Hot Ticket (5 page)

“Curtis canceled you until mid-October. Tendinitis.”

“Son of a bitch!” Winged my shoe across the floor. “What am I supposed to tell Duncan?”

“Say your wrists hurt.” As Maxine stood, the small knife in her belt glimmered briefly, softly, as a firefly. “Get going.
September is hurricane season.”

“In Washington?”

“Belize. Fly through Miami. Your bag’s waiting.” She tossed me a key, pushed a red dot on the wall. “I want to know who killed
Barnard.” A latch clicked, the lights went out. I saw a faint spray of stars as the Queen melted into the night.

After Maxine left our little pen, I played with the toys therein. Everything was smaller, faster, smarter, than my setup in
Berlin. In six months, of course, the next generation of software would make this one obsolete: meringue pies had a longer
shelf life than did the tools of this trade. I entered my passwords, tapped a few keys: up popped a map of Belize, the former
British Honduras. Wedged between Mexico and Guatemala, it was a lush green rectangle about the size of Massachusetts, blessedly
overlooked by both superpower and guerrilla. Offshore lay the largest barrier reef in the Western Hemisphere; inland, the
rain forest attracted scientists and that strange nineties fungus, the ecotourist. Barnard and Jojo Bailey’s brother had situated
themselves in the western Cayo district, amid mountains and Mayan ruins.

I watched the bathtub video a few times, wondering why she would cherish such a lousy lay, even if it was with the president.
Unable to detect anything remarkable about the scene but Bobby Marvel’s ass, I fed Barnard’s face to my computer. Its database
listed just about every troublemaker on the planet, which roughly translated into politicians, millionaires, failed politicians,
and failed millionaires. ID, I typed. The computer burped twice before her driver’s license flashed on screen. Gorgeous smile:
my stomach writhed. POLLY MASON. Bogus address and Social Security number.

HERBALIST, BOTANIST
RED CROSS RESEARCHER
UNMARRIED

That was it? The Queen had shielded her well. I ran Bobby Marvel under the scanner.

POSSIBLE ID ROBERT CHARLEMAGNE MARVEL
PRESIDENT, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Possible? I rewound tape: sure enough, when the president entered the bathroom, his left ear faced the camera. Mating, his
right ear stayed in the suds. When Barnard hit him with champagne, Bobby’s hands went up to his eyes—his ears—as he whizzed
away from her. Without a right ear on film, the computer couldn’t nail him. I zoomed to Marvel’s thighs, locating scar tissue
about five inches southwest of his balls. That would be the spot where, years ago, Justine Cortot had shot him for marrying
Paula. Marvel all right.

Thoughts of succeeding Barnard in the bathtub agitated me so I cut to FAUSTO Kiss. On screen appeared a rather dated picture,
judging by the puffy face I had seen last night at Ford’s Theatre. Time had only burnished the caustic gleam in his eyes.
He was born fifty years ago in New York City.

ROYAL COLLEGE OF MUSIC
HARVARD UNIVERSITY—BA PHILOSOPHY 1978
NET WORTH: $470 MILLION
INTERESTS: ARTS, POLITICS
UNMARRIED,
SEXUAL PREFERENCE UNKNOWN

A philosopher with 470 million bucks? Ludicrous. So was the bit about sexual preference: I had seen Fausto’s eyes. Why no
degree from the Royal College of Music? I hit
PHONE.
Fausto picked up after one ring. “This is Leslie Frost,” I said. “Sorry to be calling so late.”

“Not at all. I’m just sitting down to supper.”

Alone? “My plans have changed. I could join you for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Excellent! How do you like your eggs?”

“Benedict.”

“Will you be bringing your accompanist?”

“I don’t think so.”

“We pour coffee at six, dear. I’ll be waiting for you.”

What a pro: conversation not too long, not too short, the perfect blend of deference and contempt. I bet no one in Washington
knew Fausto’s political affiliation. He was one of those cunning neutrals who played no sides and all sides, who heard all
the confessions and got a kick out of manipulating a legion of tin soldiers because no matter what harm they did to the country,
each other, Fausto’s 470 million bucks would cover his ass forever. He hadn’t run into me at Ford’s Theatre by accident.

Finally I took a look at Louis Bailey. Studied internal medicine at Oxford. Disciplined for unethical conduct. Medical officer
in Vietnam, where he may have gotten his first taste of jungle medicine. Returned to school for a second degree in botany
and never looked back. His list of awards was impressive. At a price, however: divorced, without family except for broJojo.
Pulled Louis’s picture on screen and saw nothing in his thin face but ego and ambition. I wouldn’t want him anywhere near
my bed. But I wasn’t a botanist.

Shut down the machines and slipped out of Maxine’s playpen. A wolf howled as I passed its cage. I was not looking forward
to sleeping with Bobby Marvel.

F
AUSTO KISS
lived in a swank neighborhood near the vice president’s mansion. Area residents had built gigantic homes to within a few
feet of their property lines, then had crammed the remaining space with tennis courts, pools, sculpture: if their money couldn’t
buy acreage, it could at least obliterate what little the zoning laws allowed. As my cabdriver ascended the winding street,
squinting at house numbers, a silver Mercedes pulled inches behind us. Tailgated for a hundred yards before zooming past:
Justine Cortot at the wheel. “Follow that car,” I said. We both pulled into a driveway dammed by a gabled mansion.

Justine was just ending a mobile phone chat as I reached her car. She must have been up since four braiding her hair into
that intricate twist. Flawless makeup, adorable little glasses. Her white skirt clung deliciously to her hips: power dressing
elevated to an art form. I supposed I’d have done the same if I stood only four feet ten. “Good morning,” I said. “Long time
no see.”

She didn’t look particularly glad to see me, but this was the third party I had crashed in three days now. Also, my white
skirt was tighter than hers. “Playing for your breakfast?” she asked innocently.

“Dancing for yours?” I walked up a few steps and pressed the bell.

The door swung open: hello Fausto, in blue pajamas and white kimono embroidered with strawberries. “Girls!” Kisses. “You know
each other?”

“Hardly.” Justine had evidently visited this foyer often enough to ignore the Rembrandt above the credenza. “Coffee on yet,
Fausto? I have no time to dawdle today.”

“Waiting inside, precious. Autograph the guest book then you can run along.” He watched Justine’s fanny bob between two wide
doors. Then he took my arm. “Amusing little copperhead, isn’t she?”

“Not really.”

“Bobby ruined her, poor thing.” Fausto handed me a heavy gold pen. “Please sign my guest book.” A dozen names were already
inscribed beneath today’s date. After I added my own, Fausto ushered me into a sunny parlor, where other guests had already
begun to eat as three televisions stuttered quietly in the corners. I recognized many of their faces as they glanced my way.
Some of the older ones had passed through Berlin during my father’s ambassadorship there. I had sat on their laps, toyed with
their buttons … now we all played headier games.

“Quite a diner you run here,” I said after making the rounds.

Fausto drew back a chair, smiling as a server appeared with my eggs Benedict. “Tell me what brings you, dear.”

I swallowed perfect hollandaise. “Boredom.”

“Ha! I’ll do my best to amuse you.”

Enter Aurilla Perle. Today the senator wore a dress with a thick black belt excellent for tanning hides. As her eyes swept
the room, she digested its contents with the aloofness of a tarpon swimming openmouthed through a sea of herring. In her wake
was the beige assistant, in another prim suit. “Good morning, Fausto.” Two air kisses. Aurilla poured herself a cup of coffee
from my pot, then extended a cool hand. “Still here?” She didn’t wait for the explanation I didn’t offer. “Perhaps you’d have
time to hear my daughter now.” Her hard eyes sought Fausto’s. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

Host didn’t disappoint guest. “Leslie, do hear the girl. She’s amazing.”

Aurilla opened her appointment book. “Seven tonight?”

“Sure.”

She placed a business card next to my orange juice before espying her next item of business, a congressman with a face full
of pancakes. As she crossed the room, swinging her round hips, part woman, part wrecking ball, conversation dipped respectfully.
Only Justine ignored her.

“Aurilla knows she’s going to be vice president,” Fausto observed. “If Jojo cooperates, of course. Ah well, no one lives forever.
Especially if they get in that woman’s way.” He leaned over my ear. “Be nice to her, sweetheart.”

I watched Aurilla manacle the congressman with a handshake and icy smile. “Don’t tell me she’s a stage mother on top of everything.”

“Who cares? You just received the hottest invitation in Washington. No one goes to Aurilla’s place. Not even I, believe it
or not.”

“Why not?”

“She tries to keep her private life private.”

“What’s hubby like?”

Fausto momentarily stopped diluting his cream with coffee. “Hubby’s dead. He was a senator from New Jersey. Plane crashed
in midterm. Aurilla replaced him and has been running the show ever since. Not one misstep in eight years. Marvel thinks she’s
God and he hasn’t even taken her pants off.”

“What about the girl?”

“Gretchen? You’ll see.” Fausto dismembered a third croissant. “Aurilla’s the perfect VP for Bobby. With her on the ticket,
no way he won’t be reelected, despite the bimbo problem.”

Problem? Try addiction. About a year ago, Bobby’s inability to keep his cock between his own legs had nearly led to his impeachment.
He had saved himself, as only an American politician could, with a tearful confession about temptation, forgiveness, and redemption.
Since then, in a phenomenal display of fortitude, he had limited himself to one mistress at a time. “Au-rilla does have a
certain probity,” I agreed. “Unlike poor Jojo.”

Fausto sighed wistfully, as if Jordan Bailey’s demise actually saddened him. “Tell me about yourself.”

I discussed my future engagements, neglecting to mention that Curtis had just canceled nine out of ten. Fausto reapologized
for having missed my concert at the White House. We touched on Stradivarius, Sibelius, and Schnitzler as he occasionally tiddled
a finger at incoming guests. “Were you always a music lover?” I asked.

“Worse. I was a musician. Piano. I thought I was the reincarnation of Franz Liszt.” Like me, Fausto had studied with a great
teacher, practiced ten hours a day, and performed all over Europe during his childhood.

“Why’d you stop?”

He cackled so harshly that all conversation in his breakfast room withered. For a moment I thought he’d choke. “Couldn’t cut
it,” he finally whispered.

“Lousy business,” I said after a moment.

His smile exposed teeth the color of bamboo. “Yes, for those of us who don’t sleep with conductors. Mind if I smoke?”

“Just blow it the other way.”

Fausto lit a cigarette. “You don’t believe in tempting fate?”

“Not with tobacco.”

He studied my face for the next half inch of Dunhill. “How does it feel to be a widow?”

Blam
went the blood. I returned his even, taunting gaze. “About the same as it feels to be one hundred pounds overweight, I think.”
While he was trying to laugh, I asked, “Why aren’t you married? Can’t find anyone who loves you for yourself?”

A few puffs. “No one’s had a chance. I haven’t been myself.”

“Since when? You stopped playing piano?” I patted his hand. “Maybe that’s just as well. You would have made a lousy husband.
Maybe a lousy pianist, too.”

The philosopher blew another cloud at the gods. “May I ask something? Why’d you come to breakfast?”

“I was hungry. Why’d you invite me?”

“I adore women with talent. And secrets. They’re so much more challenging than politicians.”

For a horrific instant, I was certain that Fausto had seen me hanging off Barnard’s balcony, that he knew exactly who I was
and why I endured his insulting familiarity.
Calm down, Smith. His tongue is his only weapon.
“Too bad you gave up music.” I sighed cheerfully, smiling across the room. “Is it more edifying to feed a pack of wolves?”

“Depends on who’s eating my eggs.” With great deliberation, he rubbed his cigarette into the ashtray. “You don’t like Washington.”

“Not my style.”

“No? Men here are no different than anywhere else.”

“The roulette wheel spins a little too fast here.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite, darling. Musicians have so much in common with politicians. Always onstage, polishing the image. Always
trying to subdue the orchestra, charm the press, always aware that one slip could finish them.”

“Nice try, Fausto. I’m just a fiddle player.”

“Really? You married a conductor thirty-five years your senior. Now dead, poor chap. Your last lover was the director of the
Leipzig trade fair. Also dead. Not to mention that dashing young recording engineer. But I’m sure they all expired in various
stages of ecstasy.”

I folded my napkin. “Get to the point.”

“What point? I envy them all.” My host smiled. “You like powerful men.”

“I like powerful brains.”

“Then we’ve got a lot in common.” Fausto offered me his elbow. “Would you like to see my little concert room?”

Now that he had wrecked my appetite, why not. I accompanied him to a capacious hall decked with tons of brocade, oak parquet,
and a Steinway D. “I’d be delighted if you rehearsed here,” Fausto said, lifting the piano lid. “It’s so much nicer than the
East Room. What’s your accompanist’s name? Zadinsky?”

“Duncan.” The score of the Brahms sonata we had just played at the White House rested on the music stand. “Aha, you
have
been practicing.”