Some Days You Need a Friend
by Tex Zavaleta
Chapter one
Sept. 2003
There was a reason that more than one acquaintance had referred to Anthony DiNozzo as "DiNosy", a play on his last name and his inquisitive nature. He had also been told more than once that his curiosity would probably be the death of him one day. He half expected that to be the case but knew himself too well to try to conquer its power over him; the need to know, to understand was overwhelming at times. This was the reason he'd succumbed to his investigative nature when he received an unexpected invitation to an exclusive, invitation-only social gathering.
Since he'd only been in D.C. for a short while, he thought it was time to make some potentially useful contacts to add to his DiNozzo Network. You never could tell when you would need a friend or acquaintance in another agency or department to provide information or a helping hand. Tony had always made it a point to get to know everyone in any position because you never knew when it would be useful. A little politeness, a touch of friendliness and charm and he had confidential informants, from the janitorial staff to the administrators willing to give him a heads up when something was going on that might be of interest. It wasn't like Gibbs was going to introduce him to anyone useful. Even with his limited experience working with the older man, he already knew the man did not 'play well with others' at the best of times. That would be his own role, one that suited him and came naturally, requiring no effort.
He unobtrusively studied his surroundings even as he was cleared through the very thorough Security checkpoint-inspection of the formal invitation in his hand, two forms of photo ID, one of which was his new NCIS creds, and a metal detector. He was given a pass on his gun since he was a Federal Law Enforcement Officer which was a good thing. He didn't feel comfortable in an unfamiliar environment without his weapon, no matter how good the organizers thought their security set up was.
He was waved in the direction of a set of double doors and entered a hotel ballroom. These kinds of meet and greet events were always held in some hotel ballroom or event center and he'd been to many of them from college athletic meetings to law enforcement conferences or training sessions.
Typically, the room was wall to wall with uncomfortable seating for eight at large round tables which were covered in two contrasting colored tablecloths and had some kind of floral or other decorative centerpieces to go with the theme for the meeting. Usually there was a stage or dais for a guest speaker with a microphone and/or a screen set up. Except for breakfast meetings, there was almost always a cash liquor bar or drinks service of some kind in the room or near the entrance.
This wasn't typical.
The walls were all solid, no accordion sliders to split the room or block line of sight for security, with only the one entrance/exit in use. The only other visible door was a chained and padlocked fire exit that had two guys in badly fitting suits standing guard there. That was definitely a violation of fire codes, sacrificing safety for security. Hopefully, if there was an emergency, one of those guys had a key and could open that door.
There were only about twenty-five tables and they weren't spread evenly around the room but clustered loosely into three separate sections with different colored tablecloths on two of the three. There were white paper tablecloths on the third group of tables which indicated that the choice was made by someone who knew the audience. The men and women gathered around those tables seemed to be scribbling on them with markers and pens, either alone or in pairs. From the little he could see, it was some kind of math or formulas. Huh.
The mixed groups around the tables with the red tablecloths were mostly seated in twos or threes and seemed to be holding discussions, or in some cases arguments or debates. A few people seemed to be drifting from table to table, listening in if not contributing.
The third group, those seated in the area with the gold tablecloths, were playing games-cards, dominos, board games, and chess were the ones he recognized on sight. He noticed a few faces familiar from newspapers or magazine articles, but no one he knew personally.
On the left side of the room against the wall, instead of a cash bar, there was a barista making lattes and tending a coffee counter that held a large menu with enough options to satisfy any caffeine addict. Directly across on the opposite side of the room, there was another set up that seemed to be dispensing ice cream, popcorn, and other snacks. No liquor in sight. Huh.
After a moment's thought, DiNozzo decided that the planners didn't want liquor mixing with high security clearance intelligence assets in a social situation. It was something he thought politicians ought to consider as well, but no one had asked his opinion.
There were about seventy-five attendees. He didn't bother with an exact count. He'd guess the age range of the guests to be from mid twenties to late seventies, a mix of races, cultures, and clothing styles, everything from sports apparel to business attire, though most seemed to be casually and comfortably dressed and wouldn't have been out of place at a fast food restaurant. No one seemed invested in scoring points with clothing choices or appearance which definitely ruled out politicians. With his jeans, forest green Henley, and brown leather jacket, DiNozzo fit right in.
He took in all this information in a brief and detailed sweep of the room then, of course, zeroed in on the anomaly:
One table about ten feet from the door, centered in the entrance area, with a blue tablecloth and only one occupant seated at the table. Her position as well as her attitude seemed to suggest that though she was in a position of responsibility, she was relaxing and desultorily perusing the contents of a clipboard with a slightly bored air, her feet were propped up on a chair.
Tony was sharp enough to realize she was, quietly and unobtrusively, supervising the activities and participants. It was difficult to pinpoint her age. She could have been as young as her late twenties but definitely no older than her mid-thirties, with long wavy chestnut brown hair that was tied into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She was wearing an old pair of jeans, genuinely old and well worn, not the artificial worn out appearance that was now in fashion, a pair of royal purple sneakers, and a loose fitting faded sweatshirt emblazoned with "Come to the Nerd Side. We have π". There was nothing remarkable about her appearance except the black brace on her left wrist, which was the only jarring note. Her apparel was obviously chosen for comfort, not style, and she was wearing the barest minimum of makeup as she sat apart from the others, keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings without drawing attention to herself or participation in the activities.
He knew without a doubt it was deliberate. She wanted to be overlooked. So, of course, he decided to join her at the table.
He stopped by the coffee bar and got a hazelnut latte then strolled in the direction of her table. He knew she'd been keeping tabs on him from the moment he came into the room but she was using her peripheral vision to watch his approach, pretending to be unaware. "Is this seat taken?"
"You know it isn't," she said in a low voice with a slight Southern drawl of some sort.
He seated himself, put his latte on the table, and held out a hand to shake. "Hello, I'm—"
"I know who you are. You're on my checklist. You need to pick a code name. We don't use our real names at these meetings. Security something or other." She obviously didn't care about the why of the rules, just that the rules were followed. Huh.
"Code names? Any particular type?"
She spared him a side glance and rolled her eyes. "Look around. The room is full of nerds. What do you think they use as code names?"
He took a moment to think it over. "Characters from Science Fiction?"
"Mostly. Some have more imagination and get creative. Others go with plays on their names or historical scientists." She straightened up, put her feet on the floor, and turned in her chair slightly to face him, holding her clipboard between them as a shield.
"What's your code name?" he asked with a smile.
"Hon."
He blinked. "As in Attila the?"
She blinked back at him, caught off guard. "No. As in H-O-N, Herder of Nerds." Her gesture encompassed some of the tables in the center of the room. "It was chosen for me, probably because I have to supervise these meetings. Now what code name do you want?"
His smile widened. "Let me think about it."
"You might want to rethink sitting with me," she stated bluntly with a hint of bitterness, turning her eyes to supervise the room, as she held up her wrist in its brace. "Apparently, I'm anti-social, touch-phobic, and—oh, what's the word…misandristic."
Wow. That was a bit harsh and totally not the vibe he was getting from her. "Really? Who says so?" He took a sip of his latte and waited.
Her jaw clenched a bit. She still refused to look at him.
DiNozzo wasn't ready to give up. "How did you hurt your arm?"
"Punched a guy who wouldn't stop asking questions," she stated blandly, giving him the side-eye to watch his reaction.
Tony laughed, still unintimidated. "Didn't do a good job of it if you sprained your own wrist."
She wrinkled her nose, gave a little shrug, and regarded the wrist brace. "I'm out of practice. Don't think I've actually hit someone other than a relative since junior high."
"Then this guy must have really provoked you to get that kind of reaction. Too many questions, really?"
That won a reluctant half smile. "Nope. He just—kept touching me."
Tony lost all sense of humor at that response. "Sexual harassment?"
"Not that kind of touching," she snapped.
"Then what kind of touching?"
She scowled at him. "Hold out your hand, like you're giving me something."
He picked up a pen from the table and handed it to her. As she took it, her fingers cupped his hand and caressed the back of it, slowly withdrawing with a lingering touch. It was a move he was familiar with, but had used only when flirting or to elicit a response from a witness he was questioning. He frowned. "Huh. Only your hand?"
She pulled away from him, settling back into her chair and establishing more distance from him. "Nope. Kept trying to shake my hand and hang on to it—I quit obliging. He also touched me on my back when moving past me. And there was plenty of room. He didn't have to do that."
"You told him to back off?"
"I shouldn't have to." She sighed. "But yeah, I did. I also gave him a five minute lecture on the cultural differences concerning personal space requirements and my personal preferences—mainly, I don't like being touched, especially by people I don't know well."
Tony found himself picturing it and smirked. "Let me guess, he tried to claim he was just being friendly and you were over-reacting."
Her jaw tightened. "Yep."
"And he kept it up? Escalated? Standing too close? Arm around the waist?"
She turned her face towards him and scowled fiercely. "How come you know that? The damned therapist they sent me to sure didn't get it."
"There are these seminars many universities and government agencies force their people to attend that define harassment and improper conduct. I'm thinking the therapist should know about that too. How did that guy manage to miss the clue bus? What made you hit him?"
She focused on the brace on her wrist, trying to relieve the pressure as she answered. "I was in the break room getting coffee and he came up behind me and put his arm around me. I said back off… he laughed and gave me a squeeze, so I elbowed him in the gut, spun around, and punched him in the jaw. He fell back and bounced off a table then lay on the ground just in time for one of HR yoyos to witness the whole thing. So I got in trouble and sent to therapy. It was bullshit. I tried to explain what happened, but she decided I'd overreacted and told me that I showed signs of being anti-social, touch phobic, and hating men, though she said misandristic which means I hate everyone."
"Really? Does this therapist know you well?"
"Nope. One session. Mandatory."
Now that was really hinky. The first session was usually a meet and greet, not getting down to real issues until the third or fourth meeting, as he knew from his own unfortunate experience with mandated counseling. "Kind of a hasty diagnosis, don't you think?"
That turned her head. "Thank you. That's what I said…" At one of the red tables voices were getting louder. She actually let out a low growl as her head whipped back around to focus on the source. She reached under the table and drew out some kind of plastic gun and aimed in that direction, a ping pong ball landed directly in the center of the table between the two men who were arguing. She raised her voice enough to be heard but didn't shout. "Scorpion, keep it civil. Do not make me come over there."
An older man glowered in her direction, huffed, and then abandoned the table and the argument in favor of getting more refreshments.
She slipped the gun back down beside her chair.
"Ping pong balls don't usually go that far or that straight. You weighted it?" Tony speculated.
She nodded.
"Good shot."
"Lots of practice."
"What would you do if you did go over there? Is there some kind of penalty for misbehavior? I didn't see that on the invitation." He waggled his eyebrows at her in an attempt to make her smile. It failed.
She looked a bit confused. "No… but I'd refute his argument. That ticks him off."
"You couldn't hear them. How do you know what they were arguing about?" This was intriguing.
"Doesn't matter," she said and shrugged, then winced when she knocked her wrist on the table. "Anything he was going on about, I could refute it. Pisses him off something fierce."
"Same specialized field?" That would make sense.
"No. I don't really have a specialization. I'm a generalist."
Or not. "What does that mean?" Tony persisted.
She heaved a sigh. "It doesn't matter. Why don't you go away? Play a game… something. Have fun. That's why you came, right?"
"Not exactly. I just moved to DC and I thought I should try to make some friends."
The eye rolling made it clear what she thought of attempting to do such a thing in this venue. "Most of the people aren't good with social situations. They don't make friends easily."
Ignoring that, he circled back to a point of interest. "So…you think it was just a coincidence that when you had enough and punched the guy there happened to be an HR rep in the area?"
She gave him her full attention with a blink. "You think it wasn't?"
"Smells like a set up to me," he stated. "And it was the same HR person who set you up with a therapist who gave you that diagnosis?" It wasn't really a question and he didn't need her slow nod to tell him he was right.
She was silent for a few minutes. "I don't understand. What would be the point of that?"
"I'm just speculating here but I think he might have been trying to honey trap you and when it didn't work, the next plan was to get you out of the picture, either temporarily while you're suspended or permanently with you losing your job." He paused to see if she had any questions.
"Damn." Somehow when she said it, the word had two syllables.
"The next question is… with you out of the way, will they go after someone easier to persuade?"
Her eyes widened. "That could be a problem. What should I do about it?"
"You evidently work in a classified program of some sort. I don't need to know what, but do you know the name of a higher up responsible for project security that should be notified?"
"Yeah, but I don't think I could explain it very well. I don't have a lot to do with those guys."
DiNozzo nodded and took a sip of his drink. "If you give me a name and phone number, I could make the call and explain my suspicions. They can check it out and if I'm wrong, no harm done. But if I'm right—"
"You might be saving time and trouble on the project. I didn't even think about this being more than an idiot being inappropriate and me losing my temper. How did you think of it?" She seemed impressed.
"I'm a federal agent and a cop with experience in following up on cases like this. Call it paranoia or a healthy dose of skepticism… but it won't hurt to check."
She nodded and reached under the table for her phone and began scrolling through numbers. "I don't know who in the program should be notified, but if you call Major Davis at the Pentagon, he'll know what to do with the information."
Tony programmed the contact info into his own phone. "I'll call him tomorrow morning. Now, tell me about these groups and what they're doing. I'm happy where I am for now, but I might want to join in some time."
Director Tom Morrow didn't often find time to take a stroll through the bullpen. When he did, he usually had something he wanted to discuss on a less official basis than calling someone to his office. This time there was a blue folder under his arm and he came to a halt in front of Gibbs' desk, noting that DiNozzo and Todd weren't in the bullpen.
"Director?" Gibbs raised an eyebrow. It was his version of a polite inquiry.
Morrow held out the folder for Gibbs to take. "Would you have any idea why I just received an official commendation to put in DiNozzo's file-from the Pentagon?"
Gibbs scowled and took the folder, quickly scanning through the formal wording. "He helped with a national security issue for the Air Force and Homeland? When the hell did he do that?"
Morrow was somewhat comforted that he wasn't the only one out of the loop. It was a feeling he wasn't accustomed to. "Not a lot of facts or details. Evidently whatever he did was of benefit to a very highly classified program or group. They've upped his security classification. Whatever happened is above even my clearance level. From what was said, it seems he had no direct interaction with the program, but diagnosed a security issue through talking to an intelligence asset at a social function and notified the chain of command so they could take action."
Gibbs snorted. "Sounds like DiNozzo. Someone likely said something that made him curious."
"And set off his investigative instincts. He's good, Jethro."
Gibbs just nodded.
"This will be announced at the next awards ceremony. Tell him about it but don't ask a lot of questions. This Major Davis at the Pentagon is rumored to be very touchy about security. I'm not sure even DiNozzo knows exactly what he did or why he's getting a commendation but I'm glad he's one of mine." Morrow shook his head, took back the folder, and headed back to the stairs.
Post-Episode Hung Out to Dry
Gibbs was busy in MTAC helping the director supervise some overseas mission that no one else was invited to assist with. Kate was at the gun range trying to improve her scores for her requalification. Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo was stuck at his desk with a sprained wrist and a sling on his left arm and trying not to pout, at least visibly.
He had some time to kill since he was already caught up on his paperwork for now. He opened a file from the top of the stack on his desk and studied the photographs. It was a cold case, but there were a few items of interest here, some questions unanswered about some paperwork left on the victim's desk. He had a feeling that if he knew what the guy had been working on, it might give him a lead.
He hated being restricted to desk duty. For falling out of a plane and having had very limited instruction in using a parachute, he thought he'd acquitted himself quite well considering it was a night jump. An unexpected night jump, nowhere near the target zone-but still, he'd managed to miss most of the trees and land in a field.
At least he'd managed not to get a concussion this time. Ducky was starting to get a bit dictatorial in lecturing him about risk taking and the repercussions of repeated head injuries.
Maybe he should ask Ducky to tell Gibbs to stop whacking him upside the head? Yeah, that would go over well.
It was a relief when his phone rang, his personal cell this time. "DiNozzo."
"Perhaps it's a generational divergence, but I find it interesting that you've Americanized the pronunciation of your last name. The proper Italian pronunciation would be Di-Note-so. Or did you make that decision in order to accommodate those who wouldn't take the time to learn your preferred pronunciation or the proper spelling?"
He found himself smiling as he recognized the voice. "That's all very interesting but is that the phone etiquette you were taught? Most people announce their own names so the person they are calling can identify them before beginning a conversation."
"Oh. Sorry, this is-"
"I know who it is, Honeybee. I recognized your voice and you're the only one I know who'd start a conversation like that."
"Sorry, sorry. I actually do know better and I communicate in a more concise manner on a professional footing, but since this isn't a work situation, I lost track of, well, never mind. Just sorry about that," she babbled. "I hope you didn't find my comment to be offensive. I mean, it's your name-"
"No, it's fine," he hastened to reassure her. She was insecure enough in her social awkwardness and he didn't want to make it worse. "So what can I do for you?"
"Do for me?" She sounded puzzled.
"You did have a reason for calling? Other than discussing the way I pronounce my last name?"
"Oh. Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, I did-do. I need some advice. You're very intelligent and much more socially adept than I am so I think you would be best placed to give the kind of advice that I require. You said that if I ever needed anything I should call you so I need advice and now I'm calling you to get advice so if possible-"
He blinked. That was an information dump but light on actual information and unlike her casual mode of speaking from the Mensa group meetings, she was in professional, scientific mode. "Hon, did you want to ask me on the phone or did you want to see me in person?" He really needed some visual cues to be sure he understood her properly. She tended to babble when she was nervous and that made following her line of thought more of a maze than a straight shot.
"Uh, in person? I'm in the vicinity of the Navy Yard and I was told that sometimes people who are friends, people who are friendly at least, get together for meals, and that they can discuss things over a meal and find solutions for any problems that may have arisen or obtain advice on future decisions in a social atmosphere. Though I realized just now when I heard what I was saying that I'm making an assumption as to the depth or breadth of the connection between the two of us since we've actually only met once. Would you agree to my use of the term 'friend' or would you prefer I use 'friendly acquaintances' to characterize our relationship at this point in time?"
He blinked twice. "Friend is fine. Friendship isn't necessarily based on the number of interactions. So, yes, we're friends and friends can offer advice or support." Damn. She'd infected him with the awkward wording. "But to get back on topic, it's a good time to take a lunch break. Do you want to meet me somewhere for lunch?"
"We could pick you up at the Navy Yard and go to a restaurant of your choice if that's acceptable." She sounded like a very polite six year old asking him to a tea party with her dolls.
"Who's we?"
"We? Oh, I was referring to my driver. Though I don't see the necessity I believe he's a security measure as well as insuring I don't get lost in D.C. or cause an accident if I attempted to drive myself. Though I can drive, I'm easily distracted and don't do well in heavily trafficked areas. I don't think he would be eating with us-Oh, he says he wouldn't. We could pick you up if that's acceptable. You'll have to choose a restaurant as I have no familiarity with any. I don't go to restaurants."
He found himself wanting to laugh, but he didn't want to hurt her feelings because she wasn't trying to be funny. "Okay, I am very familiar with a variety of restaurants. I can be at the front gate in fifteen minutes and save you having to come through the security checkpoint. Would that work?"
He heard her ask the driver and then she replied, "Yes. It's a black car. A long black car." The driver's voice was muffled in the background before she clarified, "It's a black limousine apparently. Homeland insignia on the doors. Barney, my current driver, says we can be there in fifteen minutes or less."
"Okay, thanks. I'll see you soon." He ended the call, tucked his phone away, and scribbled on a bright green sticky note that he was going to lunch then left it conspicuously on Gibbs' desk. As he gathered his things, it occurred to him to take the cold case file with him. There were several photos that his friend might be able to help him decipher. He slid the folder into his sling so he wouldn't have to use his free hand to carry it.
His timing was excellent. He exited the gate with a brief greeting to the guards just as the limousine slid to a halt at the curb. The driver got out and opened the door for him and he took his place next to his friend.
"What happened? Why are you wearing a sling? Are you all right? You didn't say you were injured." Big brown eyes were wide and full of concern, a hand tentatively reached towards him then withdrew before making contact.
"I'm fine. It's just a sprained wrist," he replied easily. "And not my dominant hand so I can work at least."
The driver had retaken his place behind the wheel and looked over his shoulder to ask for a destination. Upon receiving the address, he raised the privacy screen and put the limousine in motion.
"How did you sprain it? You weren't shot, were you? I know your job is dangerous, but-"
"No, of course not. You don't get a sprain from a bullet. I fell out of a plane." He grinned, anticipating her response. She was so tense she was almost vibrating with it. Whatever was making her nervous, she needed a distraction.
"You FELL out of a plane? You didn't jump?"
"Actually, now that you mention it, I was pushed."
"Pushed? For cryin' out loud, Tony-who pushed you? Were they trying to kill you?" He'd jarred her out of her 'professorial' mode and into her natural 'country girl' personality.
"We were on a plane getting ready to make an arrest and a scuffle broke out. It's no big deal-just the typical exciting life of a federal agent. I walked away from it almost unscathed."
Her brows came down in a distinctly put upon scowl. "You're starting to make me think you are not a responsible adult and your workplace is not a safe environment. I can probably get you transferred-"
Okay, she was definitely not in the mood for kidding around. He reached over and took her hand. "Calm down. I'm making light of it, because it really isn't a big deal. I sort of enjoyed my first jump. I might want to do it again, but next time maybe in the day time so I can see where I'm landing."
"It was at night?" Her voice rose but then she got distracted by his hand holding hers, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. "What are you doing?" She stared at their joined hands.
"I'm trying to calm you down. Some friends find it comforting to hold hands." He couldn't believe he had to explain that to her.
She studied their hands for a few moments. "Your hand is very warm."
He kept up the stroking motion, feeling her relax. "Is that a good thing?"
She considered that for a moment. "It would be a great thing in the lab. It's always too cool in there. You could function as a hand warmer." She gave him a tentative smile.
He beamed a smile in her direction, pleased she was attempting a joke, no matter how feeble the attempt. "I live to serve."
The limousine drew to a stop, the driver opened the door, and they stood on the curb in front of a small Italian restaurant called Fiorino's.
"You're going to love this place." Tony held out his left arm.
She hesitated then gently took hold of his upper arm above the sling and allowed him to escort her into the building.
The decor was somewhat stereotypical and old fashioned with red and white checked tablecloths, wine bottle candles with rivers of wax running down the sides, red upholstery on the booths and chairs, lovely dark wood tables and booths, and the aromas coming from the kitchen were heavy with the delicious scent of garlic. The hostess station was manned by a short, elderly woman with graying dark hair gathered in a bun. Her wrinkled face lit with pleasure upon seeing them come in then turned to a scowl as she took in his appearance.
"Antonio! Sei ferito?"
"Non è molto.È solo una distorsione." DiNozzo quickly turned her attention to his companion. "Mama Fiorino, this is my friend Honey. Honey, this is Mama Fiorino who should be world famous as a chef, but chooses not to be."She scoffed at him, then turned a polite smile on his friend. "Benvenuta, signorina." The young lady was half hiding behind DiNozzo, evidently feeling shy, but replied, "Grazie. Sono felice di essere qui."
Mama looked delighted. "Not only lovely but she speaks Italian. Antonio!"
"Mama, don't start," he warned.
"Fine, fine. Come this way." Without bothering with menus, she led them to table in the corner which was relatively quiet and isolated. "You're early so the rush won't begin for a while. What can I get for you?"
Honey took a deep breath. "I don't go to restaurants but this place smells amazing. I'm sure anything you make will be wonderful. Che cosa ci consiglia?"
Tony stifled a grin. Asking for a recommendation would definitely set off Mama's Italian Mother Instinct to feed them into satiety.
"I will make you something special," Mama declared. "A sampler-you can try a bit of everything and see what you like."
Honey opened her mouth to object as the older lady headed for the kitchen. Tony patted her hand and said, "I hope you're hungry. You gave her a challenge and she will rise to the occasion."
"I didn't mean to."
"It's fine. You just made her day." He poured water into the water glasses from the pitcher provided on the table. "Now, what was that about needing advice or support?"
She took a deep breath, picked up her napkin and began playing with it, avoiding eye contact. He reached over and took her hand in his again, and stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. It was almost amusing how quickly she calmed down with just a gentle touch. But then again, it was possible in her solitary lifestyle, she had a bit of skin hunger from a lack of positive touching.
"What's going on and how can I help?"
"You already did so much-"
"It was a phone call."
"The results of which greatly impacted my workplace and my personal safety."
Uncomfortable with compliments at the best of times, he shrugged it off with, "Friends do that kind of thing." He continued when it looked like she was going to protest. "And yes, I do consider you a friend so stop trying to change the subject and tell me why you called me."
She turned her hand over and clasped his fingers. "My boss, Howard, my mentor, is retiring and everything is going to change."
"Change isn't always a bad thing. Who's replacing him?"
"There's an offer on the table for me to take over—there's another option where I could remain in my current position as Assistant Director, but I don't know if it would be better or worse to take a promotion." She bit her lower lip and they both fell silent as Mama Fiorino swept up to the table carrying a tray.
Once they'd been served a sampler plate of the house specialties and were again alone, Tony returned to the topic at hand. "Okay, what are the pros and cons of each decision? Have you made a list?" Silly question. List making was her modus operandi.
"Of course I have," she scoffed, freeing her hand and pulling a crumpled paper from her jacket pocket. She handed it over for his perusal.
He smoothed out the paper and skimmed it quickly. "Cons-you'd have to work with Godfrey. I remember him. He's the snotty jerk who was acting up at the Mensa social."
"He'd be the director in charge of the labs and I'd be his assistant, basically meaning things could go on as usual. If he runs things the way Howard did, he'd be the figurehead and be the one representing the department at meetings while I act behind the scenes getting things done."
"But you have no guarantee that he will stick to the usual. If he wants to do things his own way… what would that mean for you?"
"Major pain," she sighed. "His people skills stink and he wants to be the smartest guy in the room all the time…"
"Which he isn't, if you or half your minions are in the same room."
"Tony."
"Honeybee." He raised his eyebrows at her and dared her to deny he was right about his statement.
"He knows his own field well, but he doesn't always appreciate other specialties."
Tony nodded. "So he might not treat every think tank member fairly. Will your minions tolerate him? Or rebel?"
"Stop calling them my minions."
"Your nerds, Herder of Nerds?"
She huffed. "That's unprofessional. I only say that at the Mensa gatherings. I also usually don't explain the acronym."
"You've actually been running things while Howard was the public face and attending meetings. You know you can do the job of organizing, oversight, and operating the think tank, or tanks. There are two now?"
She chose to direct her attention to her plate and he left her to respond when she was ready. Mama came to check on their process, refill their drinks, and offer more food. They'd both finished with their meals before she sat up straighter and looked him in the eye. "If I take the job, I'll have more attention on me. I've liked being the ass kicker behind the throne."
"Do you really think Gordon the gas bag would let you alone to do your job? From what you told me he likes the sound of his own voice. Or would he micromanage to assert dominance and make sure everyone knows he's in charge?"
She rubbed her forehead. "He's not a gasbag… he's a thundering fart blossom."
Tony chuckled. "Oh the image that conjures up. If you take the job, what happens to the fart blossom?"
"I guess he might decide to go private sector or back to academia. He won't want to be subordinate to anyone else. He barely tolerated it from Howard and only then because Howard was his superior in the same field and he knew it. He doesn't think much of me because I'm a generalist. He thinks I lack focus because I have four degrees in four different specializations. If he stayed, he'd try to undermine me but he won't accept my promotion. If I take the job and he leaves, it won't be a problem, will it?"
Tony shrugged. "If his ego is that big, I don't know that he'll give way gracefully. He might decide to fight for the job… or he may slink off and try to come after you for revenge some time down the road."
Hon scoffed. "Oh please. He's not a Bond villain."
"You want to bet?"
"Twenty dollars that he throws a tantrum and leaves the program," she suggested.
"Twenty dollars that he tries for revenge later."
"What time frame?"
"To infinity and beyond?" Tony quipped.
"Tony."