Palindrome by Stuart Woods Page A

with Las Vegas. He called a friend who had a very nice little business jet, who let him have it for running costs and crew expenses; then he called a girl he knew—a perfect Vegas girl—and they departed on a Friday morning. They checked into a high-roller's suite at Caesars Palace, and for two days Al did little but eat, drink, screw, and play high-stakes poker. He slept all day Sunday, played poker again that night, and, at checkout time on Monday morning, he calculated that, after all his expenses, he was thirteen thousand dollars ahead. Now he had over a hundred grand to play with. Al turned to the girl, with whom he was having breakfast in bed. "Do you really have to be back tomorrow?
    She shrugged. "Not if I quit my job," she said.
    "Why don't we look in on LA for a few days?" He grinned.
    She grinned back. "Jobs are easy to find." By three o'clock they were lounging poolside at the Beverly Hills Hotel, not too close, because Al was terrified of the water. He called for a phone, rerranged his appointments, talked to his broker, and did some business. That night they dined at Michael's in Santa Monica, and the next day Al rented a Porsche 911 Cabriolet and they drove up to Santa Barbara for lunch. The week blew by: a chopper to Catalina, dinners at Spago and Rex, the studio tour at Universal, shopping on Rodeo Drive. Last Saturday night, driving back from dinner in Malibu, the music gave way to sports news. "Hey," she said, "the Bobcats are playing the Rams tomorrow. Let's take it in.
    "Nah," Al said. "I'm off the Bobcats for life." Back at the Beverly Hills, she was tired; Al wanted a nightcap. She went upstairs; he headed for the Polo Lounge, got a table by himself near the garden door. They'd go back tomorrow; he was gaining weight, and he wasn't really accustomed to this much time away from work. He rested his head against the banquette cushion and swirled his Armagnac. Life was sweet. Or it was until he opened his eyes. Baker Ramsey was seated at a table near the door with a blonde. Al had walked right past him. Al's first impulse was just to get out; Ramsey looked drunk, and he didn't want a scene; but Ramsey was between him and the door. Al glanced over his shoulder toward the empty dining room and the garden beyond. He put a fifty-dollar bill on the table, slid out of the booth, and headed toward the garden. Outside, he seemed trapped, at first; then he saw a sheltered passage that led away from the tables; he emerged in more gardens, near the bungalows. Al took a deep draft of the California night air, laced with the scent of bougainvillea. There was a moon, and the gardens were lovely. He decided to explore for a few minutes; he didn't want to run into Ramsey in the lobby. He wandered slowly through the gardens, following no special path. A few minutes later, he emerged at the pool. The area was empty, lit only by the underwater lights. Al eased his small frame onto a comfortable chaise, not too near the water.
    When he was a boy some overenthusiastic bullies had nearly drowned him, had put him in the hospital. The smell of chlorine and the thought of inhaling water still brought him irrationally near panic. He liked looking at water, he just didn't like being too near it. He'd wait here a few minutes, then go back to the room. After all, Ramsey had a game to play tomorrow; he'd leave soon. Al reflected that things had never before been so good. He'd made a lot of money for a long time, and now he was comfortably rich. He was out of a bad marriage; he was getting more big cases than ever; he was only forty-two; he had his health. He dozed. He was dreaming something bad. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't; he wanted to breathe, but he couldn't. He woke up. A huge hand covered his mouth and nose. He felt himself lifted from the chaise until his feet no longer touched the ground. An arm clamped around his neck, and he beat at it, tore at it. The lights in the pool seemed to be dimming when, suddenly, he could