"Wait," Matt ordered.

He left her.

Where's he going? G.o.d, he's going to the desk. He doesn't actually expect me to go to a hotel room with him. I can't believe that this is happening. I won't let it happen. I'll just go back to the car . . .

Two minutes later, he was back, swinging a hotel key.

"We have a small suite overlooking the tenth green," he announced.

Susan nodded her head.

He took her arm and led her to the elevator.

I can't believe I'm doing this!

The elevator operator, an old man, held his hand out to look at the key. When the elevator stopped and the door opened, the old man said, "To the right, sir. About halfway down."

"Thank you," Matt said, and waved Susan out of the elevator in front of him.

He unlocked the door to the suite, went inside, found and snapped on the lights, and turned to Susan, still standing in the corridor.

Their eyes met, and again she averted hers, and then went through the door.

She stopped six feet from the door and looked at him.

"What did you say about Penny?" Susan asked.

He looked confused, searched his memory, and shrugged.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"You said Penny needed you. That she was really f.u.c.ked up. That you got sucked into it."

"Yeah, I said that. It's true."

"And that doing the right thing keeps getting you in trouble."

"Shut up, Susan," Matt ordered with a smile.

He crossed the few steps to her, put his hand on her cheek, and tilted her face up to look at him.

Their eyes met, and this time she didn't avert hers.

She felt his fingers working the b.u.t.tons of her blouse. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, because he had unfastened her bra.s.siere, were not restrained by it.

When he put his hand on her breast, then his mouth on her nipple, she heard herself saying, softly and plaintively, "Matt, I have to sit down. Lie down."

He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, where, with one hand, he jerked the cover off the bed. Then he lowered her onto it, and as they looked into each other's eyes, took off the rest of her clothing.

Mr. Paulo Ca.s.sandro, the owner of record of Cla.s.sic Livery, Inc., and its president, a 185-pound gentleman who stood six feet one inches tall, who had been summoned nevertheless, entered the living room of Mr. Vincenzo Savarese very carefully, and was immediately pleased that he had.

Mr. Pietro Ca.s.sandro, who was carried on the books of Cla.s.sic Livery, Inc., as its vice president, immediately looked up at Paulo and made a gesture indicating that Paulo should wait and say nothing.

Pietro, who was twenty pounds heavier than Paulo, two inches taller, four years older, and equally well-tailored, was not, however, quite as bright. For that reason, Mr. Savarese had some years before decided that Paulo was better equipped to direct Cla.s.sic Livery and Pietro was better suited to function as a companion, which translated to mean that Pietro served Mr. Savarese as a combination chauffeur, bodyguard, and guardian of Mr. Savarese's privacy.

Paulo saw why Pietro had held up his hand, fingers extended in a warning to say nothing and wait until Mr. S. was ready for him.

Mr. S. was sitting slumped in a very large, comfortable-appearing armchair, his highly polished shoes resting on its matching footstool. His eyes were closed, and his right hand was moving in time with tape-recorded music being reproduced through a pair of five-foot-tall, four-feet-wide stereophonic loudspeakers.

I know that, Paulo thought with just a little pride. Paulo thought with just a little pride. That's That's Otello, Otello, by whatsisname, Verdi. Giuseppe Verdi. And that's the part where the dinge offs the broad. by whatsisname, Verdi. Giuseppe Verdi. And that's the part where the dinge offs the broad.

Paulo had three times accompanied Mr. S. to the Metropolitan Opera in New York City to see a performance of the opera. He could see it now in his mind's eye.

He very carefully backed up to the wall and leaned on it, to wait for Mr. S. to have time for him.

Three minutes later, Mr. Savarese pushed himself away from the cushions of his chair, causing Paulo concern that he might have inadvertently made a noise, distracting Mr. S. from his enjoyment of the opera.

Mr. S. did not seem annoyed with him.

Maybe he turned around to see if I was here yet.

Confirmation of that seemed to come when Mr. S. turned the volume off all the way.

"Pietro, rewind the tape carefully, please, and put it away."

"You got it, Mr. S.," Pietro said.

"Thank you for coming, Paulo," Mr. S. said. "Will you have a gla.s.s of wine?"

"That would go nice, if it wouldn't be an inconvenience, Mr. S."

"Get a bottle of wine and some gla.s.ses, Pietro, please," Mr. Savarese said, then motioned Paulo into one of the chairs surrounding an octagonal game table.

"Thank you, Mr. S.," Paulo said.

"If there had been any activity with the man, you would have told me, Paulo?"

"I had one of the guys ride by there every forty-five minutes, no less than once an hour. Nothing, Mr. S."

Pietro took a bottle of an Italian Chablis from the sterling-silver cooler where it had been kept ready for Mr. S. in case he wanted a little grappa, opened it, and set it on the table. He added two gla.s.ses.

"You'll have a gla.s.s, too, Pietro," Mr. S. said, "when you have finished with the tape."

"Thank you, Mr. S."

Savarese nodded and smiled at him, then turned to Paulo.

"I have been thinking that I would like to be there when you talk with this man," he said.

"You don't mean you want to go there, Mr. S.," Paulo said in surprise.

"I think that would be best, under the circ.u.mstances," Savarese said. "I would like to personally hear what he has to say."

"What I meant, Mr. S., is that you don't want to go there, there, do you? I mean, I can have him at the garage, for example, or anyplace else, thirty minutes after you give me the word." do you? I mean, I can have him at the garage, for example, or anyplace else, thirty minutes after you give me the word."

Mr. Savarese poured wine in two gla.s.ses and handed one to Paulo.

"Salute," he said. he said.

"Salute," Paulo repeated. Paulo repeated.

Mr. Savarese took a small, appreciative sip of the wine.

"That would involve moving him," he said. "I would rather that he not be moved. I think that would be better."

"Whatever you say, Mr. S."

"Paulo, he is in a certain state of mind after having been where he has been, under those circ.u.mstances, for twenty-four hours. If we move him, that would, I think, break the spell, so to speak."

"You're right, Mr. Savarese. I didn't think about that."

Paulo was frequently reminded, when dealing with Mr. S., that if he was one and a half times as smart as Pietro, Mr. S. was like five times, ten ten times as smart as he was. times as smart as he was.

"There'll be no problem, nothing to worry about," Paulo said. "I'll get enough people to guard that place like f.u.c.king Fort Knox!" When he saw the pained look on Mr. S.'s face, his own colored quickly. "Sorry about that, Mr. S."

Mr. S. did not like either profanity or obscenity.

Mr. S. accepted his apology with a curt nod of the head.

"This man is strong and dangerous. Paulo?"

"No, Mr. S. He's not. Not at all."

"And there is no question in your mind that you and Pietro can deal with him in any circ.u.mstance that you can think of?"

"I don't even need Pietro, Mr. S."

"Nevertheless, I want Pietro to go along with us."

"Right, Mr. S."

"I don't want this man to see me, for obvious reasons," Mr. S. said. "Or to hear my voice."

"No problem, Mr. S."

"Although I doubt it very much, he may have had nothing to do with the problems my granddaughter is having. I don't want to close any doors that might have to later be opened, you understand?"

"Absolutely, Mr. S."

"And, of course, we don't want to be interrupted while we are talking with him."

"I understand."

"I wondered if someone saw the vehicle you previously used there if it might not cause curiosity."

"I see what you mean, Mr. S. Let me think a minute."

Mr. Savarese waited patiently.

"How about a Chevy station wagon, Mr. S.? We got a couple of them. At a big funeral, we use them to haul flowers ahead of the procession, you know, enough to cover the phony gra.s.s by the grave-"

"They are black, like the Suburban?" Mr. Savarese interrupted him.

Paulo nodded. "And they don't have any signs painted on them or anything."

"I was thinking of something more on the order of a utility vehicle."

Again he waited patiently for Paulo to give that some thought.

"What we do have is a Ford pickup, Mr. S. We keep it around with a jack and a couple of spare wheels and tires in the back, in case a hea.r.s.e or a flower car has a flat."

"Does that happen often, Paulo?"

"No, Mr. S. But sometimes, you know, you get a bad tire or pick up a nail."

"Yes," Mr. Savarese said, understanding. Then he gave a dry chuckle. "The final indignity of life, Paulo, a flat tire on your way to your last resting place."

"Yeah, I see what you mean, Mr. S."

"Is there room for the three of us in this flat-tire truck?"

"You know, it's a regular pickup truck. It would be a tight squeeze. And it's sometimes dirty."

"The upholstery, you mean?"

Pietro finally came to the table and sat down.

"You heard what we have been talking about, Pietro?" Mr. Savarese asked.

"We could put a blanket or something on the seats, if they're dirty, Mr. S.," Pietro said.

"You understand, Mr. S.," Paulo explained, "we get a call there's a flat, one of the mechanics drops whatever he's doing and jumps in the pickup-"

Mr. Savarese held out his hand in such a manner as to indicate that a further explanation was not necessary.