“This party sounds like a great idea,” he said. He was buying the drinks, because he was the one with five-hundred-dollar glasses and a full-suspension racing bike. “Lookit that,” he said.
From the Greek’s front window, they could see Oxford Street and a little of Augusta, and Lyman loved using his PDA and his density analysis software while he sat, looking from his colored map to the crowd scene. “Lookit the truck as it goes down Oxford and turns up Augusta. That signature is so distinctive, I could spot it in my sleep. I need to figure out how to sell this to someone—maybe the cops or something.” He tipped Andy a wink.
Kurt opened and shut his mouth a few times, and Lyman slapped his palm down on the table. “You look like you’re going to bust something,” he said. “Don’t worry. I kid. Damn, you’ve got you some big, easy-to-push buttons.”
Kurt made a face. “You wanted to sell our stuff to luxury hotels. You tried to get us to present at the SkyDome. You’re capable of anything.”
“The SkyDome would be a great venue for this stuff,” Lyman said settling into one of his favorite variations of bait-the-anarchist.
“The SkyDome was built with tax-dollars that should have been spent on affordable housing, then was turned over to rich pals of the premier for a song, who then ran it into the ground, got bailed out by the province, and then it got turned over to different rich pals. You can just shut up about the goddamned SkyDome. You’d have to break both of my legs and carry me to get me to set foot in there.”
“About the party,” Adam said. “About the party.”
“Yes, certainly,” Lyman said. “Kurt, behave.”
Kurt belched loudly, provoking a scowl from the Greek.