The Grave Maurice Read Online Free PDF Page B

poor-little-matchstick-girl life you lead that makes you so sarcastic?”
    Daphne appeared to like that image; she laughed the way some people sneeze, an ah-ha-ah-ha-ah-ha that segued into a brief explosion.
    â€œThe reason I ask is that I might be able to use you.”
    â€œI doubt it.” She drank her coffee and stared at the phony turn-of-the-century signs.
    Vernon ignored this reply. “If you have, say, a head for numbers?” Only, looking at the head with its two little ears, he doubted it.
    She was holding her cup with both hands, frowning slightly. “Actually, I’m good with that. I took a first in maths at university.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œOxford.”
    Vernon’s eyebrows shot nearly up to his hairline. “Oxford? You?”
    She turned her head to give him her signature squint. “Do you think I’m dumb just because my cap has ears?”
    Vernon offered her a job on the spot. On the spot, she declined.
    Finally, he talked her around to coming to work for him, aware that she could be a disaster, and she would probably try to sell his shares of British Telecom if the market took a tiny dip. But he found her caustic sense of humor bracing. And he couldn’t resist that damned cap.
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    Bobby, now, was a whole different thing.
    Bobby (who might also be anywhere from twelve to thirty-two) ran into him on a skateboard. Bobby said he was “messengering” a document to someone in Vernon’s building. (He held up a manila envelope as if it were proof of legitimacy.) He’d knocked Vernon down in the lobby, given him a hand up and rattled off a stream of apologies. An apology dialectic, you could say, laying the groundwork for future apologies, if need be.
    â€œYou belong to a messenger service that uses skateboards?”
    â€œNo. But my bike got in an accident and I’ll use this until it’s fixed. Don’t tell them.”
    â€œMe? They could put hot pokers in my eyes and I’d never tell.”
    Then Bobby asked him what firm he worked at. When Vernon told him it was his own investment firm, Bobby asked him to recommend a good hedge fund and what did he think about this new company Sea ’n’ Sand?
    â€œHow do you even know about Sea ’n’ Sand?” This was a brand-new travel business dealing exclusively in cruises and coastal vacations. Why it was becoming so popular Vernon put down to a masterly PR and ad department because it offered nothing new by way of destinations or service.
    Bobby shrugged. “Same way as you do, I guess. I think it’ll tank, myself.”
    And Bobby went on. He pointed out to Vernon that the Dow was really no barometer; it didn’t call any shots. It was too heavy with industrials. “I mean, where’s Yahoo!? Where’s Macintosh? Where’s any of the high techs?” Bobby was a day trader who “always checked the financials. Always.” He paid no attention to financial gurus such as Hortense Stud (her name arming her competitors with endless sobriquets), who, he said, was a Michelin tire with a serious leak.
    While the news in the manila envelope grew whiskers, Bobby talked. He asked Vernon what he thought about SayAgain, a purportedly hot new firm in the cellular war that was marketing phones for the almost-deaf. It was supposed to merge with CallBack—“You know about that, don’t you? Even hush-hush as it is?” Not only did Vernon not know about it, he wished to hell he’d thought of it. Damn. Bobby said he was going to short the stock if the merger took place because a little down the road Call-Back’s image manipulators were going to have trouble with ads picturing old geezers plying these phones. “Remember,” said Bobby, “Planet Hollywood?” And he set his hand on a downward spiral.
    â€œBummer,” said Vernon.
    Bobby, clutching his skateboard and envelope, just went on and on. He was every bit as bad