"Yes?"
The screen glowed. It had a pretty blue graphic on it. There was a message: This Is A Call From Eisenwoe Associates. The voice on the other end sounded like an associate.
"Mr. Vickers, my name is George Revlon."
"I think you have the wrong peron."
"I don't think so."
"So much for privacy."
The voice sounded singularly uninterested. "We all have to make sacrifices in this life."
"I seem to be making more than my fair share. What do you want?"
"I represent Eisenwoe Associates, Mr. Vickers."
"I've read that much already."
"We handle intercorporate liaison."
"A dip outfit?"
"We prefer the word liaison to diplomacy. Diplomacy has too many connotations."
"What do you want with me?"
"One of our accounts is to handle relations between Intercontinental and Global Leisure."
"Global Leisure?"
"That's right."
Vickers wished that he hadn't taken the toot of PAM. Victoria Morgenstern's plan seemed to be coming together with alarming swiftness.
"I realize that I'm staying in Intercontinental's Pyramid but I can't see for the life of me what interest Global Leisure might have in me."
"You underestimate yourself. When anyone with your background arrives in the city, Mr. Mossman likes to know about it."
"So we're not just talking Global Leisure? We're actually talking Herbie Mossman himself."
"Indeed we are."
"Are you sure you're not doing some sort of liaison for Contec?"
"I understand that you terminated your relationship with Contec."
"They terminated it, Mr. Revlon. I'm not altogether certain that they don't still intend to terminate me. Since you seem so particularly well informed, you probably already know that up until yesterday they were holding me under house arrest."
"The management of the Pyramid also knows about it. They're a little distressed. They fear an incident."
"What time is it?"
Revlon sounded puzzled. "Five thirty in the morning, why?"
"Couldn't this have waited until a more civilized hour?"
"The management is quite agitated and Mr. Mossman wants to talk with you as soon as possible. I was instructed to call you straight away."
"Mossman wants to see me at five thirty AM?"
"Mr. Mossman keeps unconventional hours."
"There's no bounty on me."
"I'm not a bounty hunter, Mr. Vickers."
"I still have the feeling that I'm being set up."
Lavern moved. She was awake. Her voice was slurred.
"Setting you up for what?"
"Sshh."
"Huh?"
"Is there someone there with you?" Revlon's voice was suddenly guarded.
Vickers was impatient. "You know there is. Tell me what you want me to do."
"I want you to come to see Mr. Mossman as quickly as you can."
"And if I don't?"
"At this moment, the Pyramid is intent on ejecting you as a security risk. How long do you think you could survive as a tagged security risk without a single corporate line, Mr. Vickers? You'd be better off a non-person."
"I feel fucking terrible; I ache all over."
Lavern was out of bed, stumbling for the fridge. Vickers didn't even glance around.
"I can't just take a cab to the Global tower and ask for Herbie Mossman."
Lavern had found herself a container of orange juice and was peering at the TV with a puzzled expression. At Mossman's name her head snapped around.
"What the fuck are you taking about?"
Vickers ignored her. He was listening to Revlon.
"I'll send an escort for you."
"The hell you will."
"Why not?"
"I still think it's a setup."
"So you tell me."
"Will somebody tell me what's going on in here?"
Lavern was struggling into a silk robe.
"I'll leave here. I'll walk around for a couple hours, maybe have breakfast and then, when I feel enough time has passed, I'll call the main switchboard at Global. You'd better make sure by that time they can connect me with a George Revlon. That's when we'll talk about my meeting with Mossman."
"Mr. Mossman could be doing you a favor."
"I doubt it."
"Then all I can say is that I'll be waiting for your call."
Vickers nodded and slowly put the phone down. Lavern no longer looked bleary. She was staring at Vickers as though she didn't quite believe what she saw.
"What are you, Mort? Nobody meets Herbie Mossman, for God's sake. Nobody. Even I know that."
Vickers was searching around for his clothes. "It's best that you don't know anything about it."
"What are you doing?"
In fact, he was pulling on his pants, but he suspected that she wanted a little more background information.
"I have to go out."
"Where? You're making me crazy."
She seemed to be looking for something in the bed. Vickers was pulling on his jacket.
"You heard me on the phone. I have to see Herbie Mossman."
She'd found the PAM puffer.
"There you go again. How can you do this to me?"
Vickers shrugged and headed for the door. Lavern's face dissolved.
"After last night? Just like that? Don't you have any finesse at all?"
Vickers turned; he walked over and put a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm in more trouble than you could ever want to know about. I'll try and get back."
He kissed her. She grabbed and pressed against him. Her voice was angry.
"You make me crazy."
Vickers selected himself a strategically placed corner table. It was about the best he could get. He could see three of the five entrances and had adequate warning of people coming through the other two. He was in the restaurant of the Pharaoh Room on the Pyramid's thirty-sixth floor. He'd chosen the floor at random. He hadn't even pressed a button in the elevator, just stepped out when someone else had. He figured that if the hotel's security was already tracking him, he might as well make it as hard as possible for them. Picking a floor was an easy bet. They all had roughly the same facilities. On any one, he knew that he'd be able to find a public room in which he could vanish for a couple of hours.
The restaurant was separated from the main gambling room by a long glass wall. Its lights were a little more dim than those in the main room and the diners were treated to a panoramic view of the crowds around the flashing Mirage machine, the old fashioned slots, the crap and blackjack tables, the roulette wheels and the fan tan games. All along the wall behind him, giant hieroglyphics, cartoon versions of Isis, Anubis and Ra followed each other across a huge fiber-optic display with the angular jerkiness of sand dancers.
"You want something?"
The waitress looked like she was just about to go off shift. She was the usual statuesque, leggy, Las Vegas type. They didn't seem to employ any other kind for jobs that involved handling the public. There were so many unemployed they could ultimately pick and choose. This one was definitely five hours frayed and starting to wilt a little. Her extremely short tunic and overdone eye makeup was some cheap Hollywood mogul's idea of an ancient Egyptian slavegirl right down to the incongruous platform sandals. The look she gave Vickers owed its lack of enthusiasm to something more than her weary feet. He realized that he must have started to look noticeably disreputable.