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  "I know, but Mr. Carter is having some private party that he wants us to go to . . . The president is supposed to be there! Can you believe this, Rach, the president!

  "Bert," Hunter said, turning to his friend, "I gotta go, buddy. Old man Carter is having some private party and they asked me to show my face, but I'll be back later."

  Rachel gave Amy a smile and a wave. She and Hunter quickly left the ballroom. Bert followed them outside and grabbed Hunter by the arm.

  "You can't do this, man! Fuck that old geezer and his party! You're our man, not his--" Bert slurred.

  "Bert!" said Amy, who had followed her husband.

  "Hey, buddy," said Hunter, removing Bert's hand from his arm, "like I said, I'll be back."

  "Yeah, but what is this shit, man? You, of all people, you've never jumped when that asshole called. Why are you leaving your boys now to suck up to that money-grubbing asshole? You ain't no brown nose, Hunt..."

  Hunter tugged Rachel toward the elevator. They stepped in and Hunter gave his friend a light but effective shove as he tried to step on with them. Bert stumbled back.

  "You asshole!" were Bert's last words before the doors shut.

  "Hunter!" Rachel said as they began to ascend. "I can't believe you did that."

  "What?"

  "I can't believe you just shoved Bert," she said with a mystified look on her face.

  "Aw, he's drunk," Hunter said.

  "I know that," Rachel replied, "but why didn't you just tell him that the president was going to be there and that's why you're going? I'm not saying you owe him an explanation, but it would have saved you shoving him ..."

  "Rach," he said, putting his arms around her, "fact is, I'd go to this thing, president or not. I know I'm on top of the world and all that . . . but I'm thirty-four years old. I gotta start planning for the future, and now that I'm on top, I figure it's a good time to start."

  "You really did get hit in the head," she said with a serious face.

  They both broke out laughing.

  "I think it's great, don't get me wrong," said Rachel, seriously this time, "but like Bert said, you of all people ... You've never done anything they've asked you to do. How many times have you said to me, 'Not me, Rach, I'm my own man. All those big shots can kiss my ass'? Now you're the Super Bowl MVP and we're running right up there as fast as we can."

  "I know all that," he said as they reached the top floor, "but I'm serious, Rach ... I gotta start thinking about life after football. I don't know, maybe it's because I've got it all right now. You know, like how can this last? It can't, and I'd rather have these big shots coming to me offering me a job when I'm done than the other way around. If I snub the old man tonight, I might not get another chance. Not after all the grief I've given them over the past couple of years. And like you've said to me so many times, it can't hurt to at least be sociable."

  When the elevator doors opened, they were greeted by two tuxedoed security guards with walkie-talkies. The guards stared at them from head to toe with looks of surprise. Then they recognized Hunter.

  "Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Logan, of course," said one of the guards. "Congratulations on a fine performance, sir. Go right down to the end of the hall, and it's the last door on the right."

  They thanked the guards and proceeded down the hall. As Hunter walked, he was suddenly conscious of his clothes. He was wearing cowboy boots, jeans, and a white T-shirt. Only a blue blazer gave him a semblance of formality.

  "What about what I' m wearing?" he whispered to Rachel.

  "Honey, besides being so handsome that you're every woman's dream, you are the man of the hour," she said, stretching up to kiss him on the nose. "I think you could walk in there with your boxer shorts on, and they'd say it was the latest fashion. You look fine."

  Grant Carter III greeted the Logans as if they were old and dear friends. The little man took obvious pride in introducing his quarterback to the various dignitaries from the worlds of business and politics. The men were all in black tie, and the women wore elegant dresses. Hunter did his best to not sound like a country boy from West Virginia. Mark Sherson appeared suddenly and whispered something in Mr. Carter's ear. Carter frowned, then nodded.

  "Well, Hunter, I have a bit of disappointing news," he said to Hunter as well as every guest within earshot. "It seems the president will not be joining us tonight. Had something urgent come up back in Washington. He did, however, specifically say he looked forward to meeting you in February at the team dinner."

  Hunter nodded. He could think of nothing to say.

  "Ah, Camille ..." Carter said, turning to a beautiful blonde in her late twenties. She was wearing a stunning emerald party dress that was cut low enough to demand a second look. Hunter tried hard to avert his gaze. He knew Rachel would be looking at him for his reaction.

  "Hunter Logan," said Carter, "my daughter, Camille. Camille, this is our star quarterback and his wife, Rachel."

  "Charmed, I'm sure," said Camille, holding out her hand to Hunter, and then Rachel, but never letting her eyes waver from the quarterback's chiseled face.

  "Would you two girls mind excusing the two of us?" Carter said. "I have a few things I wanted to discuss with Hunter, and it will give you two a chance to get acquainted."

  Hunter could see that getting acquainted was the last thing on either of their minds, but he gave Rachel a shrug and followed Grant Carter out onto the terrace all the same. After sliding the glass door closed on the rest of the party, Carter leaned out against the railing, snifter in hand, and gazed toward the ocean. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he said.

  "Yes," Hunter replied, taking a slug from his beer.

  "Hunter, that was an amazing thing you did today . . . Oh, I know everything that happened. You see, today is the reason why I've fought and scraped and battled my way to the top. I've always wanted to be a world champion. And now I have it. . ."

  Hunter couldn't help wondering how Carter figured owning the team made him a world champion, but said nothing. In fact, by the time the owner finally stopped talking about all the things he'd done to put the Titans on top of the world, Hunter found he half believed it himself.

  "Which brings me to . You," Carter said. "I think that you and I have a lot in common, and I think it's time we got to know each other a little better. You have a place out in the Hamptons, don't you?"

  "We've got a little beach house just east of Quogue on Dune Road," said Hunter.

  "I'm sure you know, then, where our home is in West Hampton?"

  "Yeah, we've walked by it plenty, it's huge." Hunter bit his tongue. He knew if Rachel were there, she'd have kicked him for sounding so stupid.

  "Of course," Carter said. "Well, if you're not that far, we'll have to get together during the season then--the summer season, that is. Do you play tennis?"

  "I . . . yes. I'm not very good, but I have played."

  "Well," said the owner, "the worse you are, the better. I have some friends who'd be thrilled to be able to whip the Super Bowl MVP on the tennis court. In fact, I think I'll throw a little party for you at the beginning of the season, just to let you meet everyone."

  Hunter knew plenty of people in the Hamptons, but he also knew that they weren't the people the owner was talking about. "That'd be great. I really appreciate it, Mr. Carter. I know I've been kind of. . . well, not exactly sociable since I got traded here from the Vikings, but r m looking forward to starting to become more involved with things."

  "Oh, and another thing before I've got to get back to my guests." Carter seemed not to have heard Hunter's clumsy attempt at humility. "Maybe you and I can work out your contract this summer, just between the two of us. You know how ugly agents and the media can get about these things. Well, I'd like to at least take a shot at you and I sitting down and hashing it out. I promise you, you won't be disappointed."

  "Thank you, Mr. Carter, that sounds great," Hunter said, shaking the owner's outstretched hand.

  "Good. Now I see that Senator Pilson is wa
iting to come out here and get my feelings on a few things. Would you mind letting him out on your way in? Thanks, Hunter."

  Hunter opened the door and the pudgy senator scurried past him. Before he had shut the door again, Hunter heard the red-faced politician say, "By God, Grant, you really did it!"

  Hunter chuckled to himself. He stopped inside the door to slam down the rest of his beer. "What a crock of shit," he said to himself.

  Before he could get two steps, a well-dressed man who Hunter guessed to be about fifty-five stepped in front of him.

  "Hunter," he said, "I don't want to disturb you, but I'm Senator Ward."

  Hunter knew immediately that this was the other senator from New York, who was also the chairman of the Senate Judiciary committee. His face had been all over the New York Times in the past few months because of a problem with one of the presidential nominees at the Justice Department.

  "Of course, Senator Ward," Hunter said apologetically, "I see you all the time in the paper ..."

  "Well, likewise," the senator said. "In fact, I must confess, unlike my counterpart on the other side of the aisle," he said, nodding his head toward the balcony, "I didn't come here tonight for campaign money. No, the only reason I'm here is to ask for your autograph, for my grandson, you understand."

  "Sure, I'd be happy to do that."

  "Well," the senator said, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, "I have one of your cards here, and it will make his year to have you sign it. I hate to bother you. I know you get this all the time and I don't want to cramp your celebration--"

  "Senator, I'm more than happy to do it."

  "Well," said the senator, obviously impressed, "I never forget a favor, and a well-received one at that. I hope you'll call on me someday if there's something I can do."

  'Thank you, Senator."

  "I mean it, Hunter. A good politician never forgets."

  They talked for a few more minutes before the senator had to excuse himself. Hunter looked up to find Rachel. He couldn't wait to tell her.

  Rachel and Camille seemed to be talking amicably enough right where he'd left them. As he approached, Camille became silent and excused herself after giving Hunter a final sidelong once-over.

  "Bitch," Rachel murmured.

  Hunter laughed, "What? You two seemed like you were talking along fine until I pulled up. You're never going to believe who I was just talking to--"

  "I just don't like any woman throwing herself at you like that," Rachel said without hearing him. Her face was flushed.

  "Rach, all she did was say hello, come on, will you? Talk about antisocial."

  "I'm sure you didn't notice the way she looked at you, Hunter," she said with her biting sarcasm.

  "Come on, honey," he said calmly, deciding to wait on telling her the news about the Hamptons, "let's get back to the guys."

  As the elevator dropped toward the ballroom, Rachel broke the silence. "I didn't mean that. I don't know what came over me."

  She stepped close and kissed Hunter on the lips.

  Chapter 3

  Vincent Mondolffi rubbed his red eyes. It had been a long day. There was a nuclear power plant being built upstate, and one of the union bosses had refused to hire some people on the family's list. The jobs were a good way of returning small favors to thugs who were sometimes necessary to grease the gears of a huge business that operated outside the law. The jobs paid well and the most difficult task for the Mondolffi laborers was collecting their checks. But there had been a misunderstanding and one of the family's soldiers had gotten carried away and grabbed the union boss's twelve-year-old son. Everyone had become excited, and Vincent himself had been asked to intervene.

  He didn't like grabbing kids and he told his man to return the kid at once. The problem was one of communication, though. Someone upstate refused to believe it was actually Vincent who was ordering the kid's return. So he'd taken a ride up there to straighten it all out personally. In the end, the union boss begged to be allowed a second chance despite the fact that he already had his kid back, so it all worked out.

  Still, the day had been a long one, so when Ears Vantressa told him there was a call on the pay phone, he glared up from his espresso with disgust.

  Ears shrugged apologetically and said, "He knew your code."

  Vincent Mondolffi nodded and pushed his chair away from the white cloth-covered table There was no one else at any of the other three tables in the small room he occupied. The light was yellow and low, and the room was made even darker by wood-paneled walls and a thick, bloodred carpet. Ears led the way through the kitchen, where the bustle of cooks and waiters quieted as Vincent Mondolffi passed.

  In a hallway outside the rest rooms was the phone. Of course, Mondolffi had a phone in his private dining room, but the public phone was necessary to conduct certain special kinds of business.

  Dominic Fontane wiped the phone with a clean, white linen hanky before handing it to his boss.

  "Yes?" Mondolffi said into the receiver.

  "I have some bad news," said the voice on the other end without introduction. "You know about the Fat Man murder?"

  "Of course," Mondolffi said.

  "You and everyone else. Word is that your nephew Tony had something to do with it--"

  "I've heard that."

  "Well, when the Fat Man went down, it seems to have gotten the attention of some of the people in D. C. You know as well as I do that the new director is gung-ho after all the families. There's pressure to come up with an indictment of someone who's particularly nasty. You know, to make people feel safe. Well, it seems someone down there thinks this Fat Men thing may be a sign of some instability in the family, especially if Tony had a hand in it. He's been drawing some attention to himself lately. The director himself is sending a supervisor up here to put together a special operation whose only job is to pull a big fish out of your pond. It's unprecedented."

  Vincent Mondolffi glanced at Ears and Dominic, then turned his back and hunched over the phone. He didn't want anyone hearing something like this. He'd seen specially assigned task forces become self-fulfilling prophecies. Even when there was no in-fighting, the most stable organizations could boil over when the FBI was snooping around.

  "What else?" Mondolffi asked.

  "I don't know how this guy is going to handle it. The word is he's to have quite a bit of latitude, but I should be able to keep you up to date."

  "Good. I'll be sending you a package."

  "Of course," the voice replied.

  Mondolffi hung up.

  Hunter had done what everyone in America expected him to do after winning the Super Bowl, and when he returned from Disney World he was swamped with cards and phone messages. There were thirty-seven messages on his answering machine, and there probably would have been more if the tape hadn't reached its end. It wasn't until the following week that he was able to meet with Dan Metzler. Metz was Hunter's center and the leader of Pitt's offensive line when he was in school. No one would take Metz for a ball player now, though. He'd gone from a fairly solid two-ninety in his playing days to a sloppy three-sixty in his businessman days. Metz had played five years for the Titans before a bad knee forced him to retire. Like most players, Metz didn't know what to do with his life after football, and he'd gone from job to job relying heavily on his association with the team for opportunities.

  When Hunter had first arrived in New York, Metz had been the first person to knock at his door. Like Hunter, Metz was a former farm boy, and Hunter was relieved to have someone like him around to explain the workings of the big city. They had seen each other regularly ever since. Hunter enjoyed his old friend's sense of humor and his lighthearted outlook. Rachel thought Metz was an aimless, drunken slob who was a bad influence. Metz and Hunter talked mostly about the good old days at Pitt, which Rachel couldn't care less about, but Hunter and Metz had been friends before he'd met Rachel and she believed it would be wrong to meddle in such a longstanding friendship. In fact, she w
as quite nice to Metz, and he thought she was crazy about him. Still, there seemed to be a tacit agreement between Hunter and Rachel that most of his meetings with Metz would take place outside of Rachel's company. This day was no exception.

  Hunter drove into the parking lot of the Sherwood Diner and pulled up next to Metz's big old Seville convertible. The car was one of the few things Metz had to show for his five years of service in the NFL. He kept it like new, commuting by train to his job in the city with a big food distributor. The car saw daylight only on the weekends. Metz already had his napkin tucked into his shirt and was working on a platter of eggs and bacon when Hunter sat down.

  "How's the market?" Hunter asked as he slid into the red vinyl booth.

  Metz looked surprised. "Son of a bitch! I didn't even know it was you, Hunt, with those shades on and that backward hat and the dumpy jacket. Where the hell did you get that? Did you roll some fucking bum in Penn Station?"

  Hunter laughed. "It's a good one, huh?"

  "Damn good," Metz replied. "No worry about autograph hounds today. I think you kind of like disguising yourself like that, don't you?"

  "It's a challenge."

  "Well," Metz said, shoveling a forkful of runny eggs into his mouth, "I'm buying today, so order up."

  "What's the occasion?" Hunter said, signaling to a waitress.

  "What do you mean?" Metz said with a crooked smile as some yolk dribbled down his chin. "You're the guy that won me two hundred bucks on the big game, aren't you?"

  "Well, hell, you didn't expect me to say we'd lose, did you?"

  "No, but I could've told if you really didn't believe it. You knew you were going to win, and I knew that you knew."

  "So why'd you put two hundred down?" Hunter asked, raising his eyebrows and sipping a black coffee the waitress had brought him. "I thought you never went over a hundred."

  "I know, I know," Metz replied, "but I felt like I was going at it alone with a hundred, so I called in another Franklin for you."

  "For me? I can't bet on my own games, you know that."

  "Uh, excuse me, you can't bet on any games, period. You know that, and you don't. I do it for you. I figured if I bet a hundred for you and lost, I could convince you to pay it for me."