warning, and I'm curious to know what his mother's name was before she married."

      I gave the naive look of a child who can't keep a secret, and sought refuge in another long drink.  I expected one of them to say something, but they both sat like tailors' dummies waiting patiently for my answer.

      "I had a letter a few weeks ago," I began cautiously, "from a firm of solicitors - I think you call them lawyers.  I was told about the Slaggs factory, and decided I'd fly over here and see it for myself."

      "And?"

      "It could be, if I agree it's an asset and not a liability, that I might have a role to play in its future."

      John's voice sounded kind and caring.  "And is that what you really want, old chap?  Are you ready to sit on the captain's bridge and steer a sinking ship safely into harbour?"

      "Is it sinking?  And where's the harbour?"

      I gave him one of Lori's discerning stares, and he grinned.

      "There are others in this industry," he said, "who've expressed interest in acquiring companies like Slaggs.  Not to lift it right out of the water, nor to sink it, but to give it a  new lease of life.  It'll need the right man at the helm, of course, someone experienced in running a business in this part of the world."

      "Like David Slagg?" I suggested wickedly.  "Whoever he might be."

      "Oh, stuff David Slagg!  You've truly never heard of him?"

      "Not until your crafty assistant introduced us this morning," I said, glancing at the lady who sat glowing beside her boss.  Lori kept silent, aware that John was now poised and about to come out into the open.

      "I keep thinking," he said, slowly and carefully, "that we need a loyal and interested party on the inside.  Is that what you're planning to do, Richard?  To infiltrate?"

      I replied that my tentative plans would hopefully unfold as the week progressed.  At that time they didn't go beyond exploring the place for myself and following my own instincts.

      "Then here's a proposition," said John.  "Stay, if you wish, in this hotel, in complete comfort at my company's expense.  No obligation; no special deals.  Call it my investment if you like.  But somehow get yourself into Slaggs and give me your honest assessment of the place.  It's time we levelled with you, Richard.  I'd be interested in a take-over of Slaggs, but first I need to know what I'm buying.  Can you take some sort of clerical job there as a temporary cover, and present me with day-by-day reports as you go?  I want sales figures, profit forecasts, an assessment of existing personnel and management.  I can't use Lori.  They know her too well, and I haven't got time myself.  Richard, with your qualifications and personal interest you're the ideal chap.  You shouldn't have any misgivings about industrial espionage, if you just remember who owns the place."

      "It does sound like fun," I admitted.

      "Charge all expenses to me.  And I could even leave Lori up here for a few days, to act as your off-site secretary.  Is that okay, Lori, or does that louse up your social life?"

      "I guess I can probably cope," she conceded with a strange sparkle.

      "Great!" said John.  "That makes me feel a whole lot better.  I'll see to all your out-of-pocket expenses, Richard, and I promise there'll be something substantial for you at the end of the period, whatever the outcome.  What I want, above all, is your honest assessment of Slaggs.  I don't want a fanciful report, dressed up to persuade me it's a great investment, nor do I want a scathing condemnation to put me off.  I want a sound opinion from a man of integrity, and I've decided you're my man."

      I felt a glow of pride.  "That's fine with me," I said, "with one reservation.  What if I choose to exercise my right and run the place myself?  I'm hardly an impartial bystander."

      "Fully understood, my friend.  If you decide to become king of that woodpile, then I hope we can enjoy long and fruitful business together.   But I warn you, if it's that good, I'm likely to make you an offer you won't refuse."

      "What makes you think I'll give you an unbiased report?"

      "The very fact that you ask the question.  I pride myself on being a sound judge of character.  I like you, Richard, and I'm prepared to trust you.  Besides, I don't want an impartial view.  You're in a unique position;  the place can be yours if you want it, or you can pass it on to others if you don't.  That's exactly the aspect from which I'm seeing it too, so don't worry about impartiality.  I don't want impartiality, my friend.  Integrity, that's what I'm looking for."

      "And that, sir, is precisely what you'll get from me."

      John elected to seal our gentleman's agreement over a glass of Champagne, and he signalled to the waiter.  Evidently pre-arranged, a bottle was at once brought to the table, chilled to perfection.

      "Here's to us," said John, raising his glass.  "And personally, Richard, I think you'll find the rest of this week truly fascinating."

      I was about to make some facetious comment when I thought of a major snag.  "Hang on, though!  How can I get a job at Slaggs?  I'm an alien visitor, remember?"

      "He's right," Lori confirmed.  "We have here a rare specimen, John, from another part of the solar system.  He's got no work permit, no social security, no references - in short, he's the very kind of misfit that an outfit like Slaggs would welcome with open arms."

      "Ever heard of Domino Flavors?" said John.  "They had a serious fire a month ago.  Offices and factory gutted and all their employees out of a job.  Richard's papers went up in the blaze too, and replacement copies haven't come through yet.  A small family firm too, just like Slaggs."

      "Where was this?" I asked with genuine concern.

      "Colorado, if you wish.  Or Idaho?  It's a big country.  Adjust the details to suit yourself.  Besides, you own Slaggs.  You can't be found guilty of hiring yourself as one of your own employees."

      It sounded a touch unethical, but I agreed to play along and asked who was in charge of their personnel department.

      "Mr. Fowler," said Lori.  "As useless a personnel manager as you're ever likely to meet - though you'd better give yourself a different name.  Someone may already have wind of this mysterious Richard Downing who's arriving from England."

      I laughed.  "I doubt it," I said with confidence.  "No-one knows I'm here or why."

      John offered me a sympathetic smile.  "How was the limo on Saturday?"

      I gawped at the pair of them.

      "Was that your doing?  But I wasn't even booked on any flight."

      "I had a chat with a mutual friend," he said.  "Greenwald suggested your hotel, and you did book it in your own name."

      "I give up," I sighed in admiration.  "But thank you, the limo was a splendid gesture, and most welcome."

      "I was intending to come and seek you out on Sunday evening," Lori admitted.  "But by a  fluke you went exploring and found me instead.   That wasn't how I planned our first meeting, Richard, but I don't think I'm likely to forget it."

      From the puzzled look on John's face, it was clear she hadn't told him everything.

      We were about to leave when I recalled John's earlier offer.

      "About the hotel," I said as we stood in the foyer.  "I appreciate the offer of a room here, but I think I'll learn more by looking out over the factory."

      "You're not proposing to share my room?" asked Lori with a defiant stare.

      "I'm saying that a suitable room on your side of the hotel would be more useful than basking in luxury over here.  Okay?"

      "But I insist we eat out," Lori insisted.  "John and I have both had meals in that place, and I never make the same mistake twice."

      A caring glance from John made me wonder if Lori's remark carried a deeper meaning than she intended.

      "It's not so much the miserable food," he explained, "as the money you waste paying for it.  Here, one gets value for money, I'm sure you agree.  And let me add that this evening has been a truly worthwhile investment.   I'll drive you both back to your hotel, and Lori can see about hiring a car tomorrow.  I need to be away in Harrisburg early in the morning."

      "Didn't I promise it would be painless?" Lori whispered as we stepped outside.

      "What happens tomorrow," I asked, "if I happen to bump into the same people we met this morning?"

      "You mean Quinn and company?  From what I'm told, that's unlikely," John reassured me.  "The three who did the promotion have gone to Boston to repeat their antics there.  They then move on to Hartford on Wednesday, followed by Albany and Philadelphia, ending up in New York city.  I made a point of asking."

      "And this chap Quinn, what's his precise role in Slaggs?"

      "He is the only surviving Vice-President," replied John. "As to his shareholding, that's a detail I'm still searching for."

      "There is a minority shareholder," I confided, "so my guess is it must be Quinn.  Do he and I own the place jointly, or what?  I'm the outsider here, so who has ultimate control?"

      "My sources tell me you do," John said, eyeing me in his driving mirror.

      "But why on earth would a run-down place like Slaggs interest you, John?  I'd appreciate an honest answer, if you don't mind."

      "And you'll get one.  You used the word yourself, Richard - Potential.  To me Slaggs is like an badly-run railroad service, using worn-out trains, unable to keep a proper schedule, not always moving in the right direction.  But that doesn't imply there's anything wrong with the track."

      As we reached the forecourt of our less than luxurious hotel, I began to regret declining John's offer of the Hilton.  But I knew that any place would hold my interest if Lori were there too.  As for my newly established agreement with John, I'd already resolved to give him my utmost loyalty.

      "Got your compact?" I asked Lori as John drove the Buick away into the night.  She smiled and waved it under my nose.  "That smells nice," I exclaimed.  "What is it?"

      "I'm not sure, but it keeps the fireflies away."

      "Yes.  It also deters elephants and ostriches."

      "Sure, but they're not as common here as fireflies.  Don't you have fireflies in England?  Come round to the back of the hotel where it's darker.  It's a warm night and we should see masses of them."

      We walked down by the side of the hotel into an unlit area overlooking an extensive lawn.  As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark I could see little flashes of lime-green fluorescence, darting momentarily to and fro, each burst of light lasting only a second, but contributing to an amazing chorus of flickering activity.  And as we stood silently watching the display, Lori took hold of my hand.

      "Thanks for being on our side this evening," she whispered softly.  "You've probably earned me something very substantial in my next pay-check."

      I raised her hand slowly to my lips and gave it a gentlemanly kiss.

      "Come on," she said.  "Playtime over!  We've got to get your life story written up ready for tomorrow's application.  And you can't sail in there calling yourself Richard Downing.  You need a new name - someone they've never heard of!"

      I remembered Brian Smith's cynical remark, and suggested Abraham Lincoln.

      Lori faced me with a wicked grin.  "Sounds good - how do you spell it?"

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Except where specifically noted, all music and stories on this web site are my own creations.   You may not use any of them for any purpose without written permission from me.     Copyright © 2003 Colin Johnson     All Rights Reserved.