“Can I buy you a drink?”
“It’s a little early, and I’m working tonight.” She
opened her leather handbag, pulled out a cell and checked the messages. Stella rolled her eyes in obvious annoyance when she found a voice message left by her roommate. Stella closed the phone without retrieving it.
The bartender placed a glass of iced water before Stella. She ignored it. “Where’s Jaycee?” she asked.
Driscoll stared down at the brown liquid in his shot glass. “He’s in the basement, working on a problem. He’s busy. Real busy. You want I should interrupt him?”
“Of course I want you to interrupt him, Don,” she said, her full lips curling into a lewd smile. “You tell Jaycee that his Stella’s back in town, and she needs some attention real bad…”
2. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
“Lev,” Senator David Palmer whispered through gritted teeth, “what is all this?”
The hotel lobby was crowded with reporters, all of whom obviously had anticipated the senator’s arrival. But David Palmer had been given no notice of this instant public appearance. He was tired, his throat was parched, and the long flight West had left him unkempt and irritable. To top it off, the limo’s air conditioner had been on the fritz, so there were perspiration stains under the arms of his wrinkled white button-down.
Still, Palmer knew the power of the photo op; and, inside of fifteen seconds, his initial expression of surprise, then extreme annoyance, vanished. In its place came the well-rehearsed campaign smile. His grin was so firmly set that his lips barely moved when he quietly asked his chief of staff what the hell was going on.
Lev Cohen’s fleshy face flushed under his red beard.
“Sorry, David. I didn’t know about any event,” he replied. “It must be something Congressman Bell’s people set up—”
“You should have known about it.” Senator Palmer’s voice was an irritated rumble.
Sherry Palmer suddenly appeared at her husband’s side, tucked her hand under his arm. “You’ve made this trip to raise your national profile before our run for the Presidency, David,” she reminded him softly.
Palmer arched an eyebrow. “Our run?”
Sherry didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, David,” she purred, her eyes scanning the crowd for familiar media faces. “And I’ll be right there beside you the whole way.”
The crowd had assembled inside the immense sandstone and glass atrium of the ultra-modern Babylon Hotel and Casino, an architectural showplace that was the latest addition to the Las Vegas skyline. A huge banner hung from a balcony, proclaiming this hotel as the venue for the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference. Flags of a dozen North, Central and South American nations dangled from the high ceiling.
David Palmer hardly noticed the décor. The brace of reporters was what concerned him, along with the cheering group of spectators, who’d suddenly recognized their choice for the next presidential election.
Palmer studied the throng uncertainly. His race for the U.S. Senate had involved local Maryland press, of course, but the glare of national media interest, now that he was about to announce his presidential run, was nothing like he’d ever before experienced.
Sherry touched his arm. “Wave, David,” she urged through a tight smile.
Palmer waved.
“Now slip on your jacket,” she whispered. “It’ll cover those nasty sweat-stains.” Sherry released the grip on her husband long enough for him to cover his wrinkled dress shirt with the blue suit coat draped over his arm.
“Look,” she continued quietly, “I know you don’t like to talk off the cuff, but it’s time you practiced. Just say a few words. Keep things light and cheerful and don’t let the press steer the conversation.”
“They’re the ones who ask the questions.”
“Politics 101, David. Do I have to remind you? They ask. That doesn’t mean you have to answer,” Sherry Palmer said through a stiff smile.
The Senator glanced down at his wife and his grin became more genuine. “What would I do without you?”
“I shudder to think,” Sherry shot back. Then she gestured with her expressive brown eyes. “Look, there’s Larry. Go greet your old teammate and make nice with the people who came out to see you.”
Palmer looked up, saw Larry Bell approaching. He moved forward to greet him. Photographers flashed and spectators applauded as the famous Congressman and even more famous Senator clasped hands.
Both ex-basketball players were taller than everyone around them. But Larry Bell was lanky with gangly arms and legs. Broad-shouldered Palmer was built more like a linebacker than the former Big East Conference Defensive Player of the Year and NCAA All-American; and though both men had a full head of hair, Bell’s closely trimmed Afro was peppered with gray.
Almost at once, the pair was surrounded by cameras and proffered microphones.
“Really great to see you, David.” Bell’s smile was warm, but his eyes remained fixed on the press.
“An impressive welcome, Larry,” Palmer replied without a hint of rancor.
Bell faced his colleague eye to eye. “Nothing but the best for the guy who consistently passed me the ball in the greatest game of my career.” Bell slapped Palmer’s arm. “Even when he didn’t have to.“
Palmer shook his head. “I wasn’t there to make you look good, Larry. I was there to win — and since you scored every time you got near the basket, I just thought I’d hand the ball off to you.”
“We made a great team—” Congressman Bell faced the cameras, his voice rising. “And we’ll make a great team again. Only this time we’ll be doing more than winning the NCAA championship.”
There was a smattering of applause, then a Washington Post reporter fired the opening salvo. “My question is for Senator Palmer. What brings you to Las Vegas, sir?”
David Palmer grinned. “Well, as Larry said, this time it’s not the NCAA championship. In fact—”
“How about the presidency?” a woman from the Los Angeles Times shouted. “Are you here to raise your national profile, Senator Palmer? Is it true that you’re planning a run for the White House next November?”
Palmer waited patiently for the battery of questions to end. “I’m in Nevada for only one reason,” he told them. “I’m here to participate in a vital and important program that may someday end the scourge of illegal narcotics, not just in the United States, but throughout all of North, Central and South America…” Palmer paused, gestured to his colleague.
“Of course, Congressman Bell and I both know that solving this massive problem will require international cooperation — which is exactly what the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference exists to promote…”
Though shunted to the sidelines by her own staff and the press of reporters, Sherry Palmer’s gaze never left her husband — even when Lev Cohen touched her shoulder and spoke softly into her ear.
“I just spoke to Bell’s chief of staff, Doug Healy—”
“And?”
“Congressman Bell’s going to make the introduction himself. Later this afternoon. I have all the information…”
Sherry frowned. “Oh, you have all the information? Then you must know why we weren’t notified about this press conference in advance. This was no spontaneous event, Lev.”
Cohen bit his lower lip. “Healy claimed it was an oversight. Someone in his office didn’t make a call—”
Sherry cut him off. “That’s bull and we both know it. Larry Bell is jealous. Back in the day he thought he was a better basketball player than David, and now he thinks he’s a better politician, too.”