She stood in the middle of the room, feeling a dim presentiment. Something about to happen. Someone about to appear. She picked up the phone and dialed Grace's home number, if only to break the mood. A recording came on, overamplified and dense: "_This is Grace Delaney. I'm not here right now. No one is here. At the beeping sound, leave your name and number-_"
Of course. Nobody is where they should be. Moll realized how wrong she'd been to feel apprehensive. The action was elsewhere, and included everyone but her. By refusing sexual alliance with Earl Mudger, she'd sealed herself off from the others. That was the effect, intended or not. There was no danger here. No one watched or listened any longer. Security. Why did it feel so disappointing?
She fastened both locks and walked slowly down the stairs and out of the building.
Grace Delaney sat near the immense Victorian birdcage in the lobby of the Barclay, off Park Avenue. She checked her watch several times and eventually walked over to one of the house phones. A man answered.
"I'm checking the vent in the bathroom."
"First you get me here," Grace said. "Then you make me wait."
"I'm in the middle of checking the vent."
"I'm coming up."
"We want to be sure the room's lily white. Don't we want that?"
"We want that."
"Of course we do," he said.
Fifteen minutes later she got off the elevator at 12. The room was located along the main corridor. Lomax let her in. The curtains were drawn. Only one light was on-a small table lamp-and he'd placed it on the floor, apparently to make the lighting as indirect as possible. He helped her off with her coat and hung it in the closet.
"That dress is a winner."
"Second-string," she said. "A relic."
"You know how to wear clothes. Clothes hang well on you. You have a sense of what looks good."
He sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes.
"You're a New York woman," he said. "A classic type."
"Shut up, Arthur, will you?"
"No, really, in the best sense."
She took off her dress and put it over a chair.
"I never thought I'd end up in bed with a man who wears Clark's Wallabees."
"I don't wear them in bed."
"At least they're not Hush Puppies," she said. "Good Christ, think of it."
Lomax stood up to get out of his pants.
"What's wrong with Clark's Wallabees? They're a damn good shoe."
A pair of chambermaids talked and laughed as they walked past the door.
"What about some room service, Gracie? Scotch, bourbon? This is Scotch weather. This is the season."
"I've got my flask."
She sat before the mirror in her bra, panties, stockings and garter belt. A bobby pin was in her mouth as she rearranged her hair. Lomax stood nude, briefly; then he slipped under the covers, watching her.
"Did you have to cancel something?"
"Just Moll," she said.
"My schedule's a super bitch."
"Only I didn't cancel, I just split. Meaning to ask, Arthur. Who was this friend of hers? What friend was she talking about?"
"You mean the collection."
"I told you she had someone who could get her access to Percival's collection."
"Him we forget about."
"Were they lovers?"
"Yes indeedy."
"Where is he now?"
"Doesn't matter," Lomax said. "Far away."
"You seemed rather interested, Arthur, at the time."
"Fact-gathering, that's all."
"And what are the facts?"
"Maybe he gave her access, maybe not. I haven't thought about it lately. Onward and upward."
Grace walked over to his side of the bed. He put his hands on her breasts, over the bra, for a long moment. It seemed part of a set program. Then she went into the bathroom, leaving the door open.
"What happened in Dallas, Arthur?"
He didn't answer. She came out holding her handbag. She took the silver flask out of it and walked over to the far side of the bed. She sat there, removing her stockings.
"What's this lamp doing on the floor?"
"A little mood thing," he said.
"Sure it's not bugged?"
"I ought to know how to sweep a room by now."
"Sen-si-tive."
"Bastards, I wouldn't put it past them."
She faced him, reclining on top of the covers, the flask between them.
"Which bastards?"
"PAC/ORD."
"Aren't they your bastards, ultimately? Don't you still have a channel?"
"Did I tell you that?"
"As long as it's not the tax man," she said. "As long as you're keeping the tax man away from my door."
Lomax leaned over to lick her navel. Someone pushed a room-service tray along the corridor.
"It's ongoing," he said. "I have to keep fending off. Tax fraud is no joke."
"Pricks."
"Willful omission."
"Isn't there a statute of limitations?"
"Not for fraud," he said.
"This was years ago."
"You were a political. They love politicals and they love big-time mob figures. And they love to make their cases around February or March. Instills fear in the tax-paying public. That's when you see pictures of your favorite mob figure coming down the courthouse steps. Late February, early March."
"Why aren't they content to just seize my bank account or car or whatever?"
"They favor prosecutions in cases like yours. Of course it depends on how much money's involved. You were tied into some very radical adventures, Gracie. You were playing around with some large sums of money. Willful omission. Multiple filing schemes. Terribly naughty girl."
"The movement was a living thing," she said dryly.
"I'll show you a living thing."
"It was one's duty to beat the system."
"You want a living thing?"
"What have they got, exactly?"
"I've seen your paper. They keep the paper. There's all kinds of computerized data. But they keep the paper. There are clear indications of fraud. As I say, I've been fending off. Fortunately for you, there's a chain of mutual interests."
Grace ran the tip of her index finger over his lips. She drank from the flask and passed it to Lomax. Street sounds barely audible. He took a brief surprised swallow.
"This isn't Scotch."
"It's vodka."
"This is Scotch weather."
"Wod-ka."
"Should I call room service?" he said to himself. "Then I'd have to get dressed."
"Tell me about Dallas, Arthur."
"Cold and dark."
"You've dropped wee hints."
"You make me do these things. It's not to be believed, what you make me do."
"What we make each other do."
"It's because I've lost the faith."
"You don't give a rat's ass. I understand, sweet."
"Take off your top, why don't you?"
"Due time, love."
"I don't believe. I used to believe but now I don't."
"I understand, pet."
She turned toward him, moving closer-the flask, in her left hand, resting on his chest.
"It was frankly nasty," he said.
"You tell such charming stories."
"Ain't it the truth."
"Let me get all curled up and toasty and snug."
"What happened, various sets of people were maneuvering for position. That's standard. I stationed myself according to plan, waiting for Earl. This can be a full-time occupation. It happens with him. Fierce enthusiasms. The earth is scorched for miles around. Other times, where is he? He says thus and so but he's not where he's supposed to be, he's in Saudi on some leasing deal. In the meantime I find myself face to face with a guy who has a bullet in his throat. It's very dark. What's going on? After a lot of prodding, I find out he's free-lancing for Talerico, Vincent, a middle-level mobster. Everybody's after the same thing. We knew about the Senator's interest. We knew about Richie's interest, the kid, Armbrister. Now we have the families in all their Renaissance glory. What happens then, a car comes barreling around the corner and I go diving out of sight. I'm underneath a pickup truck, peering out, feeling this is the onset of a midlife crisis."