by Josan
Not the actual conferences themselves, though they were sometimes an
incredible waste of time. And not just the public relations aspect of
them: contacts needed to be made, maintained, reconnected. Not his forte, but
still something he could do with some skill.
No. It was the presentations he hated. The ones he had to give himself.
It was the forcing himself up to his feet, the long walk from his place to
the podium. The knowing that he would not be witty, or
humourous. That his material would be will researched, well thought out (he
knew this about himself, was confident on that aspect of it.),
but that the delivery would be bland, monotone.
Because that was the only way he could cover up the nerves, the insecurity
that went along with his speaking in front of a group of his
peers.
He wasn't a talker. He was a doer. Give him a case to work on, a department
to head, and he was fine. But he had never gotten over his
acute discomfort of standing in front of a group of people, waiting for them to
dissect him.
Even if it were a friendly crowd like this one at the Law Enforcement
Symposium. Even when he knew his subject would actually be well
received.
He just knew that it would be better delivered by anyone else, and thereby
made much more interesting.
He placed his papers on the podium in front of him, made certain that the
remote controlling the slide part of the show was in his hand.
Took a deep breath, tried to find something to focus on. As Sister Ausmana had
tried to get him to do in those Public Speaking exercises
every kid in the school had to do.
The door at the back of the hall opened which thankfully distracted him a
bit. He looked up to see who had come in at the last moment.
Anything to delay the actual having to say those first words.
And really was distracted. So much so that the moderator had to cough to
get his attention, silently querying if there was something
wrong.
Skinner gave a slight shake of his head. Plunged into his presentation.
Which he aimed solely at the man who stood, slouching against the
back wall by the door of the hall.
What was Krycek doing here?
While one part of his brain dealt with the presentation, another dealt with
the fact that not only was Alex Krycek in the room, he was in a
room that required specific ID to enter as all the material being presented was
classified.
That instead of his usual costume of jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket, he
was dressed in some suit that looked as though it had been made
for him. Cut to hide the fact that the left arm was not real.
Every now and then Skinner would make eye contact with the interloper. Was
surprised, that first time, at his sense of relief when Krycek's
head nodded slightly at a point he was trying to make. If it was going over
with Krycek, the rest of the group...
He kept on. Whenever he was trying to judge if his point was getting across,
he'd check with Krycek. As long as Krycek looked interested,
seemed to be following, he found that he didn't really care about the reactions
of the rest of the hall.
He'd always found the question and answer portion easier to handle. Though
there were the one or two queries that made him wonder how
anyone that stupid had made it up to this level in the hierarchy. He wondered
if Krycek would dare question him.
At the end, to the polite applause he was used to getting on his
performances, Krycek gave him a nod and a smile of... approval(?)... which
curiously pleased him.
But after he'd made his way down, answered a few of the comments tossed to
him by people he respected, he found that Krycek was
nowhere to be seen.
That didn't really surprise him. It was after all as if a cat had
accidentally wandered into a yard filled with dogs. A smart "cat" took off
before the dogs noticed it. And there were more than a few people present who
would very much like to have an interview with one Alex
Krycek.
No, what surprised him was the disappointment he felt.
He sat patiently through the other presentations of the afternoon. Made a
few new contacts.
Decided that before supper, he wanted a shower. He disliked the feeling air
conditioning gave him, not that it was unnecessary here in San
Antonio. It may have been fall, and it may have been a "dry" heat, but it was
still a whole lot hotter than DC.
He was accepting his key from the desk clerk when the man handed him an
envelope. It bore his name and title and he recognized the
handwriting as the same one on the package label that had been sent from
Scotland.
He waited until he was in his room to open the envelope. Inside there was
only a book of matches with the logo and address of a local
arcade. Inside, written on the cover, "8 p.m.?"
So it was that AD Walter S. Skinner, in San Antonio Texas for a Conference
on Law Enforcement, found himself, not networking over the
catered supper, but on his way to a "meeting" with a Consortium assassin with
whom he seemed to have occasional truces.
He'd dumped the suit and tie for jeans, navy t-shirt, denim shirt. And felt
like a kid released from chores as he carefully snuck out of the
hotel, avoiding being seen by anyone who knew him, or anyone who would wonder
why he wasn't joining the others in the dining room.
San Antonio was a beautiful location for a conference. Over the years,
careful restoration to the old buildings, the cleaning up of the canal,
the addition of a boardwalk made this a city centre that one felt one could
stroll around, safely. And now that the sun had set, the air was
cooling down making his search for the arcade even more enjoyable. After three
days of confinement to the hotel, this "liberty" was a
welcome respite.
He had to ask for directions from one of the many ice cream vendors who was
delighted to show him where the arcade was located. "By
this time of the evening, the guys who hang around there are ready for a
treat."
The guys, once Skinner scanned the open entrance of the arcade, had to
average twelve in age. And on a school night? What were their
parents... Skinner caught himself. He sounded like some old fogy, even to
himself.
Inside, the arcade was well attended, probably better attended than the
conference. Here and there was an unused console, but some had
several boys, youths gathered around them.
He walked around the hall, looking to see if Krycek had arrived yet. One of
the advantages of being an adult in the place was that it was
easy to see over the heads of most.
There seemed to be something going on in one of the corners. Skinner
strolled over to find about a dozen young boys intently watching
someone at play. From the comments, the intent oohs and aahs, the player seemed
to be attaining heights of some kind. Skinner edged a
little closer.
The player wasn't some boy, but a man, dark haired, wearing a leather
jacket. Playing some pursuit game in which the steering wheel he
was controlling drove an animated car that was evading villains, cops, anyone
with a car, truck, plane, helicopter. Even the occasional tank.
Very successfully to judge by the rising numbers on the score board and the
intensity of his audience. And doing so mainly with the use of
one hand. Occasionally, the left would come up as if he had forgotten that it
could be of very little use, and it was on the last of these that he
finally lost control of the vehicle and it crashed, spectacularly, much to the
disappointment of his fans.
"Ah, shit, man. You were so close!"
"Damn, that was hot!"
"Hey, no one's ever gotten that high on that machine. See, it's posted his
score as the new high."
Krycek stood up and rotated his neck, loosing up the muscles that had tensed
up during play. He knew that it was only a game, but his
own sense of competition wouldn't let him take it as anything other than a
serious challenge. He accepted the commiseration of his new
friends, turned to let the next kid in line take the seat and saw Skinner
leaning against one of the support posts, arms crossed, grinning at
him.
"I must remember," said Skinner, "never to let you borrow my car."
Krycek smiled, a bit sheepish. "I tend to let loose on those things. The
consequences aren't real."
"Well, you're braver than I am. I would never pit myself against one of
those computerized games. It would wipe me out and I have my
pride."
Krycek grinned. "There's something over there in that corner that may make
you feel more daring." And led Skinner to a pinball machine
that stood solitary in a corner, ignored by all the kids who preferred
animation to lights flashing. "Don't try and tell me you haven't any
skill on these."
"God! I haven't seen one of these in years. I thought they'd all been
scrapped." Skinner looked over the play deck, the lighted up billboard.
Passed his hands along the sides, feeling for the control buttons.
"Shit, the hours I spent on one of these things at the pool hall." There was
more than passing nostalgia in his voice: almost a longing for
old times when his life was so much easier, more black and white than the greys
that permeated his world these days.
Krycek pulled a quarter out of his jeans pocket, dropped it into the slot.
"My treat."
Skinner quirked an eyebrow, meet Krycek's silent challenge and pulled back
the ball release. And went into a world that he had left far
behind when he had signed on for Vietnam.
The first ball was a bit of a dud. He had forgotten most of his skills. They
were finding their way back with the second ball. He got more
of a feel for the table with the third.
He had caught the attention of some of the boys, who stopped for a moment on
their way to an empty console to watch the man playing
with what they had all considered to be a piece of decoration.
It was Skinner's turn to smile sheepishly when the last ball dropped into
the collecting hole. "Well, so much for my misspent youth." He
pulled a coin out and dropped it into the slot. "Your turn."
Krycek smiled ruefully. "I don't think so. You're the winner, hands down."
Skinner was embarrassed that he had forgotten. But he recovered quickly.
"I'll take the left, you the right." At Krycek's hesitation, he added,
"Or are you afraid that I'll be so much better at it that you'll never be able
to step foot in an arcade anywhere ever again?"
Krycek laughed at the challenge and at the fact that Skinner had known which
button to push. He stepped up, said "Hold on." Took off his
jacket. "Not so tight," he explained, rotating his arm like a baseball pitcher
warming up for the mound.
Skinner snorted, a little derisive. "Ready now? Good." And he put the first
ball into play.
Krycek was not the only competitive one at that pinball machine. To the
increasingly louder sound of muttered curses (there were kids
present!), "Watch out!", "Wake up!", "Where's your brain!" the first ball was
played out.
The second ball was flung back up with more co-ordination on the part of the
two players, slowly beginning to work together rather than
against each other to keep the ball into play.
The third was a total dud. They had barely played it when it got away from
them and rolled down into the hole.
"Shit!" This from one of the small group of boys they had collected unaware.
Krycek dropped another coin and they set off again. This time all of
Skinner's old skills seemed to return to him and melded with those of
Krycek. The numbers were beginning to rack up. They won a free game. Skinner
pulled off his shirt and tossed it on top of Krycek's
jacket. War had been declared and it was they, not the machine, who were going
to win.
By now they had acquired a crowd that consisted not only of the younger
boys, but some of the teenagers and the manager, an oldster of
twenty. They didn't hear them. Which, considering the noisy encouragement they
were getting, was evidence of the ability both men had
developed in shutting out the world around them when it suited them.
By the end of the free game, the score was respectable enough that Skinner
the AD would not have been ashamed to present it to his pals
back in the pool hall.
Both men were grinning like idiots as their audience gave them a round of
applause.
"Man, that was awesome! I've never seen anything like it," said the manager.
"It was fun," agreed Skinner, picking up his shirt. "Thirsty work. A beer?"
He handed Krycek his jacket.
Krycek nodded.
They were on their way out when they overheard two boys explain how the
pinball machine worked to a friend who had missed the whole
thing.
"So who showed you?" the friend asked.
"These two old geezers. They played it together, but Charlie said... " They
moved out of hearing.
Skinner went to make some remark to Krycek when he realised that the man had
stopped behind him. Looking a bit stunned.
"Did you hear what those brats called us?" He looked as though he was ready
to go back and pick a fight with three pre-teens.
Skinner roared, not at all sympathetic. "What's the matter, Krycek? Don't
see yourself as an old geezer?"
Krycek's mouth dropped open. Nothing came out. Skinner grabbed him by the
arm, pulled him out of the arcade. Into the fresh air. Into a
world that was populated more by adults than kids.
"So how old are you these days, Krycek?"
"Thirty-two. I'm still young." He sounded almost upset about it.
Skinner grinned. "Well, think about it, Krycek. To a twelve year old,
thirty-two is ancient."
"Shit! I am not old."
Krycek was taking this far too seriously, thought Skinner. He pushed the man
over to a chair in an outdoor cafe, held up two fingers to the
waiter passing by with a tray of beer. He had very little sympathy for the
man's feelings.
"Yap," he took a sip of cold beer, "first it's the rug rats that find you
old. Then the teenagers start asking you if things were done a certain
way when you were their age. The older ones want to know if you remember what
you were doing the day Kennedy—doesn't matter
which one—was shot, for an assignment in their History class. Next you'll
notice that things aren't quite as clear as they once were. You'll
need glasses. And then there are the days when you just know it's going to
rain."
"Shut up!" growled Krycek into his beer. "I'm not there."
"Yet," agreed Skinner. He swallowed his beer under Krycek's glare. "And
there are always younger ones around to remind you of the fact
that you're not getting any younger. Like you," he hurried to add.
"Me?"
"What, you don't think you make me feel old? What did you think I was
feeling watching how at ease you were with that computer game
you were handling when I came in? Do you have any idea what the average age of
an FBI intern is these days? Or what it's like when I
attend a conference and all the new whiz kids aren't yet thirty?"
"This is too depressing," announced Krycek. He signalled for two more beers.
"Been fishing lately?"
Skinner watched as Krycek paid for this round. "Yes. I went to Vermont to do
some lake fishing. The... eh... reel worked like a charm."
Krycek looked at him from under his lashes. "You're not going to throw it
back at me?"
Skinner laughed. "No way. Not a Hardy. No one is ever going to get their
hands on it. Thank you, Krycek."
"Da nada." Krycek seemed quite pleased that his gift had been accepted.
The two men strolled along the canal, just talking, not touching on anything
that could be classified as sensitive.
At one point, Skinner did make a comment, in passing, at how surprised he
was that Krycek knew about the conference. Wondered why he
was so pleased when Krycek answered that he had been curious about the paper he
was going to present.
"Hate doing those things," Skinner confessed.
"Why? Aren't the ideas yours?"
"Of course they are. But I'm a boring presenter. I know it and they know
it."
"Why, didn't you write the stuff yourself?" Krycek was curious.
"Yes." It was Skinner's turn to be miffed.
Krycek shrugged. "Most don't. They have their assistants or some speech
writer do it for them. Besides, those things aren't supposed to be
some comedy routine. And what does it matter if you don't have them rolling on
the floor. The subject matter was nothing to laugh at. And
you presented it clearly. To the point. What more can you want? Hey! Ice
cream!"
Skinner was still mulling over the compliment he thought he had gotten when
he noticed that Krycek had ordered dark chocolate ice cream,
to be served in a chocolate waffle cone, with chocolate sauce drizzled over the
whole thing. He ordered butter pecan. In a plain cone.
Nothing on it.
"You like chocolate," he observed.
"Good chocolate," amended Krycek. "Did you know that in studies women
preferred chocolate to sex at a ratio of three to one. Now I'm
not saying I agree, you understand..."
"I understand."
"But it comes in a very close second." He smiled at Skinner's laughter,
glanced at his watch. That wasn't the first time he had done so in the
evening.
"You got an appointment somewhere, Krycek?"
"Actually, I've got a plane to catch. I have to leave now to get to the
airport. Got to be somewhere for eight tomorrow morning and I can't
miss this connection."
They walked over to the street where there were some cabs lined up. Krycek
was getting into one when Skinner suddenly realized he had
said "connection". San Antonio was many things, but it wasn't a main terminal
for connecting flights. Not unless you were taking the long
way. Would Krycek actually have been in San Antonio just to...
"Krycek." He waited till the man rolled down the window. "I had fun."
Krycek grinned. "Me, too."
Skinner watched the cab drive away, ambled back to the hotel, whistling
softly, in a better mood than he had been for weeks.
The Conference
kinner hated these things.
