On the way to Tribeca in the cab, the mysterious fellow they'd hooked up with at Kenny's told them his name was Rolf—he pronounced it strangely, as if he'd stuck an umlaut over the o—and how he knew all sorts of interesting people, and how his hobby, his mission in life was putting interesting people together with other interesting people.
That turned out to be a major overstatement, but Rolf had not been exaggerating about the club. Its entrance was an unmarked red door on Franklin Street. He'd had Sandy and Beth wait in the cab while he talked to someone inside the door. Finally, after what had struck Sandy as more of a negotiation than a conversation, the three of them were passed through.
Through the course of the next few hours Sandy learned that Rolf's day job was managing an ultra-exclusive accessories department in Blume's where he met the rich and famous, and his real talent seemed to be an ability as a hanger-on to parlay his acquaintanceships into entrees to exclusive scenes; he'd used Sandy's celebrity as a wedge into the nameless space, a place he'd never be admitted to on his own.
Once inside Rolf led them up a narrow staircase to a low-lit room with a small bar and lots of comfortable chairs grouped around low tables. It had taken all of Sandy's will to keep from gawking and tripping over his own feet as they followed Rolf to the bar.
He left them there and Beth's nails had been digging into Sandy's upper arm as she whispered, barely moving her lips: "Did you see who was in the red chair? And over in the corner—don't be obvious—is that who I think it is?"
It was.
Rolf meanwhile circulated to a few tables, bending and whispering in ears. Minutes later he'd returned and said, "Bobby would like you to join him at his table for a drink."
"Bobby?" Sandy said. "Bobby who?"
"De Niro, of course."
Oh, shit, he'd thought. I can't do this. He's… he's fucking De Niro and he's going to see right through me! But then he thought, Wait. Has De Niro ever been trapped in a speeding subway car with a murderous psycho blowing away everyone in sight? Fuck, no.
But Sandy had. So what was so scary about Bobby De Niro?
"Okay," Sandy had said, cool as a cube. "Let's go."
And so they'd had a drink with De Niro while Sandy told the story, and during the telling other famous faces had gathered around, listening, nodding, murmuring approval and awe.
And then Harvey Weinstein had drawn Sandy aside, talking about working up a piece for Talk with an eye toward developing the article into a screen property. Sandy could barely speak, just kept nodding, agreeing to anything, everything, his gaze always drifting back to Beth, deep in filmspeak with De Niro and DiCaprio.
"I still can't believe I spent the night talking about my student film with Robert De Niro—who kept telling me to call him 'Bobby'! How could I call him 'Bobby'? The word wouldn't pass my lips."
"I heard you calling DiCaprio 'Leo'."
"That's different; he's my age. But Robert De Niro… he's a god. He's Mister De Niro. And he's going to help me with my film! Lend me equipment! Let me use his AVID! Pinch me, Sandy."
He did. Gently. "There. And we're still right here together. You're on your way, Beth."
"And I owe it to one person. The Savior."
Sandy was a little miffed. He'd thought she was going to name him.
"The Savior didn't get you into that club."
"Not directly, but if not for him, the only place I would have been last night was six feet under."
Sandy couldn't argue with that. A small part of him kept insisting that he would have found some way to survive, but when he took a hard look back on that scene on the Nine… no way.
"Do you really think you can get him amnesty?" Beth said, stroking his arm.
"I think so." He hoped so. "I'm going to try like all hell, but the decision won't be up to me."
It won't be up to anybody if he doesn't get back to me, he thought.
And what if he didn't get back—ever? A sick feeling wormed through Sandy's gut. What if he'd scared the Savior with the amnesty talk, what if he'd picked up and left town? If the Savior was off the map, so was Sandy. How interested in Sandy Palmer would Harvey Weinstein be a few weeks from now when he literally was yesterday's news? No Talk article, no film development…
"You've so got to get this amnesty for him, Sandy."
And once more he was struck by Beth's different perspective.
For him? No, I'm doing it for me.
2
"What day is it?"
Kate jumped at the sound of Jack's hoarse voice. She turned from the TV and found him leaning in the bedroom doorway with a blanket draped over his shoulders. Dull-eyed and unshaven, his hair sticking out in all directions, but he looked so much better than yesterday.
"Sunday."
He shuffled into the front room and dropped into the recliner. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath as if the short walk had exhausted him.
"I've been sick for a week?"
"No. Just a day."
"Feels like a month."
"You were pretty sick yesterday. Delirious at times."
"You should have seen it from my side. You wouldn't believe the nightmares."
Should she tell him about her own dream? If that was all it had been, then why bother. But if not…
Kate shuddered. She'd been up half the night trying to reach Dr. Fielding. She hadn't expected anyone to answer his office phone at four A.M. on a Sunday morning, but since his home number was unlisted she'd tried anyway. Finally she'd pulled out her cell phone—long since blocked to caller ID to keep patients from phoning her instead of whoever was on call for the group—and called 911; she flat out told the police to check on a Dr. James Fielding in Middle Village because he wasn't answering his phone and she feared, well, something awful.
She'd been flipping back and forth between the local TV channels ever since, looking for some mention of the murder of a respected medical researcher. So far nothing. She prayed it would stay that way.
"You didn't happen to make any coffee, did you?" Jack muttered.
"Just some instant, but you should be drinking something like Gat-orade to replenish your fluids and electro—"
"Coffeeeeeee," Jack intoned, sounding like a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. "Coffeeeeeeee."
"Jack—"
"I've got a splitting headache from caffeine withdrawal. This is not to feed a habit, this is a medical necessity. Coffeeeeeeee!"
"For crying out loud," she laughed, heading for the kitchen. "All right. I'll get you some. Just stop that moaning."
"You know what?" Jack said from the other room as she filled an eight-ounce measuring cup with water and stuck it in the microwave. "Fever must make you hypersusceptible to suggestion. I dreamed about your mysterious Russian lady."
"Russian lady?" What on earth—? "Oh, yes. The one who gave me your name."
"Right. Dreamed she paid me a visit with her big white malamute."
Kate smiled. That was the breed—a malamute. She hadn't been able to place it. And then with a start she realized…
"Jack, I never told you it was a malamute."
"Sure you did. How would I have known?"
"Jack, I didn't know. I couldn't recall the breed. So how could you know?"
"Had to be from you, because the Russian lady's visit was all in my head. See that four-way bolt on the front door? Nobody gets in here unless I let them. So you must have told me."
Kate was sure she hadn't but wasn't going to argue.
"What did she tell you? In the dream, I mean."
"All sorts of apocalyptic stuff about the virus. Like if I—me and me alone—didn't stop it, the world as we know it would end in bloodshed, death, hatred, terror, all that good stuff."