Al: The market's gonna gobble up Mercury like a pastrami sandwich. I'm saying double the first day. Think positive.

Krystof: You are sure? I also think it time for big success again.

Heidi: Is it safe?

Mario: I doubled our stock club's fund investing solely in IPOs last year. But be careful. Didn't you see the latest news?

Julie: Where were you when my husband started trading?

Al: The Private Eye-PO don't know his ass from his elbow. He's probably a trader pushing his own stocks, knocking down the others. Caution!

Vann rushed from chair to chair, simulating the voices and thoughts of these five would-be investors. He'd spent three hours online introducing them, getting them into a chat room and allowing them to grow comfortable talking in the open. His job was to create a fictitious universe the Private Eye-PO might stumble upon and wish to join. So far he hadn't had a nibble. He was getting discouraged. It was time to up the ante.

Mario: I disagree. I think he's the only one we can trust. I follow his advice to the letter. If he's a trader, he's a darn good one. Remember what he called Mercury? A scam dog!

Julie: Sounds like you're the Private Eye-PO himself, Mario. Come on, tell us the truth!!

Mario: Ha, ha.

Krystof: Who is this Private Eye-PO? In Poland, you never trust man who does not tell you name. I mean, his name. Excuse me.

Al: No way a company like Black Jet is gonna touch Mercury if it's got problems. No way. Be real. I saw Gavallan on CNBC. The guy's a pro. He was a pilot!

Vann had slid back into Mario's chair when a new name popped onto the screen.

Val: Pros, schmoes. Make up own mind. I buy Mercury and buy big. I have own sources. Nay to Private Eye-PO.

Dismayed, Vann frowned. No way was Val the Private Eye-PO. He sounded like a foreigner. Jumping into Krystof's chair, he tried a ruse.

Krystof [in Polish]: Hello, new friend. Welcome. You are a fellow Pole, perhaps?

Val [in Polish]: From Gdansk. The great Lech Walesa's home. And you?

"Score!" cried Vann aloud, grabbing a Nerf basketball and stuffing it for a quick two points. Then, collapsing back into Krystof's chair, he typed:

Krystof [in Polish]: Kraków. I left in '98.

Vann, whose father's real name was Wladisaw Vanniewski, didn't dare add more. His Polish was rusty; anything more than the basics would expose him as a phony. Anxious to keep the dialogue afloat, he moved to Heidi's chair.

Heidi: A friend of mine is from Warsaw. He made a fortune buying tech stocks. Can they still go up?

There was always at least one total idiot in any chat room.

Val: They can only go up. Mercury will lead way. To heaven!

Boy, thought Vann. He's a real supporter. As he slid back into Al's chair, another name popped onto the screen.

Spade: Hey, kids, you want the inside skinny? Talk to me. Your very own celebrity reporter has come to the rescue. Heidi, dear, listen closely to me if you want the oop-scay on Mercury. All the rest of you neophytes, am-scray!

Vann froze in his chair, eyes wide. "Spade" as in Sam Spade. As in the Private Eye-PO. Could it be? Scooting his chair closer to the computer, he felt his heart pounding like a jackhammer inside his chest. The bait had worked. The fish was on the line.

Wiping his forehead, Jason Vann smiled.

Now he just had to reel him in.

The first course had been cleared. Peter Duchin and his orchestra had begun to play an up-tempo version of "Witchcraft," the vocalist doing a very acceptable Sinatra. Couples flocked from their tables to the dance floor. Deciding he'd done enough penance for one evening, Gavallan turned to Nina and asked if he might have the next dance.

"Sorry, Jett, but I've promised Giles. He's dying to cut the rug."

Gavallan smiled understandingly, though he was a little irked. While same-sex partners might be permitted at society functions, their dancing with each other was still touchy. If Tony or Giles wanted to dance, it had to be with a member of the opposing team. Gavallan thought the whole thing ridiculous. He couldn't care less who did what with whom as long as they were happy. Still, Nina was his date and he wanted to dance. "Try and save one for me, will you?"

"Sure thing, hon."

Gavallan watched the happy couple dodge their way to the dance floor, then stood up and set off in the opposite direction. The path to the bar looked mercifully clear of congestion. If he moved swiftly, he might make it scot-free. Fifteen seconds later he was there, leaning against the oak railing and perusing his choices. Whiskey had been his daddy's drink, but Gavallan preferred vodka. Spotting a familiar bottle with yellow script, he decided on one more of the usual. And why not? It wasn't often you put all your chips on red and gave the wheel a spin. After a day like today, a guy deserved to get hammered. It might even add a few laughs to his speech.

"Hey, chief," he called to the bartender. "Let me have an Absolut Citron."

"How would you like it, sir?"

"Rocks, no twist," answered a playful feminine voice behind him. "And pour it heavy."

Gavallan felt a hand brush his shoulder and turned to face a tall dark-haired woman with glossy bangs that fell shy of amused green eyes.

"That's my line," he said.

"And my drink. You stole it."

She had chosen white for the evening, a simple cotton shift that fell to her knees. Her luxuriant hair had been cut short and barely brushed her shoulders. She wore only a trace of makeup- a dash of eyeliner and a shadow of rouge. She'd never liked coming to these fancy dos. She refused to wear high heels and was shy about her shoulders, complaining they were better suited to a lumberjack than a society maiden. She was his tomboy in waiting. His eyes passed over the swell of her breasts, the planes of her belly, the curve of her hips, remembering.

"Hello, Cate," he said. "You look wonderful."

"I wish I could say the same. You look tired. What happened? Some of your clients beating you up over that last IPO? Trivium, wasn't it?"

"Trillium," he corrected her. "And don't be snippy." Trillium Systems was a maker of enhanced circuit boards whose shares had traded down 50 percent the first week of trading. No one batted a thousand. "Just the usual really. Trying to keep the boat afloat. I'll have to have a word with the shaman to help me out."

"You and your shaman." Cate Magnus's hand went to his cheeks. She leaned closer and checked his eyes. "You okay?"

Suddenly he remembered how overwrought she could become. He used to tease her that she'd been programmed with an extra sensitivity chip. "I'm fine. Nothing that a good night's sleep won't cure."

Cate patted his chest lightly, a sign she'd checked him over and he was in fine fettle. "So is the twenty-million-dollar man ready to entertain the troops? How's the speech? Did you actually write something down or did you plan on winging it?"

Gavallan hadn't given the hospital twenty million dollars outright, but pledged it in annual increments of one million dollars. The third installment was thirty days past due. Not a word had been spoken about the tardy donation.

"You're the writer," he said, sipping at his cocktail. "Me, I just have a couple of drinks and let my silver tongue carry me where it may."

"Silly of me to ask. But be careful, Jett. Too much booze loosens the tongue. You might let a few words slip about all the fires you've been putting out."

"What fires are those?"

"You tell me."

Gavallan registered confusion. "I thought you were a columnist," he complained. "Sounds to me like you're looking for a way to get back on the front page. That why you're here?"

"No," she said. "I slipped by the guards to pay my respects to a pretty neat guy I used to go out with. I think it's great what you've done for the hospital."