Gruber was shilling for Rizè-Blu’s idea of putting all of the world’s fresh water into Eden Water’s scheming corporate hands.

I raised my voice to get his attention. “What’s next? Selling air?”

Gruber turned to me. His pupils dilated and shrank, as if his mind darted to another place and then back to the present. That smirk returned. “We’re working on it.”

Gruber shifted his attention to someone else. Krandall pulled me away. Peltier shook her head.

Krandall walked me from Gruber’s booth. “What did you do that for?”

Obviously, I wanted to needle the windbag. I grasped Krandall’s fingers and unwrapped them from my sleeve. “What are you getting at?”

“Don’t be surprised if you never get another invitation.” Krandall closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “For guys like you and me, being at this place is all about kissing ass. Our job is to tell these guys what they want to hear. You want the attention of the most powerful men on this planet, this is where you’ll find them. You won’t make points by pissing them off.”

“I appreciate the advice.”

Krandall patted my shoulder. “Rookie mistake. By the way, where’s your friend the brunette?”

“Close by, I’m sure.”

A server weaved through the crowd.

Peltier set her empty cocktail glass on the tray. “What’s she like?”

“Enthusiastic.”

“Really?” Peltier wiped her fingers with a napkin and dropped it on the tray. “What are her plans?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

Peltier gave my wrist a squeeze. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

Krandall gave me the thumbs-up. He put his arm around her waist and turned Peltier toward the Eden Water booth. Her dress swayed from her round, tight bottom.

I wondered what would happen if we did meet again.

Before then, I had to find someone else. I walked past the booths and started my search for Goodman.

At the far end of the central pathway, a velvet rope blocked further passage. A placard on a lobby card-stand read: NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL BEYOND THIS POINT.

I authorized myself, unhooked one end of the rope from a floor post, and stepped through. Immediately, one of the resort guards appeared from around the corner.

“May I help you?”

“I’m looking for a restroom.”

The guard pointed to the large sign behind me. Restrooms were in the main lobby.

Once in the lobby, I tried going around the concierge’s desk. Again, another guard appeared as if by magic and shooed me back into the crowd.

The black plastic orbs hanging from the ceiling or jutting from the wall corners stared like unblinking eyes.

I’d better back off trying this. I was sure I had the attention of the guys watching the security monitors.

Maybe I could find something in Goodman’s office. I went to the lobby entrance, passed through security, and instead of going to the garage, I went toward the golf pro shop. The golf course was closed but I could catch a hotel guest out for exercise returning through the side door.

I kept note of the security arrangements. At the corner, a black orb watched the front of the hotel. A plain video camera hung from the wall above me and pointed to the side door. I looked up the wall. There were no other cameras. I could climb between the camera and the corner of the hotel to the roof and remain unseen.

Tennis players grunted and swatted under the lights of the tennis courts. An older man, lost in thought, approached. He twirled a tennis racket and groped into the pocket of his windbreaker. I removed my contacts and slipped behind him. He fished out his hotel room card and reached to swipe it through the reader by the door.

I checked to see that we were alone. “Excuse me.”

He turned around, his middle-aged face red and sweaty. His irises popped open and his aura brightened.

I took the card and opened the door. I put the card back in his hand and left him standing outside. He would think he’d just had a senior moment. I moved fast and smoothly. The security guards had dozens of monitors to watch. Unless they had been paying attention only to me, they wouldn’t have noticed anything suspicious.

I walked down the hall, past the locker rooms, and toward the golf course administration. I had a hunch I’d find Goodman in his office. We’d have a long, informative talk.

I turned the corner. The glass double doors to the office were closed. The secretary’s vestibule was dark. I tried the doorknobs. Locked. I didn’t see any light coming from around the office doors inside. I put my ear close to the glass doors and heard only silence.

So much for hunches.

Where was Goodman?

I traced my steps back outside. Before I put my contacts back in, I scoped the grounds and looked for any suspicious auras. Nothing.

I returned to the reception and found Carmen at the bar. She leaned against the bar counter and held a fizzy drink against her temple. Sweat from the glass wet her fingertips. “I have never in my life been in such a group of pious, self-important assholes. God, they act like they’re doing the world a favor dispensing this academic horse shit. Too bad they can’t use it for fertilizer.”

“The important question is, anything on Goodman?”

“No. You?”

I shook my head. “If he’s here, the man’s a ghost.” I asked the bartender for a manhattan. “What about your dance card?”

Carmen took a long pull from her glass and smacked her lips. “Almost full. You know the undersecretary of state? She and her husband want to play avec moi.” Carmen lay one hand across her breast. “Problem is, she keeps blabbing about how misunderstood the administration’s policy was about Nigerian oil. The people there have to be patient, she kept saying. The wealth will come. Oh yeah? They’ve been waiting for thirty years and still nothing but promises.”

“Politics aside, got room for two more?” I took Krandall’s card from my pocket and gave it to Carmen.

I explained, “They’re a younger couple. She’s a Luvitmor babe and he got into the early program for Tigernene.”

“Really?” Carmen’s eyes widened with interest. “I’m eager to sample those results.” She slid the card into her purse.

I finished my manhattan and ordered another. We wandered toward the fireplace along the northern wall and sat on the raised brickwork.

Carmen retrieved a cell phone from her purse. The phone cover had a leopard skin print. She checked the incoming number and smiled. “It’s the undersecretary. Booty duty calls. I’ll give a report later.” Carmen opened the phone and purred into it as she left.

I sat and drank alone. Well into my third manhattan, the cello player sat beside me. Her moist, dark hair lay in matted tangles. Perspiration darkened her collar.

The cellist was a rosy-faced woman in her late twenties. She stretched her legs, displaying a nice pair of calves that tapered to trim ankles and a pair of patent-leather Mary Janes.

“Want to do me a favor?”

“Pardon?” I didn’t get the impression she was talking to me.

She put a hand on my arm. “I need a drink. A cosmopolitan would be perfect.”

I did need to keep busy until Goodman showed his face, if he ever did. Why not with the cellist? We’d talk politics.

I hailed a server and ordered the drink. The cellist-her name was Sarah-told me the other musicians had been invited to a private party. She had opted out.

“I just broke up with the viola player.” Sarah tasted the cosmopolitan. “If he can’t hook up with someone else at the party, he’ll be hitting on me again just to get laid. Asshole.”

We finished our drinks, ordered another round, and talked about music. She needed to store her cello, so we walked together to the parking garage and got into an older white Dodge Carryall. We sat inside on plywood storage boxes. I needed to scout for Goodman, so I didn’t plan on staying long. Sarah turned on the stereo and, being a musician, lit up a bong. I recognized the ritual. Get high then have sex. I would delay my search for Goodman.