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" I looked up, checking the guy's reaction. Tears always worked. "Do we have to report it? I mean, it doesn't look that bad."He nodded. "I'm afraid so. Just the damage to the bumpers will cost more than five hundred bucks, so we've got to have a police report. First things first, though. I need your license and insurance information."Crap! I was right first time. This guy was a total butthead. I got my purse from the front seat of my car, and then pulled the insurance card out of the glove compartment. I gave him my license and the insurance, and he moved over until he was under the big parking lot light and could read them.I leaned against the fender of my car again, tugged my jeans down a little, and straightened my top. The guy finished reading, and as soon as he started checking me out again I looked away like I didn't notice him leering."Look, Christine," he said. "This isn't my fault. Reporting the accident is the law." He didn't sound as mad any more, so it looked like my plan. Marty was worth more to the Confederacy as a horseman than as a mechanic. I guessed that his days as a breeder were over. I knew that he was a Vietnam-era draftee and had been Navy—mechanic's mate. Don't ask me the Navy ratings—I was Army!"Let's discuss this over dinner," Marty said. "Meanwhile, give me a hand. The horses really like you."Mrs. Peabody was obese, but a good cook. The two, Marty and his missus, were clearly deeply in love with each other, even if she looked like an overstuffed sausage in her sweat pants and football jersey. She scowled at me until I presented her with the standard offerings I bring when a dinner guest: a loaf of French bread, a handful of flowers. It was a habit I picked up in Europe. Sometimes I even sprung for wine—but not tonight.Yes, I was practicing poor operations security. I approached a key person openly, but at his home. We didn't talk business over dinner. Dinner was for networking—or bonding—whatever you want to call it! Mission success.
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