Lifeguard - James Patterson [82]
Here goes nothing, Ned. . . .
I tucked the thick wrapped bundle the feds had given me under my arm and went inside the lobby. Lots of people were milling about, some in formal attire, others in the red jackets of hotel personnel, a few in casual wear. I figured any of them could be Stratton’s men watching me. Or FBI.
The FBI was probably freaking out about now, wondering what the hell was going on.
I glanced at my watch—8:40. I was twenty minutes ahead of schedule.
I headed straight to the front desk. An attractive desk clerk named Jennifer greeted me. “I think there’s a message for me,” I said, “under Stratton.”
“Mr. Kelly,” she said with a smile, as if expecting me. She came back with a sealed hotel envelope. I showed her ID and ripped open the flap. Written on a hotel notecard were just two words: Room 601.
Okay, Ned. Let’s get it done. I held my breath for a second and tried to calm my nerves.
I asked Jennifer where the Make-A-Wish dinner was being held, and she pointed toward the Circle Ballroom, down the ornate lobby corridor and to the left.
I tucked the wrapped package, “the Gaume,” under my arm and followed two couples in formal dress, who I was sure were headed to the ballroom.
Suddenly a voice scratched in my earpiece. Ficke, and he was pissed. “Goddammit, Kelly, what are you doing? You’re twenty minutes ahead of the plan.”
“Sorry, Ficke. Plan’s changed.”
Chapter 102
I PICKED UP MY PACE until I could see the Circle Ballroom up a set of stairs beyond the lobby bar.
There was a small crowd gathered at the door, people in tuxedos and evening gowns giving their names and presenting their invitations. Not exactly airline security. The kind of band music you swear you’ll never dance to was coming out of the ballroom. I just sort of melted in behind.
A white-haired woman looked at me as if I were SpongeBob SquarePants. The diamond pendants in her ears were about as large as Christmas ornaments. I squeezed past her, and then I was inside. “Sir!” I heard, but I ignored it.
You better make this work, Neddie.
The room was actually breathtaking, filled with fresh flowers, and this incredible chandelier hung from the coffered ceiling. The band was playing “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” done cha-cha style. Every woman I passed was dripping in diamonds—necklaces, rings, tiaras. The men wore crisply pressed tuxedos, with white kerchiefs folded perfectly. One man was in a kilt.
I started looking feverishly for Stratton. I knew I looked about as out of place as a Maori tribesman at the queen’s tea party.
Suddenly someone lifted me by the arm from behind, edging me away from the crowd. “Deliveries are in the back, Mr. Kelly,” the person spat into my ear.
I spun around. It was Champ, grinning. “Had you going for a second, didn’t I, mate!”
He was dressed like the perfect waiter holding a silver tray of caviar blinis. Except for the orange hair, he fit right in.
“Where’s Stratton?” I asked him.
“In the rear—where else would the asshole be?” Champ nudged me. “He’s the one wearing the tux. . . . Relax, mate”—he put up his palm apologetically—“just trying to ease the mood.”
I caught a glimpse of Stratton through the crowd. Then I checked around for his goons.
“Ned,” Champ said, putting down his tray and squeezing my shoulder, “this is gonna work. Course, I say that before every jump and I’ve got a couple of permanently rearranged vertebrae that might tend to disagree.” He gave me a wink and knocked his fist against mine. “Anyway, no worries, mate. . . . Friends are in the house. I’ve got your rear.”
“Ned!” A voice crackled in my earpiece. Ellie. “Ned, what’re you doing? Please . . .”
“Sorry, Ellie,” I said, knowing she must be panicking now. “Just keep tuned in. Please. You’re gonna get your man.”
In the crowd, I spotted faces I recognized. Henry Kissinger. Sollie Roth, chatting with a couple of prominent business types. Lawson.
Then, I spotted Stratton in back. He was holding a champagne glass and chatting