“They can put a Volkswagen on it if you want.”
She looked at Scarne, who held up two fingers.
“Coming right up,” she said, “two, with cheddar.”
“I’ve met some nice, educated people the last couple of days,” Vincent continued. “I’ve also heard some successful authors speak who were in the same boat I am now, including a couple who are older than I am. I met at least one writer that I’ve long admired and got him to sign one of his books. We’re all insecure. Just because I wrote for a living and have met some interesting characters doesn’t make me a novelist. I was nominated for a Pulitzer once, for a crime series we did. That’s worth about as much as a losing trifecta ticket at Churchill Downs. But for a couple of days I get to feel like an author. In the Big Apple. A hell of a lot cheaper than getting an M.F.A., Master of Fine Arts, degree, which a lot of people think is how you learn to write. Either you know how to write or you don’t. No reason to make some professors rich.”
The apple pie came and both men decided it was everything an apple pie should be.
***
Karen Porcelli called Scarne on his cell phone just after 4 P.M. to tell him Sebastian Quimper had arrived at the hotel.
“We’re taking him up to his suite. Why don’t you meet us at the elevator bank and I’ll give you a key to his floor.”
When Scarne walked up to the group by the elevator, Quimper gave him the once over.
“You’re the guy Randolph sent to keep these other guys on their toes, right?”
It was a statement not meant to endear anyone to the Safeguard agents, which, Scarne knew, was its intent. Karen Porcelli shook her head and handed Scarne his key. They all got on the elevator. It began its ascent. What the hell, Scarne thought, I’m in an elevator. I might as well make a pitch for the old guy from the coffee shop. After all, he likes cheddar on apple pie.
“Sebastian, I just heard an interesting plot in the coffee shop,” Scarne said, looking at his watch.
He then related the Kentucky Derby idea that Vincent was working on. Maybe Quimper would co-author the book. When he finished he again looked at his watch. Just over 40 seconds. Not bad for the first time.
“Never sell,” Quimper said dismissively. “Nobody gives a crap about horses.”
“What about the play and movie, Warhorse,” one of the Safeguard agents said. “And didn’t President Reagan say that the outside of a horse was good for the inside of a man.”
“Reagan was a horse’s ass,” Quimper said, snickering. “The only thing good for the inside of a man is to be inside a woman.”
The rest of the ride was spent in silence. It wasn’t only the sexist remark. Scarne knew the high regard that most former Government security personnel held the former President who, whatever his politics, was considered a gentleman. Scarne could almost see the steam coming out of Karen Porcelli’s ex-Secret Service ears.
After they got Quimper safely in his suite, where he said he was going to take a nap before he had to “put up with the unwashed illiterates downstairs,” Porcelli introduced Scarne to the rest of her team. In addition to Nick Dennen, who he already met, there were four other men, two of whom Scarne recognized from his first meeting with Quimper.
“Despite what Shakespeare down the hall implied,” Scarne said, “I’m not here to keep you on your toes, or step on them. I’m just an extra pair of eyes.”
“Don’t sweat it, buddy,” one of the agents said. He was a tough-looking black guy named Mike Kenyon. “Quimp the chimp likes to stir the pot. We’re used to his bullshit.”
Scarne excused himself. The cocktail hour preceding the Killerfest awards banquet at which Quimper was both the honoree and featured speaker was due to start at 6 P.M. and he wanted to change.
CHAPTER 18 - LEPROSY AND LOBSTER
The pre-banquet cocktail party was in a large hall adjacent to the Grand Salon. It wasn’t large enough. The room was jammed and there were too few bar stations to accommodate 700-plus people. The hotel wait staff did an admirable job of circulating canapes through the milling throng without, as far as Scarne could tell, dropping any platters. He roamed through the crowd and sampled a few of the hors d’oeurves. All were lukewarm, regardless of whether they were supposed to be hot or cold. He decided that assassination by salmonella was a real possibility. Maybe that was why Quimper was skipping the cocktail party.
At 7 P.M. the bars closed down and the several widely spaced doors to the Grand Salon opened. Attendees, many of whom Scarne was sure never even managed to get one drink, started filing out and looking for their tables.
Safeguard Security arranged for Scarne to have a seat in the front of the ballroom at a table just right of the spot on the dais where Quimper would be during the banquet. Karen and Nick Dennen were at a similar table to the left a few feet away. Hotel security, other Safeguard agents and probably, Scarne thought, a couple of plainclothes N.Y.P.D. cops guarded the stairs leading up to either side of the platform. If there was a threat, he suspected it would come right up the middle aisle and he, Karen and Dennen could intercept. He thought it unlikely anyone could sneak a bomb into the banquet, but one never knew. If that was the case, he would probably be blown to hash along with everyone else.
Karen and her “date” had an advantage. They had two sets of eyes and could pretend to be engrossed in each other, thus limiting conversational distractions from others at their table. Scarne was flying solo and had to contend with the other nine people at his table, all seemingly interested in explaining how wonderful their books were. Fortunately, no one in his group had discovered that he was a “book critic” and he passed himself off as just another thriller writer. After he said that his novel, The Leprosy Killer, was based on a true story he had heard while doing court-ordered community service in a Hawaiian leper colony, he was left out of the conversations. No one asked him to pass the butter, either.
Quimper made his entrance at 7:30 amid a respectful buzz from the audience and was quickly escorted to his seat on the dais. He gave the crowd a hearty wave and sat down after greeting the others on the elevated platform. Scarne looked at the program under his plate. The other six people sitting with Quimper were also authors. He recognized two of the names from having actually read their books, which he liked. All were previous winners of various awards presented at the Killerfest and Scarne made a mental note to take the program home. If the other authors were anywhere as good as the two he knew about, he might enjoy their thrillers.
The salads on the tables were already plated and people began eating. After a while waiters started roaming through the room with the main course, a surf and turf with grilled vegetables. Scarne looked at the dais. A waiter was serving Quimper, with a Safeguard agent standing directly behind him. Scarne was hungry. He quickly ate his filet mignon and politely asked his tablemates if anyone wanted his lobster tail. With his leprosy comments fresh in their minds, there were no takers.
Then it was time for the awards ceremony and Quimper’s speech. One of the authors on the dais, a woman, got up and went to the small podium at its center. She introduced herself. A fairly well-known author, she had been the previous year’s recipient of the Raymond Chandler Award, the Killerfest’s signature award. She was one of the two authors Scarne had read, and specialized in forensics. She knew her stuff.
She introduced everyone on the dais but Quimper and gave a brief rundown of their accomplishments. Finally, she got to Quimper.
“Tonight’s honoree and guest speaker needs no introduction,” the woman intoned solemnly.
She then launched into a mind-numbing five-minute introduction that seemed to list every book Quimper had his name on and every award he had been given. Unlike Khan, Quimper seemed content to listen to every word describing how wonderful he was. Finally, she paused, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this year’s Raymond Chandler Award, the great Sebastian Quimper.”
Amid thunderous applause Quimper rose majestically from his seat and
went to the podium, where the woman handed him a large crystal bowl, which he held up for all to see and then placed on the table near him. Then he turned to the audience and regally quieted everyone with a wave of his hands.
“I want to thank the World Thriller Writers for inviting me tonight and honoring me with its prestigious Raymond Chandler Award. I have been fortunate to have some of my novels compared to his.”
Quimper smiled modestly at the resulting applause. Scarne was quite sure none of his books had ever been compared to those written by the brilliant Chandler.
“As many of you undoubtedly know,” Quimper continued, “I have been the target of threats from misguided factions in the Islamic world. Many people urged me not to attend so public an event. To think that I, or any serious writer, would be deterred from speaking in public by a group of fanatics is an absurd notion.” That line brought a louder round of applause. “What do they think I am made of? Have they not heard of our cherished right of freedom of speech? The day that someone forces me to stop writing is the day that I die!”
The audience erupted, with many people standing. Scarne looked over and made eye contact with Karen Porcelli, who mouthed the word “bullshit.” They both knew that Sebastian Quimper, defender of literary freedom, had basically stopped writing his own books years earlier. If it were not for the impending merger between Schuster and Albatross, Scarne was sure Quimper would already be holed up in a bunker somewhere surrounded by armed guards and willing women.
Quimper spent the next few minutes extolling the U.S. Constitution, the Bill of Rights and to Scarne’s amazement, the Magna Carta. He finally sat down without ever mentioning Ralph Arhaut, who had taken a skewer through the throat for writing From Here to Tehranity.
***
After the banquet, Quimper and the other authors on the dais repaired to the bar that had become the unofficial watering hole for the conference. They occupied a small table in the corner, while dozens of other banquet guests crowded the long oval bar. Karen Porcelli and Nick Dennen sat at a small high top a few feet away. Scarne knew that Kenyon and another agent had been working the doors since the banquet ended. They could have stopped anyone who looked suspicious or out of place from entering. It wasn’t perfect security, but then nothing, until Quimper was safe in his room, was.
Occasionally one of the attendees at the bar gathered the courage to approach the author table, usually for an autograph. All the writers, even Quimper, who naturally got the most requests, signed. He actually seemed to be having a good time.
At one point a smartly dressed blond walked into the lounge. She was very beautiful and most of the men, and some of the women, cast glances at her. When she reached the bar two men quickly made room for her and vied for the privilege of buying her a drink. Scarne heard her laughing. After a few moments she excused herself and walked toward Quimper’s table. Scarne followed her. Porcelli and Dennen spotted her as well. When she reached the table the conversation among the authors ceased. She began talking to the group, including Quimper. The men at the table were obviously entranced. They all stood. Scarne couldn’t blame them. She reminded him of the actress Diane Kreuger. She was carrying a program from the conference and she passed it around. Everyone at the table signed it, Quimper last. She thanked them, shook Quimper’s hand and went back to the bar. A few minutes later, she left. Scarne drifted to the door and watched her go through the side entrance of the Bascombe, where she got into one of the cabs in the taxi line. He went back to the bar.
The informal post-conference party broke up around 11 P.M. and Scarne and the Safeguard people escorted Quimper back to his room.
“I liked your speech, Sebastian,” Karen Porcelli said, with just the barest hint of irony.
“What about you, Scarne,” Quimper said. “Did you like it?”
“It made me want to reenlist.”
Quimper briefly looked angry, but then smiled.
“It’s what those poor bastards wanted to hear.”
“You didn’t mention Arhaut,” Scarne said.
“Who?”
“Your co-author of From Here to Tehranity. The fellow killed in Pennsylvania.”
“Oh, yes. A pity. Should probably have given him a posthumous plug. I think he wrote another book, too. Not much of a writer, as I recall.” Quimper yawned. “I’m beat. Can’t wait for you people to tuck me in. These fucking conferences are a pain in the ass.”
CHAPTER 19 - CROWNING ACHIEVEMENT
It was, Sebastian Quimper had to admit, one of the greatest sexual experiences in his life. And that was saying something.
“I’m starving,” the woman said, looking down at him. “Would you mind if I ordered something from room service?” She smiled wickedly. “You will need all your strength. You haven’t experienced anything yet.”
Good Lord, he thought.
“Anything you want, Eleanora.”
She climbed off him and went into the living room of the suite. Instinctively he looked down at his groin to see if he had sustained any damage. The woman had the fastest hips he’d ever experienced. He was relived to see that he was intact. As he breathed a sigh of relief, he could hear her on the phone. Then she came back to bed.
“We have 20 minutes,” she said and leaned over, taking him in her mouth.
“I can’t,” he gasped. “Not so soon.”
But he could, and did. A minute later there was a knock on the door.
“Room service.”
“I have to go to the loo,” she said. “Will you let them in with the food?”
Quimper threw on a robe and padded to the front door of the suite. As instructed by his security people, he looked through the peephole. A man in a hotel uniform was standing in the hallway with a cart. Behind him was one of the Safeguard agents he knew. He opened the door and stepped back as the two men entered. The waiter wheeled the cart next to a table by the window. Manhattan glittered 34 stories below. Quimper noticed that the guard kept his eye on the waiter and had his jacket open. He could see a gun in a shoulder holster.
Lifting a bottle from a bucket on the bottom rung of the cart the waiter asked, “Would you like me to open the champagne, sir?” It was a Bollinger Blanc de Noirs Vieilles. “Excellent choice, if you will permit me to say, sir.”
At $600 a bottle, Quimper knew, it had better be. But after what the woman had just done to him, he’d have bought her a case of the damn stuff.
“Just open it,” he said. “I’ll pour later.”
“As you wish.”
The waiter popped the cork as a delicious aroma began to fill the room.
“What am I eating?”
The waiter lifted the lid on the huge silver platter on the cart.
“Specialty of the house. Crown Roast of New Zealand Lamb. Accompanied by mint jelly, roasted potatoes and grilled asparagus.”
The waiter replaced the lid with a clang.
“Aren’t you going to carve it for us?”
“The lady insisted that she be permitted to do the honors.”
The waiter and the guard exchanged looks. Quimper had the disheveled look of a man who had already received quite a few honors from the lady in question. After they left, Quimper went back into the bedroom. Eleanora came out of the bathroom, still nude.
“Wait for me in bed,” she said, walking out to the living area.
“Aren’t we going to eat?”
“I have a surprise for you,” she said.
This is one crazy lady, he thought. But her surprises were worth it, so he did as he was told. A moment later she wheeled the food cart into the bedroom.
“I’m going to serve you.”
While Sebastian Quimper loved sex, most women to him were merely a means to an end, outlets for his randiness. Physical attraction was secondary to availability. He avoided conquests at both ends of the spectrum, weight-and-age-wise, but as long as his bedmates weren’t, as he often put it to his male friends, “running in a claiming race at Aqueduct,” he was ready
to go. Most weren’t even bedmates, since Quimper preferred a quick joust on the nearest couch or, if a suitable one wasn’t available, the floor. He rarely saw their bodies, since his partner of the moment shed only enough garments to make the act comfortable and he usually just unzipped his fly. In the case of overnight assignations, of course, it was different. Then, he tried to find a woman whose nakedness he could appreciate. The woman now standing before him at the side of the bed was stunning, a veritable blond goddess. Ice blue eyes, small straight nose, wide mouth. Oh, that mouth. High, taut breasts with pink nipples still hard, flat stomach that flowed down to a small tuft of pale hair. Long, shapely legs. Incredibly, he started having an erection! The woman saw it and laughed. I can’t, he thought. I’m literally drained. There can’t be anything left.
She picked up the large carving knife by the platter. Thank God, Quimper thought. I could use some sustenance.
“Aren’t you going to put something on?”
“I don’t want to get blood on my clothes while I’m carving,” she said.
***
Vendela took a long, hot shower. Before she left Quimper’s suite she studied her handiwork and then, using her smart phone, took some pictures in the bedroom. The media would probably never use them. Well, maybe Al-Jazeera. And they would undoubtedly find their way to YouTube. The mere fact that they existed would negate any attempt at a cover up by the mainstream press. Not that she thought her handiwork could be suppressed. The appropriate phone calls to news outlets would also help.
She left the suite and walked over to the elevator. The guard gave her a questioning look.
“I assumed you were staying for the night.”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “It’s just that you ordered such a big meal.”
Vendela thought of the scene she’s just photographed.
“I lost my appetite.”
***
The low-scoring Yankee game Scarne was watching in his room went into extra innings. It was one of those rare pitchers’ duels, which in the modern era meant that both teams used a dozen hurlers, that normally put him to sleep. But he was uneasy, and it had nothing to do with the Bronx Bombers stranding a man on third with only one out.
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