Since last week's introduction of the new Joey
Plus, Wallaby's stock had climbed four points, and reviews were
glowing.
It was all very exciting. So much so it had affected him in his
sleeping hours. Last night he had had a shadowy, romantic dream,
that he was as a gemologist transporting precious jewels for
Sotheby's of London...then it shifted, and the gems had changed
to secret documents for the CIA...then it turned out that he was
working not for the CIA, but for them...the other side. When he
left the hotel this morning for his meeting, he felt as if he
were holding in his hands his fate, his life. Many lives. And
then a macabre thought entered his mind, left over from his
exotic dream: Where was the cyanide pill? He had no cyanide pill
if he was caught. It was a preposterous notion of course, his
imagination getting the better of him. Nevertheless, still a
little intrigued by the role his dream had cast him in, he strode
into William's office with his life in his hands and a feeling of
pure elation, and just a little fear. Good fear.
"Hello, Matthew," William said heartily, rounding his wide desk
with his hand extended. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal
business suit, a crisp white shirt, and a burgundy tie. The man's
entire appearance exuded sharpness, Big Business. In other words,
ICP.
Matthew set his briefcase on the thickly carpeted floor,
clutching the binder in his left hand.
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