"Vince?" Delaney looked confused. "Oh, you've been doing your number."
"It's just a thought, and I don't think much of it…"
"Thanks, buddy." Vince slammed his glass on the bar. "I'll tell it myself. Look, these kids sold out. They agreed to dump the game for twenty-five grand apiece, right?"
"Right."
"And we want them to play it straight, right?"
"Of course."
"So we buy them back."
Delaney frowned. "I don't follow."
"We outbid Domino," Vince said patiently. "We offer them a chunk of money to play to win. A big chunk."
Delaney's frown deepened. "Wait a minute. You mean we bribe them?"
"Call it fighting fire with fire. We double the offer. Fifty thousand each if they play it straight."
"Impossible." Delaney's voice was cold and stiff. "You're asking me to authorize the use of Company funds to bribe a couple of basketball players? Impossible."
"Why? I'm talking about a hundred grand. You spend ten times that much every time you knock off some South American politician."
"We don't do things like that anymore."
"The hell you don't."
"Look, it's out of the question. I mean, what if it ever got out? Our job is to keep the Company clean, not get it involved."
"It's already involved, up to the ass, and this is the only way out."
"Definitely not. Forget it."
I told you he wouldn't go for it, said Sammy.
How about giving me a hand?
I told you, I don't like it, either.
Maybe if you made a pitch he'd change his mind.
No way. He'll never do it.
Then lend me a hundred thou.
Be serious. I don't have that kind of money liquid.
I don't have that kind of money, period. But this is the only way to do it.
Getting a little emotional about this, aren't you?
Maybe.
Making it personal, aren't you?
"I guess I am," Vince said aloud. He came out from behind the bar, and headed for the door.
"Hold it," said Delaney. "Where are you going?"
"To work." He kept on walking.
Sammy looked into his head, and saw what he had in mind. He called after him, She won't do it, you're wasting your time. But Vince was out the door.
On the way over in the taxi, he realized that he should have called first, for there was no good reason why a woman as active as Ida Whitney would be at home at eleven in the morning. But she was. She showed no surprise when she saw him. She sat him down in her living room. She offered him coffee. She listened carefully while he spoke, nodding her head. He realized that he was speaking rapidly, almost wildly, and he tried to restrain himself, but the words came gushing out. Finally, he stopped himself in mid-sentence, and fell silent. He knew that he had made his case poorly. He waited. She looked at him with concern.
"What's wrong with you?" she asked. "You sound strange-not yourself."
"I'm not," he admitted, and his voice sounded strange in his ears, too high and thin. "Since the last time I saw you I damn near got myself killed, I got hit over the head, and I spent a night in jail. I am definitely not myself. I'm running on rocket fuel right now."
"Your eyes look terrible."
"Yours look lovely."
"Don't say things like that."
"Sorry, it's the rocket fuel. You haven't answered my question."
"What makes you think that I have access to that kind of money?"
He waved an arm in a gesture that took in the richly furnished room, the Traz original on one wall, the Catelot on another, and the bronze nymph by Giorgino. "Are you saying that you don't?"
"Lewis makes the money. I just spend it."
"That's not an answer."
She leveled her eyes at him, those eyes he remembered so well. They could be warm and liquid, or hard as bullets. They were hard. "I read the newspapers, Vincent. A name was mentioned here the other night. Giardelli. Now he's dead."
"Yes."
"Did you kill him?"
"No."
There was a silence between them. "Is that all you're going to say?"
"I'm sorry, but I can't answer any more questions."
"You're terrific, you really are. The other night you came barging in here and bullied Lewis into giving you a name. Now the name is dead, and you're here again, this time to ask me for a hundred thousand dollars."
"A loan."
"Whatever you call it, but you say that you can't answer. Just who the hell do you think you are?"
"An old friend."
"Well, old friend, this isn't going to work." Those eyes were flashing now. "Either you answer some questions, or this conversation is over."
He hesitated. "I'll answer the ones that I can."
She leaned forward. "Are you really a translator at the United Nations?"
"At times."
"Do you hold any other job?"
"Yes."
"Are you employed by any government agency, and if you are, is it federal, state, or local?"
She's good, he thought. Of course, she's been watching Lewis at work for years. "Federal."
"Can you tell me the name of your organization?"
"No."
"Would I know the name if you told me?"
"I doubt it."
"Is the work you do legal? I mean, is it within the law?"
"Sometimes."
"Is it in the national interest?"
"Always."
"Sitting here, right now, are you acting as a representative of your organization?"
"No. My organization has rejected this solution to the problem. They have refused to fund it. That's why I've come to you."
"I see. One last question. What the hell is so important about a God damn basketball game that an agency of the federal government has to get involved in it?"
Vince shook his head. "I can't answer that one, but I'll say this much. It's important to the government, it's important to my organization, and, of course, it's important to the young men involved."
"You'll have to explain that last part to me. The other night you made a strong case for trying to help two young black men who were about make the biggest mistake of their lives. Now you're suggesting that I supply the money that will compound the felony. So tell me this, old friend. How is throwing good money after bad going to help these young men straighten out their lives?"
Vince stood up, and walked around the room. He stopped in front of the Traz, and looked at it carefully. He stepped back, and looked again, staring into the geometries of the composition. It told him nothing. He turned around.
"I don't have a good answer to that. You may be right, it may be throwing good money after bad, but it's the only move I can think of to make. Like I said, I'm running on rocket fuel, and I don't have much time. I can't let those kids throw that game. I can't."
He came close, and bent over her. Their faces were inches apart, and her scent was all around him. "That's it, the bottom line," he said. "Will you do it?"
She said faintly. "Is this part of your sales pitch?"
"Will you?"
"Why not ask Lewis?"
"I'm asking you. Now."
"Back off."
He straightened up, and stepped away. She stood to face him. Her eyes were warm again, but her face told him nothing. "A hundred thousand?"
"In cash."
"We'll go to the bank. I'll need ten minutes to change and call Lewis."
"Why Lewis?"
"He's my husband. I have to tell him where I'm going."
"You're going to the bank."
"I'm going to New Hampshire. With you." She smiled for the first time. "I go where the money goes."
At a certain point, it turned into a farce. Until then, Vince had been running on rocket fuel, the whine of engines competing with the throbbing in his head. There had been the rush to the bank to pick up the money, the transaction smoothly handled by an assistant manager who had thrown in a Vuitton carrying case as a lagniappe. There had been the rush to LaGuardia to catch the commuter flight to Manchester, the rush driving north in the rental car through driving snow, through Concord, and Franklin, and Bristol, and the rush to find a decent place to stay for the night. The place was called the Hunters' Lodge, and then there was the rush to their separate rooms, the rush to wash and change, and the rush to get a drink and something to eat.