Then he strolled back up the bar to Macklin. He gave no indication that he saw the hundred.
'I'm from out of town,' Macklin said.
'And I'm bored. You know where I could find a card game?'
'Where you from?'
'Dannemora, New York,' Macklin said.
'And you want to play poker?'
'Yeah. Good game. Some money changing hands, you know?'
'Sure,' the bartender said.
'Lemme make a call.'
The bartender went down the bar and punched out a number I on the phone. He talked for a moment and then hung up and walked back down to Macklin.
'You know the Lincolnshire Hotel?'
Macklin shook his head.
'You can walk there. You call Tommy King from the lobby. Tell him Lennie Seltzer sent you. They'll tell you the room number and up you go.'
'You Lennie?'
'No, Lennie's the guy I called.'
'Excellent,' Macklin said.
'How do I get there?'
He finished his second martini while the bartender gave him directions. Then he got up, left the hundred on the bar and headed for the door.
'Wish me luck,' he said.
The bartender gave him a thumbs-up, and Macklin went out onto Huntington Avenue and walked to the Copley Place Garage where he had parked his car. He took the thousand dollars from his wallet and crumpled the bills and put them in his right-hand pants pocket. Inside the car, he unlocked the glove compartment and took out his 9-mm pistol. He undid his pants. Instead of shorts, he was wearing an oversized jock with a cup. He shoved the pistol down inside the cup. He took a roll of adhesive tape from the glove compartment, tore off some, and taped the handle of the gun against his belly, well below the navel. Then he got out and tucked in his shirt and buttoned his pants. He locked the car and cut through Copley Place on his way to the hotel. He paused outside a leather goods store and looked at himself reflected in the dark glass of the display window. The gun didn't show, just as it hadn't shown when he rehearsed this morning.
It was a perfect summer day in Boston as Macklin strolled through the Back Bay. He didn't need the directions. He knew where the Lincolnshire was. Inside the ornate lobby, he called Tommy King on an ivory house phone.
'Name's Hoyle,' Macklin said.
'Lennie Seltzer sent me.'
'Room four-eighteen.'
'I'll be up,' Macklin said.
The elevator smelled of lilacs. The corridor was done in dark red carpet and ivory woodwork. The numbers on the doors were done in gold. At room 418 Macklin stopped. The emergency exit was two doors beyond-out the door and turn left. He rang the little illuminated bell beside the door. When the door opened, he stepped into a small foyer. Room 418 was in fact a two-bedroom suite.
In the foyer with him was a big man with thick hands.
'Mr. Hoyle?'
'That's me,' Macklin said.
'Sorry, sir, but I'll have to pat you down. Just routine.'
A short plump man in a white silk shirt was standing behind the big man. He had thin black hair plastered against his balding skull.
'Sergeant Voss is an off-duty police officer,' the plump man said.
'Just to make sure everything's on the up and up.'
'Excellent,' Macklin said.
'Makes me feel safe.'
He spread his arms and stood straight while Sergeant Voss ran his hands under each arm, down each side, around Macklin's belt line, and down each leg. Sergeant Voss was assiduous, as Macklin knew he would be, in avoiding Macklin's crotch. When he was through, Sergeant Voss stepped back and nodded at the plump man.
'I'm Tommy King,' the plump man said.
'Come on in.'
The game was in the living room. Five men at a round table, with a sixth chair waiting for Macklin at the sixth spot. A blond woman with prominent breasts and a short black dress was overseeing the buffet and bar that was set up at the far end of the living room.
