Not any more, thought Vince as he rode up in the elevator. Maybe stone-ground wafers and Brie, but no more rat cheese and saltines with a jug of Kool-Aid to wash it down. No more penniless, idealistic lawyer, either. Hotshot attorney with corporation clients plugged into the political power structure. Plugged into more than that, they say. We'll see how much more.

"It's an interesting story," said Lewis Whitney, "but I don't see what it has to do with me."

"I'm coming to that," said Vince. "Just give me a few minutes more."

Lewis looked at his watch, and complained, "We're late as it is."

"Let him finish," said Ida. "You won't lose any points with the BP, and those receptions are a bore, anyway."

She smiled at Vince, and he nodded his appreciation. The Whitneys had not changed much over the years. Ida still was slim and lovely, Lewis still a commanding figure, although a thicker one; and sitting in their carefully understated living room, they looked not too different from the cheese and cracker days of the SHRC. Just richer.

Lewis sighed, and said, "All right, let me see if I've got this straight. You say that a couple of kids on the Polk College basketball team are fixing to throw a game, and you want to stop it."

"Right."

"You want to keep those kids out of trouble."

"Right."

"So you can't blow the whistle on them, can't go to their coach, or the cops, or the State's Attorney, or whatever they call it in New Hampshire."

"Right."

"But the one thing you haven't told me is how you know about this."

That was the tricky one. To Lewis and Ida, Vince was nothing more than his cover job, a translator at the United Nations. They knew nothing about sensitives, nothing about the Center, and that was the way it had to stay.

"I want you to take that part of it on faith," Vince said carefully. "It's going to happen, believe me. Will you take my word on that?"

"But you can't ask me…"

Ida put her hand on her husband's arm. "He's entitled to that much, Lewis. He's an old friend."

Whitney nodded reluctantly. He looked at his watch again. "Go ahead."

"Let me state a hypothetical situation. Let's say that I'm a gambler, a real high roller, and I want to put the fix on a game. How do I go about it?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"Do I stroll up to the nearest basketball player, and say, hey sonny, you want to make some easy money? Obviously not. All that gets me is a boot in the ass, and maybe the cops. If I want to cut a deal like that, I go to a professional. Somebody who's been there before. Somebody who knows the angles. Somebody who is highly organized, if you know what I mean. I want to know who that somebody might be."

"You're asking me?"

"I'm asking you. I need a place to start, someone to steer me in the right direction. I need a name, Lewis."

"I don't like the way this conversation is going." Whitney's face was set in hard lines. "How the hell would I know something like that? I'm a reputable attorney."

"Time to cut the horseshit, Lewis. Sure, you're reputable. You sit down to dinner with the mayor, but you break some bread at some other tables, don't you? You're plugged into power, you're plugged into money, and you're plugged into the mob."

"You just ran out of time."

Vince stood up. "Two black kids, the kind you used to fight to save. I'm trying to save these two."

Lewis started up out of his chair. "Get out of here."

"Remember Floyd Washington?"

Puzzled, Lewis slumped back. He frowned, and shook his head. Ida said, "Vince, let's not get into that."

Lewis turned to her. "You know what he's talking about?"

"A long time ago." There was a touch of weariness in her voice. "The Washington boy. Hooked on horse, and he held up a liquor store. You handled the case."

"You did more than handle the case," said Vince. "You saved that kid. You kept him out of jail, you got him off drugs, you gave him some hope and a life to lead."

The lines softened in Whitney's face. " Washington. Yes, of course I remember."

"And now you represent the people who sell the drugs to kids like Floyd Washington."

This time Lewis came all the way out of his chair, and his arm was back. "You son of a bitch, nobody says that to me."

Ida jumped up, and grabbed her husband's arm. To Vince, she said, "That isn't so."

"It isn't? Okay, maybe it isn't, literally. Maybe he doesn't represent pushers and dealers, but he's connected with the people who do. He's part of the structure, and he could get me a name if he wanted to."

Ida turned to her husband. "Could you?"

Lewis did not answer. He was staring coldly at Vince.

"Lewis?"

He did not look at her.

"Lewis, if you can do that, then you have to."

Whitney looked at her for the first time. He nodded slowly. He disengaged his arm from her hand. He marched from the room, closing a door behind him. Ida sank into a chair. Vince stayed on his feet. After a while they heard the muted sound of Whitney's voice through the door, but they could not make out the words.

"He used to have a lot of heart," said Vince.

Ida sat looking at her hands. "He still does, he's a good man. It's just that… it's a different world now."

Vince let that one go by. They waited. Ida said into the silence, "I used to be in love with you."

"I know."

"But you didn't… you weren't…"

"I was, but not enough. You're right, you got a good man."

She shrugged helplessly. "It's just… different."

Lewis came back into the room. His face was still cold. He said, "I'm not going to write any of this down, and neither are you. The name is Carmine Giardelli, and you can find him at the Royal Buccaneer in Atlantic City. He keeps a suite there. You can tell him I sent you. Do you have that?"

"I've got it, and thanks."

"You stayed away for years. If you really want to thank me, stay away a few more."

"If that's the way you want it." Vince glanced at Ida, but she would not look at him. He left.

7

VIOLET Simms read her mail at the breakfast table. She did not receive many letters, but she enjoyed the ritual of slitting open the envelopes before starting in on her grapefruit and coffee. It was a civilized way to start the day. On this particular morning, she set aside the junk mail and the flyer from the supermarket, and was left with three envelopes. One of them was addressed to her granddaughter.

"This one's for you," she said, and handed it across the table.

"For me?"

"Has your name on it."

Lila Simms, at sixteen, was rarely alert at that time of the morning, particularly on school days. She stared dully at the envelope, and continued to spoon up her cereal. She couldn't imagine who would be writing to her. She let the envelope lie on the table as she finished her breakfast.

Violet asked, "Aren't you going to open it?"

"Must be an ad." Lila stifled a yawn. "Somebody's trying to sell me something."

"Don't have to buy, you know. Go ahead and open it. It won't bite."

Lila tore open the envelope. She read, her eyes still glazed and dull. She turned the paper over, read the other side, and then went back to the beginning and read the whole thing through again. By the time she had read it for the second time, her eyes were no longer dull.

"I don't believe this," she said, excitement in her voice. "I simply don't believe."

Violent asked indulgently, "What don't you believe? What are they selling?"

"Look at this. Just look at it."

Lila passed the sheet of paper across to her grandmother.

National Association for Recreational Skiing

Hammond, Va. 23671