Players at the Game of People Read Online Free PDF Page A

doing so himself.

"Good evening -- ah . . . ?" Godwin said as he slid a pound into the

man's white-gloved hand.

"Jackson, sir!"

"Thank you, Jackson."

He walked into the foyer, which at this time of evening was full of

customers smartly dressed for an evening on the town. He recognized

several people who were household names -- actors, politicians,

businessmen -- and was himself recognized, even though he did not recall

ever being here before. But that was the way of things in his life.

"No messages, sir!" the girl on the reception desk twinkled at him.

"But I reserved your table in our disco, which opens at ten o'clock."

"Thank you, Molly," he said, reading her name off the badge she wore

pinned to her crisp white shirt, and left another pound lying discreetly

on the counter.

Glancing around as he turned away, he saw a head of fair hair above

a lean, muscular back, and for a second could have imagined . . . but

no. It belonged to a young man; when he turned, he revealed a beard. And

why should he be paying attention to that kind of thing, anyhow?

All the staff he encountered as he went up to his room -- correction:

"his" room -- beamed at him. Entering it, he discovered awaiting him a

bottle of champagne and a basket of fruit, the card accompanying which

said they came with the compliments of the management.

He nodded thoughtful approval of all that that implied. In the early

days there had sometimes been disasters to sort out. As time passed,

this kind of thing had become more and more typical. One might put it

down to increasing skill, born of frequent practice.

Or perhaps it was due to something else entirely. There was no means of

finding out, so there was no point in worrying about it.

He called room service for caviar, an underdone steak and a tossed salad,

and ate quietly on his own, not touching the champagne. He could only drink

in the safety of his own home. But he sampled the fruit and found it

delicious.

Lighting another of his favorite petit coronas, he went down to the

hotel discothèque a few minutes after ten.

This early, it was almost empty apart from staff. Its roof was mirrored at

crazy angles. Chairs and tables were grouped to form a horseshoe. In the

center was a dais of thick glass, over water kept constantly in motion,

on which were reflected lights that constantly changed color. A bar ran

down one wall, and at it sat some bored-looking prostitutes tolerated

by the management -- conceivably because they kicked back a portion of

their takings. It was a very stock scene indeed.

The DI looked bored as he sorted through his supply of tapes and records;

the barmen were yawning as though they had only just got up; the women

were much too heavily painted, as though expecting to be viewed on stage

by people the far side of footlights, not at close quarters. One girl,

tawny-skinned and slender, was on the dance floor writhing and gyrating,

but she was like the token coin in the collection tray.

"Ah, good evening, sir!" a waitress said, purring up to him. "We have

the same table for you as last night and the night before. I'm afraid we

weren't expecting you quite so early, so I haven't set out your champagne

yet -- "

"Coke," he said.

She blinked at him. She was pretty, brown-haired, youthful.

"Coke," be repeated. Her face fell, but she only shrugged and said nothing

as she turned away, expecting him -- of course -- to know which table he

had reserved.

Instead, he remained where he was, glancing about him and wondering

what he was here for. He knew, of course, in the broadest sense, but

the details so far were elusive. There was nothing for it but to wait.

The girl returned, bringing his Coke and also carrying an enormous menu

which, as she indicated his table and he sat down at it, she thrust

into his hands. He did no more than glance at it, registering that it

offered extremely basic food -- hamburgers, cheeseburgers, pizza, kebabs

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