Herculanium by Alex G. Paman Page A

building portico was quite bright, giving more than adequate lighting to get good footage.
    “Sweet Jesus,” exclaimed Micky. “This is supposed to be a fucking secret. Everyone and his mother is here.” She looked over her shoulder and was amazed at the crowd pushing behind her. “There’s almost as many people here as the press conference.”
    “Get as close as you can, Mick. If anything’s going to happen, we’ll be the first to cover it.”
    Micky and Clay wound their way a few yards further, reaching as far as the row of guards standing at the base of the staircase. Other reporters congregated there as well, some shooting live footage, others randomly shooting images for a later broadcast. Micky and Clay each exchanged pleasantries with colleagues from other stations, but when their story actually unfolded, it was every reporter for himself, with no quarter given and none asked.
     
    Preston relished each step he took up the stairs, making sure he planted his foot squarely on the plush rug. He kept his eyes glued to the gentlemen waiting at the top, their hands humbly folded in a fig-leaf pose. It felt like some of the movie premieres he had attended, except this time, he was the leading man.
    “All this will be in my autobiography, Max,” he whispered. “This is unreal.”
    “As if I’ll ever get a chance to read it,” quipped Max with a smile. Upon reaching the top, he quickly extended his arms and met his new partners halfway.
    “Mr. Peryson, I’m Max Lee. And this is my client, Preston Jones.” Peryson stood in place and stared, one of the few times he was ever awestruck by a celebrity. Preston towered above him, yet offered a gentle smile as they exchanged firm handshakes. There were other men behind Peryson, but they stayed a full step behind in the background.
    “It’s a pleasure, gentlemen. Finally, titans meet face to face. I must congratulate you both on a spectacular achievement. I look forward to our business venture together. Again, I apologize for this distraction, but I guess it is appropriate for this type of event.”
    “Mr. Peryson, I am uncomfortable with this situation,” said Max. “How adequate is your security? We are open targets to the public, especially so high up on this catwalk.”
    “You’re absolutely correct, Mr. Lee. But we’re taking measures to deal with it.”
    Two men rolled out a portable podium next to them, and quickly assembled wiring to bring it to life. A guard gently tapped the microphone head, adjusting the volume as he whispered, “Testing-testing, one-two-three, testing…”
    “I want Mr. Jones to make a brief statement to the press. I’ve found that this usually quells the media’s thirst for news. From here we can proceed with our business. Crowd control will handle the rest.”
    “He will say nothing,” protested Max. “There’s been no discussion about media statements, Mr. Peryson. I thought that was what we were all here to discuss?”
    He turned to Preston with a determined look. “Don’t say a word. Let them deal with this mess.”
    Preston extended his hand in front of his eyes, trying to block out the spotlight beaming from the arriving helicopter. It hovered unmoving like a sentinel above the crowd, its quivering spotlight a targeting scope that just found its prey. “Is that with your organization, Mr. Peryson?” he inquired with a squint. “Or is that with the media?”
    “I’m afraid it’s with the public, Mr. Jones. The media hates a mystery, and we’re quite literally in their spotlight. Just a quick statement, please; we just need to say something to satisfy their curiosity.”
    “The more we talk, the more questions they’ll have,” insisted Max. “What’s my client going to say? We haven’t established any agreements yet. As the promoter, why don’t you say something? Surely that would be more than adequate.”
    “Mr. Jones is the star here, Mr. Lee, not me. Why not let him speak?”
    Preston could tell