“Again? I hate it when you steal my women, Harv.”
Harvey patted his paunch and tried to arrange his wild hair. “What can I say? I’m a stud.”
Michael took another sip of his water. “What do you have planned for next week?” he asked.
“Next week?”
“Your birthday, Harv.”
“Oh,” Harvey said, “that.”
“You only turn fifty once, big fella.”
Harvey sloshed down the rest of his martini. “Don’t remind me.”
“Fifty years old,” Michael said with a whistle. “Five big decades.”
“Shut up, Michael.”
“Half a century. The golden anniversary. Hard to believe.”
“You’re a pal, Mike. Thanks.”
Michael grinned. “Come on, Harv. You’ve never looked better.”
“Yeah, well, I do get tired of beating off the women with a stick.” Harvey glanced over Michael’s shoulder and spotted Cassandra walking toward them. “Speaking of beating them off with a stick.”
“What?”
“Sister-in-law alert.”
“Where?”
Cassandra tapped his shoulder. “Hello, Michael.”
“Right behind you.”
“Thanks.” Reluctantly, Michael turned toward Cassandra. “Good evening, Cassandra.”
“Long time, no see, Michael,” she said, “Very long. Six months, I think.”
“About that. You remember my friend Harvey Riker?”
“Ah, yes. The doctor.”
Harvey stepped forward. “Nice to see you again, Cassandra.”
She nodded slightly, ignoring him, her eyes never leaving Michael’s face. “So how do I look this evening, Michael?”
“Nice.”
“Nice?” she repeated.
Michael shrugged.
“Kind of noncommittal,” Cassandra noted.
He shrugged again.
Cassandra turned her attention to Harvey for the briefest of moments. “Dr. Riker, do you agree with Michael’s assessment?”
Harvey cleared his throat. “Uh, a lot of words come to mind, Cassandra.
She smiled briefly, her gaze back upon Michael. “Michael, can we talk for a moment?”
“Look, Cassandra—”
“It’s okay,” Harvey interrupted. “I need to freshen my drink anyway.”
They both watched him walk away. In front of the ballroom the band Dr. Lowell had hired finished their rendition of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” and moved on to “Feelings.” The lead singer sounded like a cat caught in a Cuisinart.
“Care to dance?” Cassandra asked.
“No, thanks.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not in the mood. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Stop being rude, Michael. I’ll get to it in a minute. Pretend this is foreplay. You’ve heard of foreplay, haven’t you?”
“I think I read something about it in
“Good. How do you like my dress?”
“Divine. What do you want?”
“Michael—”
“You’re not really going to start this shit again, are you?”
“What shit?”
“You know what shit, Cassandra.”
“I do?”
“I’m married to Sara, for chrissake. You remember Sara — blond, petite, gorgeous, lousy taste in music, your sister.”
“So?”
Michael rolled his eyes. “So why do you keep bothering me? Why do you always come on like some soap opera harlot?”
She looked at him. “You don’t approve of me, do you, Michael?”
“It’s not my place to approve or disapprove.”
“So what do you think of me, then?” she asked, sipping her drink. “Really.”
“I think you’re great,” he said. “You’re beautiful and funny and smart, but when you act like this”—he shrugged—“you kind of make me sick.”
“You’re so sweet.” Her hand reached out and rested on Michael’s chest. Then she winked at him, leaned forward, and kissed his cheek.
“What was that for?” he asked.
She winked and pointed behind him. “That.”
Michael turned around. From the entranceway Sara stood watching them.
A few hours ago George had successfully stolen a car and changed its license plate. He circled the area near the Lowell estate for a little while, making sure he knew every possible escape route before parking in an abandoned lot several miles away. He spread goose liver pate on a piece of toast and poured himself a red wine. Very young. Beaujolais-Villages.
A perfect picnic.
When George had finished, he tidied the car, checked his watch, and drove back toward Dr. Lowell’s mansion. He reached into the pocket of his Banana Republic khakis and took out his stiletto. He pressed the spring-release button with his thumb. The long, thin blade shot out with a sleek pop.
Very nice.
He closed the blade and put it back in his pocket. Enough games. Enough wine and song.
It was time to go to work.
3
Harvey Riker helped himself to another martini. His third. Or was it his fourth? He was not sure. Harvey was not a heavy drinker, but lately he had found himself eyeing the bottle with new respect and desire. So much had happened the past few weeks. Why now? Why when they were on the brink of cornering and even destroying the AIDS virus did all this have to happen?
He handed the glass back to the bartender. “Another,” he said simply.
The bartender hesitated but then took the glass. “Last one, okay?”
Harvey nodded. The bartender was right. Enough was enough. He spun back toward the crowd. Michael was still talking with Cassandra. Man, she was something else. Talk about sizzle. A guy could get sunburn just standing near her. Make that sunstroke.
He shrugged. No harm in fantasizing, was there?
