“Don’t worry about it, Stone, you just got between two actresses who wanted the same part.”

“I’ll make a point of never doing that again,” Stone said.

Ann arrived and was given a martini. “Stone,” she said tentatively, “I think we may have made a wrong move.”

“What did we do?” Stone asked.

“We got Marty Stanton into the newspapers with a movie star on his arm.”

“Why wasn’t that a good idea?”

“Well, there was an overnight poll and Marty picked up eight points on Kate. They’re tied now.”

“What?”

“Apparently white males over thirty-five now think Marty is the greatest swashbuckler since Errol Flynn.”

Ed Eagle spoke up. “From what I’ve heard, that’s not far off the mark.”

“What’s the percentage of white males over thirty-five on the California delegation?” Stone asked.

“Sixty-one percent,” Ann said. “And the convention opens tomorrow night.”

Chapter 15

Stone, the Eagles, and the Bacchettis were driven to the Staples Center in two Arrington SUVs. Somehow, Bentleys didn’t seem appropriate for a Democratic convention. They were driven into the underground garage, where every convention ticket, skybox pass, and driver’s license was checked and every one of them photographed for a convention ID, then they were admitted to a secure part of the garage by the sticker on their windshields. There were no photographers or TV cameras present here. They rode up in an elevator with an armed guard to the top of the hall. Stone had a pocketful of keys and he passed them out to the Eagles and Bacchettis. “Just in case there’s a remote possibility you might want to leave the skybox.” He had already given Ann her key.

They found the numbered door along a corridor, and Stone let them inside. They entered a foyer that contained a mahogany table with a large flower arrangement on it and a number of very nice art prints on the dark green walls. There were also doors to the men’s and ladies’ rooms. They then walked through a set of mahogany doors into what amounted to a large living room that had been decorated by Peter’s production designer at Centurion Studios.

“Can I live here, please?” Dino asked.

“Sure, Dino. There’s even a shower in the men’s room.”

“I didn’t bring a change of clothes,” Dino lamented.

There was a dining table set for twelve with Wedgwood china, Baccarat crystal, and linen napkins, and a buffet table where a waiter was placing platters of canapés from the adjacent kitchen. In a corner of the room was a well-stocked bar manned by a uniformed bartender.

They were separated from the convention by an eighteen-foot-long picture window, which was mirrored on its outer side. They could see the heads of conventioneers bobble past the window; a woman stopped and checked her makeup, not realizing she was being watched from inside.