❝Michael Freeman, C.O.O. of Connolly Computing. Nice to meet you. Might be able to convince my secretary to pencil you in for that presentation, but I can't guarantee it. Anyway, I'm late to meet Dick Costolo for coffee. Out of my office.❞
Flash back to the previous afternoon, and if you were there, you were bound to have
heard Connolly complaining to his secretary about how he was sure he brought his phone to work with him, and how he couldn’t have possibly left it at home. That phone is, sadly, now sitting silenced in Danny’s jacket pocket; although it’s not so sad for the man who took it, as opposed to the one who now finds it missing.
Well…Better to be safe than sorry, after all.
It wouldn’t do to have his cover blown by someone who’s got way too many suspicions circling round in his head. And it’s nothing that a little sleight of hand couldn’t have taken care of.
❝Yeah, so I’ve heard. You’re more than welcome to tag along, if y’think he won’t send ya packin’ as soon as he sees ya. It’s private business, after all. Seein’ as I’ve been sent over here t’deal with the CEO, an’ not— …Well, you. But, like I said, feel free to tag along.❞
A straight-up denial would have raised alarm bells, and he can’t be dealing with that.
TEXT TO :: Peter Connolly ::
That Douglas character says you’re meeting across town. Don’t trust him much. You sure about this?
’ Don’t let his title fool you. It’s just fancy talk for “Big Baby Who Makes Lots of Money," I assure you. ’
Needless to say, he’s more than bitter about what went down between his ex-wife and his boss. He makes it extremely evident in everything that comes out of his mouth about him.
But, nah, there really isn’t much of a point for him to tag along. He’s got business to attend to back at the office anyway. And by business, he means making eyes at that one hot female intern who just earned sucked her way through college.
Hey, she was legal. Might be frowned upon, but: legal.
❝A degree helps, but s’not necessary. Got mine in computer sciences at Cambridge. Course, all the formal trainin’ happens on th’job, so—❞
He makes a vague gesture with his hand as he allows his sentence to trail off. That hand then comes to rest on top of the envelope, before his fingers tap out an idle rhythm. It’s nothing recognisable, just a simple tune that he’d heard on that radio that morning.
Michael’s looking again, and oh, he hopes the subject comes up soon. It’ll really give him a chance to have some fun with this.
❝Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for sittin’ an’ answerin’ questions, but I’ve got a meetin’ with Connolly in an hour and a half. He’s across town, so I’ve gotta make my way there.❞
He only knows that because he made a call to the man’s secretary that morning, just to double-check where he’d actually be in case questions arose. And questions would likely arise if he were spotted in the building, which is where he plans to be after most of the employees have gone home.
❝You’ve got nothin’ important to ask, right?❞
’ What a shame. ’
He’s tempted to text Connolly right then and ask him if he’s expecting Mr. Douglas anytime soon.
He shifts to pull his phone from his pocket, and, ah, well, too late now. He scrolls through his contacts slowly, purposely taking his time. If he was really going where he said he was, there wouldn’t be any harm done, would there?
Why is he so suspicious? He accounts it to a gut feeling. He always goes with gut feelings.
’ Maybe he’d want me to tag along. Connolly usually has me around during meetings anyway, since I know more about his damn business than he does. ’
It’s unfortunate for Michael that his sunglasses are only slightly tinted, and therefore allow a very limited view of his eyes to anyone who’s really trying to get a good look at them.
And Danny is.
The glance towards the envelope is subtle, and would have been almost imperceptible had he not been waiting for it. In his line of work, it pays to be able to notice the subtle tells that people’s faces make. It’s like poker; and he’s bloody well good at poker.
Hook.
Line.
And sinker.
❝Like I said before, all I’m ‘ere to do is do some basics checks. How the company handles its business, yada yada yada, blah blah blah. You get the gist.❞
In a carefully calculated move made to look like the action of a man who’s got something to hide, Danny’s hand moves to inch the envelope just a little closer to himself, further out of Michael’s reach.
❝Sorry, Michael. Got y’self all curious for nothin’.❞
Yada yada yada, blah blah blah?
Doesn’t sound like someone who takes their job very seriously. There’s the crack of many he’s been looking for.
Or maybe he’s just grasping at straws.
’ Did I? Are there any educational requirements for a man in your line of work? ’
Oh, his eyes are prying over that envelope again. What’s the problem? Something to hide?
She hadn’t anticipated a novel in response. It came across as mindless rambling—really, who the fuck is Connolly? Any interest she once held dispelled rather rapidly.
Of course the man is curious, perhaps even a little doubtful. Danny had been vague enough about his business with Connolly that anyone with two brain cells to rub together would have been curious about it.
Removing his sunglasses, he folds them and sets them on the table next to his cigarette packet and lighter. They would have provided a nice barrier for an inquisitive gaze, but he doesn’t need them right now. People are more likely to believe you when they can actually see into your eyes.
❝I’m sure you’re curious, but I’m actually kinda busy here.❞
He’s not, but he doesn’t want to make it too obvious that he needs to get this guy on his side.
❝There is somethin’ I’m curious about though. You wanna know what I’m doin’, why I’m interested in your boss, tha’s fine. I get that. But you don’t even introduce y’self properly? Well, that jus’ comes across as rude t’me, mate. You know my name—❞
He almost winces. God. He hates his name almost as much as he hates cats. And those pieces of lint that always stick to his shirts when he pulls them out of the dryer.
’ It’s Michael. ’
Finley— ’ Michael Freeman. ’ ’ Now that we’re on a first name basis—-’
He glances at the manilla envelope just inches from his hands folded on the glass table.
A familiar voice reaches his ears, and where does he recognise it? …Oh yes. Of course. It’s Connolly Computing’s resident ‘cockblock’ and shitty nickname giver.
Taking one last pointed drag of his cigarette, he then proceeds to stub out the remainder of it in the ashtray provided for him, before exhaling slowly, watching the steady white stream of smoke leave his mouth.
Upturning his head, he takes a moment to think. Name, name…Did he get a name? Now that he ponders on it, he realises that he didn’t, which is rather rude, considering he introduced himself. True, he didn’t give his actual name, but that’s not exactly common knowledge, now is it?
❝Pointin’ out people’s bad habits… Nasty habit. Help you with somethin’, mate? Or are you just here to preach ‘bout my bad morals?❞
He casually slides the paperwork he’d been perusing before he’d been interrupted back into the envelope. He’s not overtly bringing attention to it, but the movement should make it known to Michael. It’s a basic trick; stamp an folder with ‘confidential’, tuck it away in a drawer as a person comes into view - making sure they at least see the stark lettering marking the documents as private - and you’ve got yourself someone who can’t help but want to know what’s inside.
An easy way to get a mark more interested.
The way he sees it, getting anyone in Connolly Computing to believe that he’s actually who he says he is would be a bonus. Especially if that someone seems to be a jumped up arsehole with a short temper, and a height to match that.
’ I could, ’ he shrugs once. ’ Or you can tell me more about what you do, because, let’s be honest here— ’
’ I’m curious. ’
Curious. And he doesn’t really trust him.
Can’t trust people anyway these days. One minute, they’re you’re friend; the next, they’re trying to screw you over ass-backwards.
Michael knows this better than most.
He pulls a chair out from the lip of the table and takes a seat across from ‘Tommy.’
If that was even his name.
Was he being ridiculous about this entire thing? Maybe. Did he give a fuck? Not even in the slightest.
