A peacock wandered into the tent and made a mess on the floor. Iselda grabbed a straw broom and chased it out onto the grounds.
“Where are the laser lights?” she shouted to no one in particular.
AT exactly that same instant, Stanley Ho, host of the party, was standing in one of his three home offices, this one on the top floor of his house. This was his private sanctuary. None of the staff or assistants were allowed to enter this most private of spaces. The attic room was decorated to Ho’s tastes, which ran to early eclectic. His desk was from an early sailing ship, his television a brand-new plasma screen.
Bookcases lined one wall, but they were not filled with the classy tomes Ho displayed in areas where guests visited; these shelves were filled with pulp spy novels, soft porn featuring damsels in distress, and cheap paperback westerns.
A giant wool rug with a stick-shaped phoenix design that had been woven by a Navajo in Arizona graced the wood floor, while the walls were dotted with framed posters from past and current popular movies. The top of the captain’s desk was a study in disorderliness. Stacks of papers, a metal car model, a cup from Disney World holding pens, and a dusty brass lamp shared the crowded space.
Ho walked over to a small refrigerator shaped like a bank vault and removed a bottle of water. Twisting off the cap, he took a sip, then stared at the Golden Buddha sitting upright on the floor, the door of its case open.
Ho was trying to decide if he should display his latest prize at the party.
Right then, his private telephone rang. It was the insurance underwriter, who wanted to schedule an appointment. Ho set a time, then went back to staring at his treasure.
“AS long as we don’t lose power,” Kevin Nixon said, “no one should be the wiser.”
“Did you receive their song list?” Cabrillo asked.
“We got it,” Hanley said, handing him the list, “and programmed the songs into the computer.”
“Heavy on the sixties and seventies,” Cabrillo noted, “with a fair amount of guitar riffs.”
“Unfortunately, we can’t change the playlist without arousing suspicion,” Hanley said.
“I’m just worried—if any of the guests happen to be guitar players, they’ll know we’re faking it,” Cabrillo said.
“I rigged the guitar with tiny LED lights that are only visible with special glasses,” Nixon said, smiling. “They’re color-coded for the player’s fingers. All he has to do is place his fingers where the light shows and he should be okay.”
Nixon handed Cabrillo the guitar and a pair of blackframed sunglasses. He slid the strap over his neck and Nixon plugged the guitar into the power source.
“It goes thumb purple, index finger red, then down the fingers, yellow, blue and green,” Nixon said. “Same on the frets. Hold a second and I’ll start the computer.”
Cabrillo slipped on the glasses and waited. Once the lights lit up, he pushed his fingers on the illuminated strings. A crude rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner” filled the Magic Shop.
“We won’t win any Grammys,” Cabrillo said when the lights went dark, “but it should get us past any casual scrutiny.”
Hanley walked over to a bench and removed a clear glass bottle containing a pale blue liquid. “There’s one other thing to consider,” he said, smiling. “This stuff came straight from the labs at Fort Dietrich, Maryland. Once we slip some of this into the punch bowl, this party will be kicking.”
“There’s no long-term effects, right?” Cabrillo asked.
“No,” Hanley said, “only short-term. It seems that after a few drops of this elixir, you’ll have the time of your life.”
12
“THE sample checks out,” the software billionaire said over the telephone.
Spenser had dispensed with the voice-alteration equipment, but his words were tinged with a fear that made his upper-crust accent less polished than perplexed.
“Then you are interested?” he said.
“Sure,” the software billionaire said, “but I’ve decided that I want to make the transfer myself. I have the feeling you’re about as trustworthy as a hooker with a crack habit.”
Spenser frowned. His plan of thievery and deceit was unraveling. The costs he had already incurred made a quick sale his only salvation—there was no time to line up another buyer. He was in the worst possible place. He was a seller who needed to sell—with a buyer who was calling the shots.
“Then you need to come here and take delivery,” Spenser said.
“Where’s here?”
“Macau,” Spenser said.
The software billionaire stared at a calendar on his desk. “I’ll be there the evening of Good Friday.”
“I’ll want cash or bearer bonds then,” Spenser said. “No more bank transfer.”
“Fair enough, but don’t try anything, I’m bringing reinforcements.”
“You bring the money,” Spenser said, “and you get the Buddha.”
The billionaire disconnected and Spenser sat quietly for a moment.
He didn’t have long to go.
“MONICA’S a guest,” Cabrillo said as he glanced at the sheet of notes. “For this operation, she’s a minor member of the Danish royal family.”
“It’s all so common,” Crabtree said with a Scandinavian accent.
“You’ll need to fake a speech impediment with that accent,” Hanley said. “Stop by the Magic Shop and we’ll make you a mouth guard that will add a lisp.”
“Great,” Crabtree said, “I get to play a lisping lady-in-waiting.”
“It could be worse,” Cabrillo said. “Linda’s replacing the chain-smoking Portuguese party planner, Iselda.”
“Excellent,” Linda Ross said, laughing. “I finally quit smoking a few years ago and now the Corporation is going to get me hooked again.”
“By the way,” Hanley said, “we think Iselda also practices an alternative lifestyle.”
“So I’m a chain-smoking Portuguese lesbian party planner,” Ross said. “At least it’s not as bad as when I was a German transsexual dominatrix.”
“I remember that,” Murphy said. “You looked like Madeline Kahn in that Mel Brooks film.”
“I remember you being kind of turned on,” Ross said.
“We were going to use Julia, but we couldn’t, for the obvious reason,” Cabrillo noted.
Julia Huxley, the Oregon’s medical officer, grinned. “I always knew growing up that these big boobs would pay off.”
“You’d just better perfect your Pamela Anderson-Lee-whoever look,” Hanley said.
“I get to play a slut?” Huxley said happily.
“Girlfriend of one of the band members,” Cabrillo noted.
“Same thing,” Huxley said eagerly. “Can Max do me some fake tattoos?”
“Be glad to,” Hanley said. “We might even fake some piercings, if you like.”
“And now to the band,” Cabrillo said. “I’m playing keyboards—a lot of songs don’t feature keyboards, so that will give me time to sneak away. Murphy’s lead guitar, Kasim is our drummer, and the soul man Franklin is on bass.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lincoln said. “The pulsing beat runs through me.”
“And the singer?” Huxley asked.
“That would be Mr. Halpert,” Cabrillo said.
The entire conference table turned and stared at Michael Halpert. As the head of finance and accounting, he didn’t exactly seem to fit the job. Easily the most conservative of the crew, the rumor was that he ironed his handkerchiefs. The idea of him posing as a rock musician seemed as ludicrous as casting Courtney Love as the Virgin Mary.
“Unfortunately, the lead singer of the Minutemen is tall, thin and slim, and the owner has seen a videotape of the band performing. If no one can think of anyone else, Mike’s got to be our man.”