Conspiracies

Lew launched into their cover story, and did a great job—Jack detected a few murmured oohs and aahs from the people around them. Roma listened patiently while the monkey on his shoulder continued to glare at Jack. In the end, Roma wasn't moved.

"I'm sorry," he said, smiling sympathetically at Jack and Lew. "As much as I'd like to include you, Mr. Shelby, the conference is for members only." He extended his hand toward Jack. "Please return the envelope."

Jack shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm here. I'm staying."

"I must insist, Mr. Shelby," Roma said. Sudden fury darkened his smooth features.

Surprisingly, Jack heard support from the other SESOUPers—people saying, "Let him stay" ... "Give him a break" ... "One more person isn't going to hurt" ... and the like.

Roma glanced around, opened his mouth, apparently thought better of it, and closed it again. The monkey looked ready to hurl itself at Jack's throat.

"Very well," Roma said finally, with a tiny shrug as he looked around at the SESOUPers. "If you wish him to stay, so be it."

Roma's quick about-face surprised Jack; something about it bothered him. The monkey seemed to agree: It began jumping up and down and screeching as if protesting Roma's capitulation.

"Easy, Mauricio," Roma purred, stroking its fur. His lips smiled as his eyes bored into Jack's. "I could have security eject you, but it is not worth the disruption. Enjoy your stay at the conference, Mr. Shelby. But if you interfere at all with these proceedings, I shall remove you. Is that clear?"

Jack grinned into the combined glares of Roma and his monkey. "Does this mean I don't get to call you Sal?"

Roma turned away, but the monkey kept watching Jack from his shoulder, hissing at him as they walked off. Finally the monkey jumped to the floor and ran the other way, as if disgusted with all of them.

"What happened between you and that monkey?" Lew said.

"Don't know. I get along pretty well with dogs and cats. Maybe monkeys don't like me. His master wasn't exactly crazy about me either."

And vice versa, Jack thought. He couldn't remember experiencing such instant unprovoked animosity toward another human being.

"But you're in," Lew said, slapping him on the back. "That's the important thing."

"Yeah." Jack shuffled through his—Melanie's—registration envelope, and pulled out the program. He thumbed the pages. "What now?"

"Not much doing yet. It's too early for me to check into my room. We could have lunch."

"I'll have to take a rain check. I've got some errands. And I need to see about a room of my own."

"That might be a problem. The place is booked solid. If necessary, you could stay with me."

"Thanks," Jack said, but hoped it wouldn't come to that. He wanted to stay here because this was where the action—such as it was—would be. But being a roommate went against his nature, unless of course the other occupant was Gia.

"Maybe I can go on a wait list, in case there's a cancel or a no-show." He checked today's schedule in his program. "How about we meet at this Welcome Address at five?"

That was fine with Lew. They split, and Jack headed back uptown to see a guy named Ernie.

2

Roma watched the stranger leave and fought and urge to follow him and wring his neck. It wouldn't do to have him turn up dead. That might upset the attendees, might even send some of them scurrying back home—the last thing he wanted.

But who was he? And why had Melanie Ehler's husband lied about him, saying that Melanie wanted this newcomer to use her conference pass until she arrived? Nothing, could be further from the truth.

He calmed himself. It didn't matter, really, who he was. The hotel was full, so Mr. Jack Shelby would have to find himself some other place to stay. That was the important matter—that he not replace one of the attendees. If he did that, something would have to be done about him. Roma needed them all here tonight.

Yes. He closed his eyes. Tonight.

3

The sign in the dirty window read:

ERNIE'S I-D

ALL KINDS

PASSPORT

TAXI

DRIVERS LICENSE

Jack pulled open the door and stepped inside.

"Hey, Jack," said the skinny, basset-faced man behind the counter. "How y' doin'. How y' doin'." Not a question, just Ernie's habitual rapid-fire greeting. "Lock the door and flip the sign to 'closed' there, will ya?"

Jack did just that, then approached the counter, passing racks of sunglasses, customizable T-shirts, sports caps, and bootleg videos. Ernie developed film and made legitimate photo IDs, and generally sold anything that had a fat mark-up, but his main income came from people who wanted to be someone else, or at least be known as someone else.

Over the years Ernie had made dozens of driver's licenses and photo IDs for Jack.

"You said you need another high school ID, right?" Ernie said, lifting an accordion file from the floor and removing the elastic band that encircled it. "Here in the city?"

"No. Hoboken."

Ernie flipped through the pockets in the file, an extensive collection of ID cards and badges for most of the schools, factories, and offices within a ten-mile radius.

"Hoboken ... Hoboken ... what's the kid's name?"

Jack unfolded a photocopy of a certified birth certificate and placed it on the counter.

"Here he is. And I'll need you to notarize this copy for me, too."

Ernie had a Notary Public seal, the duplicate of a legitimate Notary down in the financial district.

"Sure thing." He squinted at the birth certificate. "D'Attilio, huh? D'Attilio the Hun, maybe?" He flashed Jack a quick, Charlie Callas grin. "For a D'Attilio we should probably enroll him in St. Aloysius." More searching. "Here it is."

He removed a high school ID from the file and clipped it to a yellow legal pad.

"Okay," he said, scribbling on the pad. "We've got John D'Attilio. D-O-B?"

Jack pointed to the birth date on the certificate. "Right there."

"Got it. Address?"

Jack gave him the address of his Hoboken mail drop.

Ernie nodded. "Yog?"

"What's that?"

Ernie raised his eyebrows and gave Jack a Do-I-have-to-spell-it-out? look. "Y-OG?"

Of course—year of graduation. It was on all school IDs.

"Let see ... he's just turning sixteen, so he'll graduate two years from now."

"Got it. And I've got a nice photo to go with that name. Okay. When do you need it?"

"No hurry. Next week's okay."

"Good. Cause I'm a little backed up."

"Usual price?"

"Yeah."

"See you Monday."

Jack turned the sign, unlocked the door, and stepped back onto Tenth Avenue. He glanced at his watch. Time to check back with the hotel. He hoped the reservation desk had scrounged up a room for him. He found himself looking forward to mingling with the Society for the Exposure of Secret Organizations and Unexplained Phenomena. He'd never been an "experiencer" before.

4

Jack lucked out with a room: One of the SESOUPers had to cancel because of some family emergency, and Jack took her place.

He wound up in a fifth floor room overlooking the street. The decor was typical hotel blah: stucco ceiling, heavy duty beige wall paper, TV, dresser, and a pair of double beds, double drapes on the window, and framed nondescript prints of ponds and tree branches on the walls. But the bland surroundings didn't allay the strange uneasiness he felt every time he stepped into this building, as if the air were charged with some sort of cold energy.

He was unpacking the gym bag that held the change of clothes he'd brought from home, when he heard a knock on his door. He eyeballed the peephole, expecting to see Lew. Instead he found Olive Farina standing in the hall.