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Don’t you know not everyone in America has color? Break ten minutes, everybody, while Al gets a darker backdrop behind the goddam net.”
    The cameramen switched off their lights and drifted over to the water cooler. Technicians moved toward the metal frame that held the net. Rachel felt a sense of hopelessness. Beside her, Keith said, “You look a little tired, Rachel. How about if I buy you a cup of coffee?”
    She willed her voice to stay even. “I’ve run my nylons. I’m going out to the car for another pair.”

11
     
    Alec Conroy did not hide his disbelief at the stubby, redheaded man beside him. “Sorry, guv,” he said. “I don’t know where you got that idea.”
    Around them in the Ritz Hotel’s Felipe Salon, the buzz of the crowd continued unabated. A large part of the spacious room—the area surrounding the big-screen television—was jammed with people. Some in evening wear, some dressed casually, they sat on rows of sofas and folding chairs, on the carpet, on window seats, or they leaned against the walls beneath the gilded rococo plasterwork, watching the soccer game. Uniformed waiters from the two hotel restaurants downstairs hovered like stadium vendors around the periphery of the crowd, dispensing cocktails to be passed from hand to hand along the rows.
    The red-haired man, who had been introduced to Alec as Jack “Fireball” Farber, had expected Alec’s denial. His watery blue eyes continued their alert, questioning gaze. “You won’t find a safer place to talk,” he said. “Nobody’s noticing either of us. They’re all glued to the big screen. You don’t have to be afraid. Here. Let me get you another drink.”
    Alec drifted with Farber over to the bar, trying to decide how he felt about the offer the little man had proposed with such breezy confidence. Alec had never sold before, just given to friends like Rachel, on the understanding that there would be repayment somewhere along the line. And he had never been approached, had never even talked about cocaine with anyone outside the entertainment field. Farber was clearly a businessman, from conservative blue blazer and tattersall vest right down to thick-soled cordovan wingtips. Alec, who had worked in a haberdashery before his records began to sell, sized him as a thirty-eight portly.
    But the hostess had said Farber was an independent operator—an American shoe manufacturer, sports shoes of some kind, and a primary sponsor of the British team. Beyond that, Farber had asked for only a small amount and had offered to pay a thousand dollars—triple the New York street value. Alec, who had resigned himself to living off Rachel Quinn’s expense account for the next month in order to conserve what remained of this quarter’s slim royalty payments, knew he could find many interesting ways to make a thousand disappear.
    Farber handed him his drink, a stinger, his third tonight. “Well?” Farber asked. “Have you made up your mind that I can be trusted? I can, you know.” He spoke in a lowered voice, and Alec replied the same way, even though no one was within hearing range.
    “I just don’t understand why you’d come to me.”
    “Perfectly simple: you’re safe. I don’t want it getting around what I’m doing, and you don’t either. So you’ll keep it quiet. And you’re not watched the way a street dealer might be. Also, you’re a discerning person, accustomed to the best. I want first-rate stuff, and I know you wouldn’t have any other kind.”
    Alec took a large swallow of his drink. “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”
    “Preparation,” said Farber, beaming with self-satisfaction. “I always take a great amount of time preparing for any business deal, so I know what I’m doing. I’ve thought it through, you can depend on that.”
    “Well, you must have thought wrong, that’s all I can tell you. I don’t use the stuff myself.”
    “Probably not,” Farber said, his smile undiminished, “but I still think