“Quit jawing with the help, Patty,” Armstrong said. He laughed. “Next thing you know you’ll be trying to unionize them.”
Nabb dropped Patrick’s golf bag.
“Sorry, sir,” he said as he knelt to gather up the clubs. “Sometime Nabb too ver clums.”
2
Patrick won the round by a single stroke, so Armstrong would have to buy the drinks. Before heading for the bar, Patrick slipped Nabb a ten-dollar bill.
Armstrong snatched it from the sim’s fingers and handed it back to Patrick. “No tipping sims. That’s a no-no.”
“I always tip my caddie.”
“If he’s human, sure. But what’s a sim gonna do with money?”
“Buy candy bars, or maybe a bottle of Cuervo. Who cares?”
“Better not. Holmes’ll have a fit.”
Patrick knew all about Holmes Carter: club president and a notorious pain-in-the-ass stickler.
Patrick winked at Armstrong. “You ever caddie?”
“Me? Naw.”
Of course not, Patrick thought. You were probably getting private golf lessons instead.
“I did. Right here, before anyone ever heard of sims.”
And I don’t care if he’s human, sim, or some kind of robot, Patrick thought, I willalways tip my caddie.
When Armstrong turned toward the locker room, Patrick rolled up the bill and palmed it to Nabb.
Inside, they had a corner of the bar to themselves, and while they were talking and drinking—Armstrong a Gibson up and Patrick a Rob Roy on the rocks—he had the odd feeling of being watched. But whenever he looked around he saw only the sims bustling about. The wait staff was human, but sims did all the bussing.
Patrick listened to Armstrong’s idea about opening negotiations with the clerks by demanding a few choice give-backs from the full-timers’ benefits package. Figured that would put them on the defensive. What an asshole. The idea sucked, truly and big time. Not because of the give-backs—nothing Patrick liked better than putting the screws to the opposition—but because the clerks’ negotiator was a bitch on wheels who’d take that kind of opening salvo personally. From there on negotiations would go straight downhill.
But he said, “The idea’s got merit, Ben. Let me think on how to approach it.”
No sense in miffing a deep-pocketed client.
Patrick ran a hand over the polished mahogany of the bar and looked around at the well-heeled members gathering in clusters on either side or filtering into the adjacent dining room. He wanted to belong here so bad it made his gut ache. Wander in whenever he damn well felt like it, set his foot on the brass rail, and hang with the high rollers, trolling, setting his hooks, reeling them in.
But he’d already been turned down three times.
While Armstrong was ordering another round, Patrick headed for the men’s room. After he washed up, the white-coated sim attendant handed him a towel.
“May sim speak, Mist Sulliman?”
Patrick glanced at him in the mirror. An older sim, touches of gray at his temples and above his large ears. Patrick had been here often enough to recognize him. His brass name tag read “Tome.”
“You know my name?”
“Read you in paper, see play golf—”
“Wait-wait-wait. Read in paper? Sims can’t read.”
“This sim read.”
That jolted Patrick. The world was still trying to get used to talking animals, but reading—sims weren’t smart enough. Or at least they weren’t supposed to be.
“How’d you learn to read?”
“Taught self, sir,” Tome said, puffing his chest. “Not good, but can do.”
Patrick stared. “This is amazing! Why haven’t you told the world?”
Tome shook his head. “Other sim name Groh learn read. Tell evyone. Mans come take way. Nev more see Groh.”
“Really?” Who could that have been but SimGen? But why recall a reading sim? Unless it was to see how they could replicate the ability.
“Please not tell.”
“Okay. Mum’s the word.” But a reading sim…he shook his head in wonder. “So what’d you want to say?”
“Mist Sulliman lawyer, yes?”
“Yes.” Patrick grinned. “This isn’t going to be a lawyer joke, is it? Don’t tell me you do stand-up too.”
“No, sir. You lawyer for union, is true?”
“Some days, yes; some days I’m for management. Where’s this going, Tome?”
“Sims been talking and…” His voice trailed off.
Impatience nibbled at Patrick. Out there on the bar the ice in his drink was melting.
“And what?”
“And…” The words rushed out: “And sims want you start sim union.”
Patrick’s jaw dropped—he was looking in the mirror when it swung down and he saw it hang open like a trapdoor. Slowly he turned.
“A sim union? Have you been nipping at the aftershave, Tome?”
“Have money,” Tome said. “Have saved. We give you make sim union.”