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“Lesion thinks it will. Not sure what it will require from you on the bat call, but…”
“I can easily match any sound, give it fingerprint access only in case it falls into the wrong hands.”
“How soon?”
“Depends on how long you plan to postpone the Ball.”
Bishop had to laugh at the hope in his tone. “We’re discussing those particulars at tonight’s Basilique meeting.”
“I can stand more time for intel,” 8-Bit said. “There’s things I need to double check before we lock down certain plans.”
“Like what?”
“Like more details on the Drysdale’s and their involvement. How deep do those ties run? There’s too many shadows at every turn in this road, I don’t like that.”
“Agreed. But we can’t delay too long. Five days tops. The arms’ exchange is first week of November. The Ball will hopefully draw our coven threats into the swamp where we have the upper hand. We capture or kill because we know they’re guilty and we rule these fucking swamps. If our Arms’ friends have ties with them, seh-lah-vee, we surely had no clue and are merely protecting our waterways and people from old and new threats. We’ll still give them their lil’ weapons shack and just before the bat-tie, we move them to that new location as planned. Then kill as many of these dirty fucks as we can. Ammo’s ours, swamps ours, wins ours. Oui?”
“It occurred to me.”
“What.”
“They’d be stupid not to have some kind of tracking on these firearms which means I need to design something that would block any and all types known in the techno realm.”
“That’s why you’re the giga-chad.”
“Oui. So, five days before the Ball.”
Bishop heard something interesting in his tone and had to grin. “Mon Frier, any time we have a problem in these swamps I can always count on you to meet it with some technological genius weapon.”
“And? You needing something?”
“I’m just wondering what you came up with about this marriage thing. I know you cooked up something. A gadget or program to deal with the threat?”
“Funny.”
Bishop’s laugh ripped at his bone-dry tone. “Come on, tell me. You developed something to find the perfect wife, I know you did. Some algorithms that give you the best possible option? And you input all those names who picked you and know your future bride. Who is she?”
“You sound like you’ve placed bets.”
“Perhaps,” he chuckled.
“Catherine Boone. From Bullet’s Hatch.”
Bishop’s laugh belted without restraint.
“Glad to entertain and I hope I made you rich. My question is who would’ve not guessed that about me. Damn right I did everything you said. I know what kind of woman I want, and I have enough information on the options to narrow down a selection for the interview where I verify my findings.”
“You’re supposed to pick five.”
“I did, but only as a back-up. She’s the perfect fit for me.”
“Mon Frier, do tell what you consider a perfect fit.”
“You bet on this too?”
“No, no, no,” he assured, laughing. “Just curious.”
“Well, you know I believe everything has a simple formula.”
