Chasing a Blond Moon(152)

Two state troopers stood on either side of the vehicle. Nantz showed her ID and invitation; Service flashed his badge. They got the nod to move on.

The Stagecoach Lodge was a low, sprawling, red brick building that looked like it had undergone a lot of additions. The parking lot was in front of the building and full of expensive vehicles. Service parked along the driveway and locked the Yukon.

They walked under a canopied portico to the main entrance, presented their invitations and IDs, and gave up their coats. Nantz wrapped a gold and scarlet georgette wrap around her bare shoulders. The main area was filled with women in shimmering gowns and pointy high heels.

A young woman in a short black skirt and white blouse offered a tray of champagne flutes. Nantz took one; Service refused.

“What’s with you?” she asked.

“Later,” he said.

She took a swig and grinned. “That’s a ten-four, big boy. I might get a little drunk tonight.”

There was a reception line leading down a corridor to the dining room. It moved too slowly for Service, who said “Baah,” just under his breath and got a poke from Nantz. They moved through, shaking hands with various politicians Service didn’t recognize until they got to Lorelei and Whit.

The senator looked down at his boots, but her expression remained even. “Siquin, these are my friends, Grady Service and Maridly Nantz.”

Whit Timms leaned toward Service. “Great kicks, man.”

They had not had a chance to talk at any length, but Service instinctively liked the senator’s husband.

“Yes,” Soong said. “Detective.” She held out her hand, gripped his momentarily, and used it to guide him to face an old man standing with the assistance of two metal canes hooked to his wrists by metal bands. “My husband, Buzz Gishron.”

Soong looked barely forty, her husband at least twice that and not likely to last much longer.

Gishron said, “Twinkie man,” and smiled, nodding like a bobble head.

The dining room was massive with a head table on a raised dais and in front of it a sea of round tables covered with white linen cloths. Candles burned at each table beside small arrangements of red and orange fall flowers in shiny brass vases.

They found their place-cards at a table in the center of the white sea and sat down as others filed in and took their seats.

A string quartet and a piano were making music in the corner. The music was white noise to Service.

Nantz said, “Dutilleux, ‘Ainsi la Nuit.’” She closed her eyes, seemed to let her mind flow with the music.

Nantz smiled and greeted everyone who came to their table, making small talk. Service grunted politely and watched the room, looking for Soong.

The younger men in the room wore their hair cut short on the sides, longer on top, shiny with gel and prickling with little spikes, like their bodies gave off electrical charges. Many of them wore Lenin goatees.

“Hair,” he whispered.

“It’s called ‘faux hawk,’” she said.

“More like punks-with-money,” he said.

She tapped his arm and took his hand in hers. “Be nice. Having money doesn’t make people assholes.”

“Younger crowd than I expected,” he said. “Where does the money come from?”

“Professionals, dot-com survivors, and trust-fund babies,” she said. “Most of them are so leveraged their finances would collapse under a fart.” She squeezed his hand for emphasis and dragged a fingernail along his palm. He felt a spark and saw her blue eyes gleaming.

A relatively tall and muscular Asian man helped Buzz Gishron to his place at the head table. After he was seated, the others joined him, five couples in all, including Lorelei and Whit Timms. The Asian had the same gleaming spiked hair and wore a black suit, not a tux. His suit said he didn’t belong; his attitude said something different. Service could feel the arrogance.

Service thought they looked like ravens on a power line scoping the world for food or mischief, whichever opportunity came along first.

One of the men on the dais stood up and held up his hands for silence. He made introductions without fanfare. Senator Timms got a standing ovation that went on for five minutes, but she did not rise to speak.

“Okay, team,” Service whispered, “let’s all haul out our bank books and buy us a candidate.”

Nantz kicked him under the table. “It’s a party fund-raiser, dummy,” she whispered.

Siquin Soong studied the audience with a practiced smile and intense eyes. Service looked back and saw that she was looking at him, but she showed no emotions and moved her eyes on.

“She’s gorgeous,” Nantz said.

“Like those neon-colored frogs that draw in their victims to poison them.”