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9. Steve Wyatt
By the time Steve Wyatt tooled the open-topped XKE Jaguar into George Hackman’s street and squeezed it into a space across the road, the party had sprawled out into the front and back lawns. Wyatt walked around the car to open A
He gave her his warmest smile and steered her toward the house, threading knots of people on the lawn. As they approached, he saw Mason Villiers emerge from the front door, saying something to a gorgeous young woman who had a tousled, slightly rumpled look; the woman had a sad smile. Villiers nodded at something she said and came down the two steps, his glance traveling over the crowd. Wyatt knew Villiers had seen him, but he left it to Villiers to make the first sign of recognition, and Villiers went right by without a glance. All right, if that’s the way you want to play it, Wyatt thought, a little surprised to have seen Villiers here at all-the man hadn’t struck him as the partying type. A diminutive chauffeur popped out of a Cadillac limousine and trotted around to open the door for Villiers, who got in without a word to anybody; the limousine slid away, crunching bits of gravel on the asphalt. The sad-faced young woman at the door kept her eyes on it until it disappeared; she turned then and said, “You must be Steve Wyatt. George told me to expect you-I’m Ginger Hackman.”
Wyatt introduced A
Wyatt introduced the girl, privately amused by the way Hackman stripped her naked with his eyes; but when he saw discomfort in her face he steered her to the other end of the bar arid said, “I told you he throws wild parties.”
“Then let’s have fun,” she said, twinkling. She reached for a potato chip and scooped it into a bowl of onion dip.
Soon after, he found she had been separated from him in the shuffle-and George Hackman plowed forward. “Drink, Steve-o?”
“Martini,” Wyatt said, following A
Wyatt nodded his head an inch, gave a brief cool, polite smile, and edged away; he heard Hackman say to the man at his elbow, “Now, that’s what I call a dry martini. That kid sure plays it close to the chest, don’t he?”
Steve Wyatt cruised through the house, passing knots of people. On the couch a blonde was sprawled back with her shoes off and her head in the lap of a man, not her husband; the man had his hand casually cupped over the blond’s breast as he spoke to a woman standing beside the couch. He was talking loudly about his divorce.
Wyatt moved on toward the back of the house, searching for A
Coming into the kitchen, he found A
People drifted in and out of the kitchen. Wyatt moved close against A
He felt cool and detached; it was a campaign well pla