Murty's lip curled. "Good old Kowalski. I don't know why they don't just make him the official PR of the Seventh Precinct."
Steiger shrugged. "He's better off as he is. If he went official, he wouldn't make as much money."
Rojas was furious. "Kowalski burns my ass. What's with him? He got to spend more time on the phone tipping off the media than doing his fucking job, whatever that might be. Don't he got no dignity?"
Murty spat on the floor. "He's got to supplement his income somehow."
Steiger leaned back in his chair. "You ain't heard it all yet. Kowalski really outdid himself on this one. He didn't only tip the media that this feelie bust was going to go down. He even called out the publicity office of CM. They had cameras down there. They're apparently going to make a commercial out of it, warning the public that the only good feelie is a CM feelie. Kowalski's going to be hired on as a technical advisor."
Murty laughed. "So Kowalski's in with CM. He ain't going to be long for the department now. He's going to be moving on to better things."
Rojas lit a cigarette. "You guys ever think that what those bootleggers are doing isn't all that different to what CM is doing? I mean, CM is a lot more hygienic, but it's really all the same ball game."
Murty looked at him sadly. "You really don't have a clue."
"What do you mean, I don't have a clue?"
"The world runs on diplomacy, Rojas. It's something you don't appreciate. That's why you're still D2 after seven years, and Kowalski drives a Jaguar."
Rojas turned away. "Fuck Kowalski."
Steiger had walked over and picked up Murty's copy of the Post. He idly leafed through it, finally stopping at the ratings for the day. "Today's top feelie is a cop fantasy. You become a police homicide detective."
Murty's eyes rolled heavenward. "It's a wonderful world."
THUNDER CRASHED AROUND THE apartment building, and through the window, Wanda-Jean could see the lightning repeatedly striking the CM Tower over on the west side. The heat and humidity had temporarily exploded into a violent storm, but nobody who knew the city's weather patterns believed that it would be anything but the most brief relief. As soon as the storm was gone, the streets would be steaming again. Wanda-Jean sat and stared out the window at the bursts of electricity and the gray sheets of rain. She thought about turning on the TV. It was almost time for "Torture Garden." Somehow, though, she couldn't. She had a strange feeling of unease. It had started with the "Wildest Dreams" audition and had been with her ever since. She had been asking herself the same question for the past two days, ever since she had heard that she had made it onto the show. What was she really getting into?
The phone rang. Wanda-Jean looked at it suspiciously. She wasn't expecting anyone to call, particularly not in the middle of a raging storm. She picked it up with a feeling of misgiving.
"Hello?"
"This is building security." The building's security system had one of those annoyingly smooth female cabin-attendant voices.
"What is it?"
"You have a visitor."
Wanda-Jean reached for the remote for the living-room wall TV. "Put him on the screen please."
"If you turn on your TV and switch to channel ninety-seven, I will give you the visual image."
That was another annoying thing about the building's security system. Although it was nowhere near sophisticated enough to actually conduct a conversation, it left pauses between statements, in which a person could sound like an idiot by asking the thing fatuous questions.
The wallscreen came to life, and Wanda-Jean tapped up channel ninety-seven. A man was standing in the lobby. He wore one of those transparent, one-piece, plastic slicks over a dark suit. Water dripped from the slick. She didn't recognize him and spoke into the phone.
"I don't know you, do I?"
There was distorted audio from the lobby in her ear.
"Hello? Wanda-Jean?"
She experienced a moment of panic. Maybe it was some forgotten guy she had met in one of the boom-boom rooms when she had been drunk. "I don't think I know who you are. What do you want?"
"I'm Murray Dorfman, Wanda-Jean."
"I'm sorry, I don't think I know you."
"I'm personal assistant to Mr. Priest. We met at the audition the day before yesterday."
Wanda-Jean's heart jumped into her mouth. Bobby Priest's assistant. What was he doing there?
"Oh, my God, Murray, I'm so sorry. The visual image isn't too good on our system here."
Wanda-Jean was lying. There had been so many young men in dark suits at the audition that they had all become a blur.
"May I come up and speak with you for a couple of minutes?"
Wanda-Jean was instantly anxious to please. "Yes, of course. Take the express elevator to twenty-five."
Wanda-Jean hung up. As she did that, she was struck forcibly by a thought. It took about three minutes plus to ride up to the twenty-fifth floor. He would be there in three minutes and both she and the apartment were in a terminal mess. She dragged a brush quickly through her hair and changed out of her jeans and sweatshirt into a slinky kimono. Then she ran around the apartment picking up the things that were most obviously out of place and adjusting the light. She was about finished when the door buzzed again.
She didn't remember Murray Dorfman at all. It was quite conceivable that he might have been at the audition, but he certainly hadn't made any impression on her.
"Hi, Murray."
"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Wanda-Jean."
"No, no. Not really."
He was inside the apartment. He was medium height, clean shaven, and slightly overweight. If her nose didn't deceive her, he was wearing Klein's Bushido. He was dressed in one of those Tokyo designer lounging suits with the drooping hapi shoulders. His only jewelry was a heavy corporation club ring. His face was the kind that fitted-smooth, well proportioned, and unmarked by extremes of either stress or emotion. It fitted so well, in fact, that there was absolutely nothing remarkable about it, nothing to remember it by.
They both stood awkwardly in the middle of Wanda-Jean's small living room.
"Can I get you a drink?"
Murray Dorfman glanced around. "That would be nice."
"Scotch?"
"That'd be fine."
Wanda-Jean was relieved. Scotch was all she had. Unfortunately even her single bottle of Scotch might not prove acceptable-Ashai White Label, only one step above generic. This guy seemed to be well up the status ladder and probably expected Glen something or other.
"Freaz?"
"Sure."
That was another hook she was off. Anyone who took Freaz in their drink wasn't exactly a connoisseur. The splash of the supercold aerosol made a drink taste of nothing but cold without the dilution of ice. Scotch, Freaz, and a sugar cube was the hot drink around the boom-boom bars at the moment.
"Sugar cube?"
"Not for me, I'm sweet enough already."
Wanda-Jean winced. She started to wonder if Murray Dorfman was nothing but an asshole in a good suit. When she came back with a glass in each hand, he was still looking around the room. She nodded to the couch. "Why don't we sit down?"
He made Wanda-Jean tense. She hated the kind of guy who gave her home the hard scrutiny. It invaded too much of her costly privacy.
He sank down onto the couch. Wanda-Jean handed him his drink. She noticed that as he sat down, he carefully pulled up the knees of his pants so the draped silk wouldn't wrinkle.
Wanda-Jean took the armchair. Side by side on the couch would be a lot later, if at all. She tucked one foot under her and watched him take the first sip of his drink. His expression gave no indication that he realized just how rotten the booze was. Either the intense cold of the Freaz hid a multitude of sins, or he didn't know Scotch from shinola.