In the beginning there were only three of them. Later, after the Poodle came along they were four, but at first there were only the three college seniors, and they were inseparable. Mutt, Jeff, and the Pom-Pom Queen, but those were names that they used only among themselves, private names for their private world. Mutt and Jeff because one of the guys was short and the other one tall, and the Pom-Pom Queen because she was a blooming beauty on the cheerleading squad, shaking those puffs of blue and gold at all the games. Mutt and Jeff, and the collective girl of their dreams, they went everywhere together, and they were tight. It was an odd situation, but they were tight, and they told themselves that they would always be, no matter what happened. And something was going to happen that senior year, they all knew that. With two best friends in love with the same girl, something had to happen, and they swore that when it did they would still be tight, all three of them. One of the guys was going to win her, one of the guys was going to lose her, but that wasn't going to break up the team. They were young enough and innocent enough to believe that, and during the senior year they went everywhere together, Mutt and Jeff paying court while the Pom-Pom Queen made up her mind. It was a neat little triangle until the Poodle came along.

Came along? She came tagging after them like a playful puppy, yipping at their heels, begging to belong. She was a pest, she was a pain, she was everybody's kid sister. Worst of all she was only a junior, but after a while it was easier to let her tag along than to try to chase her, and then there were four of them. She wasn't part of the team, but she was there, and she turned the triangle into a square. She balanced things out. She was as dark as the Pom-Pom Queen was fair, as eager as the Pom-Pom Queen was cool, as concerned with the woes of the world as the Pom-Pom Queen was indifferent. She was the Poodle, and in the spring of seventy-five it was in her rooms that they gathered to lie around, drink her herbal tea, and listen to the music.

Seems like maybe half my life

Been driving down some bumpy road

Eating the dust that I make for myself,

Hauling some other man's load.

The Prisoner hummed along, thinking back to those bittersweet days. Sweet because the Pom-Pom Queen had been the first of his loves. He had loved others since, perhaps more fervently, but the Pom-Pom Queen had been the first, and hers was the love with the place in his memory. Sweet, too, because of Jeff. Now he was bound by knife and blood to twenty-two brothers whose destinies were entwined with his in a fashion far removed from a simple college friendship; but when he thought about those days, and how it had been with Mutt and Jeff traveling down the road together, the memories had to be sweet. Sweet, as well, because of the Poodle, who had started out as the little sister, and who had turned into something quite different.

Sweet, but bitter, as well. Bitter because someone had to win, someone had to lose, and he had been the loser. Bitter because, after the loss, he had realized for the first time that the cards had been stacked against him. Bitter because, despite all the promises, the team was never the same after that. And bitter because of what happened to the Poodle.

Other half of my life it seems

I'm driving up some icy hill

Sliding back more than I'm making up,

Cursing the cold and the chill.

Humming along, The Prisoner would rest, allowing himself the luxury of those bittersweet memories, and after a while he would sleep. It was always a peaceful sleep, with none of the horrors that visited him in the night. He was aware of this difference, and it was one of the reasons that he allowed himself the monthly luxury. He was a man of dedication, and he knew that such memories defined a weakness within him, but he was willing to trade the weakness for the sake of sleep.

11

IT took Vince over a week to get to Carmine Giardelli, and during that time he cooled his heels at the Royal Buccaneer Hotel in Atlantic City. The gambling czar was unavailable. He was in Vegas for the weekend. He was in Miami on urgent business. He had to go to San Juan for a day. And so on. Mr. Giardelli would be back in Atlantic City shortly, Vince was told, just be patient.

Patience was too much to expect, but Vince had played the game, he had waited, and now Giardelli was back. Vince paced the length of the living room as he waited for the summons to see the big man, his shoes sinking into ankle-deep carpet, his fingers curled around a pony of brandy that was almost as old as he was. His suite at the Royal Buccaneer was middle-America's vision of what Atlantic City was all about. It had a sunken marble bath, a sunken marble living room, and sunken marble windows that opened onto a sunken marble sea. It had a candy-cane couch, a heart-shaped waterbed, and a spiral staircase that went nowhere. It had black and red flocked-velvet wallpaper, crimson drapes, and a walk-in closet big enough to hide a hippo. It had a faux Monet in the bathroom, a faux Van Gogh in the bedroom, and a lithograph of Elvis over the chrome and onyx bar. It had the style and warmth of a scream in the night, and it was all on the house.

Everything was on the house; Vince was comped. The suite, his food and drink, the services of a butler should he wish them, all came to him with the compliments of the management. Only the highest of rollers were comped that way, high credit, low risk players who could be counted on to drop a bundle at the tables two times out of three. For the Royal Buck, as for any other casino hotel, it was simply good business to comp the heavy hitters, and it was good business to comp a distinguished visitor, as well. Vince was distinguished. He had been sent by Lewis Whitney, he was there to see Carmine Giardelli, and that was enough to get him the same sort of treatment that would have been lavished on an Oklahoma oil man who bet with both hands.

Giardelli's man arrived promptly at nine. His name was Anthony, and he was young and round-faced. His suit was made of shantung silk, his shoes had been made on the bench, and his cologne was a breath of fresh mint. He smiled easily.

"Are you comfortable here?" he asked. "Everything to your satisfaction?"

"Everything's fine," Vince assured him.

"Mister Gee wants you to be comfortable. Anything you want, just ask for it."

"I'll do that. When do I see him?"

"In a minute, I have to go over you first. Nothing personal, just part of the routine."

Vince moved his feet apart, and held out his arms. Anthony's fingers probed quickly and expertly for weapons or wires. Close up, his minty cologne had an overtone of freshly cut grass. "You're hard as a rock," he said. "You work out?"

"When I can."

"I never seem to find the time,"

"What's the cologne?"

Anthony looked surprised and pleased. "Kentucky Spring. You like it?"

"It's you. It is definitely you."

Carmine Giardelli was the lay-off man for every major sports book between Washington and Toronto. Anything that the local book couldn't handle, anything too big or too complex, went to Giardelli, and "laying it off with Carmine" was a stock expression in the business. He didn't handle horses, but in football, basketball, baseball, and hockey Giardelli was to the local bookmaker what Lloyds of London was to the insurance underwriter. He was the specialist, he handled the overflow, he made the books balance.

Giardelli kept a penthouse apartment at the Royal Buck. It was soberly decorated, with none of the glitz of the luxury suites downstairs. Anthony led the way to a room that was bare except for a Ping-Pong table. Giardelli and a woman were playing, both standing back from the table and slamming power shots mixed with cute little slices. They grunted when they hit the ball, their faces ran with sweat, and their Reeboks squeaked on the floor. Giardelli wore only shorts. He was a tall man in his sixties with a lined face and lively eyes. The woman wore shorts and a halter top. Her lithe body said that she was about twenty, but her face swore that her body was lying. They both saw Vince come into the room, but they didn't stop playing. They were good, reminding Vince of the films he had seen of the Chinese masters of the game. The rally went on until Giardelli's backhand clipped the edge of the table, and fell away for the point.