Conspiracy

147

Tommy Karr whistled as he walked through the foyer of the Paley house.

“Nice digs,” he said. “You could build a cathedral with all this marble.”

“What makes you think this isn’t a cathedral?” said Theresa Seelbach, the Newsweek reporter.

“It’s a shrine,” said another. “To cheap Arizona real estate and slasher movies.”

“To once-cheap Arizona real estate,” said Seelbach.

“I didn’t realize Paley was backing McSweeney. Didn’t he give money to Marcke last time?”

“It’s the wife,” said Seelbach. “Besides, all these people hedge their bets.”

Karr continued into the large great room. It was easy to tell who was a newsperson and who wasn’t; the guests were several times better dressed and lacked the cynical masks that were part of the journalists’ uniform. Security people were scattered around the edges of the room, trying to look as un-obtrusive as possible. It was a small gathering — only about seventy-five people had been invited — but the net worth in the house rivaled that of several Third World countries.

“Tommy, are you listening?” asked Rockman from the Art Room.

“Always,” said Karr, walking toward the jazz combo set up near the indoor fountain.

“Can you talk?”

“Only with my mouth.”

Karr glanced at the fountain, wondering if it would be tacky to throw a coin in and make a wish.

“President Marcke is on his way over to the Paleys’.”

“That’s nice.”

“You see Chief Ball there?”

“Lots of policemen. And even more Secret Service

people — I bet there’s more of them than squirrels outside.

But I haven’t seen Ball yet.”

“Is McSweeney there yet?”

“Nah. Supposed to be here soon, though. They send the press ahead. You know these mansions get bigger and bigger as the night goes on?”

“Keep an eye out for Ball.”

“Now there’s something I hadn’t thought of myself,” said Karr, smiling at the band member who had started to stare because he was talking to himself.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a Secret Service agent, easily iden-tifiable by his lapel pin, radio earbud, and bad haircut. “But we’re asking everyone to go outside so we can sweep the building again.”

“What are you sweeping it for? Dirt?” joked Karr.

“Weapons, sir,” said the man. His utter lack of humor made Karr laugh even harder.