Nobody likes Koko Hofsteder’s parties. Her caterer makes abominable hors d’oeuvres, her bartender pours short shots, her pusher supplies her with diluted drugs. Koko’s repartee consists of two parts vanity, one part sycophantism. Yet, banal and witless though they may be, Koko Hofsteder’s parties are always well attended by the cream of Washington society. Senators, representatives, justices, all make an appearance. By inferred mutual consent, Koko Hofsteder’s parties have come to be a neutral zone, a place to discuss political positioning, to give fair warning, to unveil a threat.

The party has been in full swing for almost an hour. The pleasantries of social etiquette are rapidly being replaced by the affairs of state, a caucus in the kitchen, a collusion in the den.

Threading his way through the smoky web of parliamentary jargon, Senator Lako Barin approaches Senator Cy Abelman.

“Cy, good to see you,” he says with an orator’s measured resonance, his voice wrapped in the protective shroud of a hundred other ongoing conversations.

Senator Abelman, busy gnawing on a piece of white bread topped with an unrecognizable, tasteless spread, bobs his head once to acknowledge his colleague’s presence, then resumes his eating, choosing mediocre food over Lako Barin’s conversation.

The affront isn’t lost on Barin who counters with a rare display of levity. “When you finish your sandwich, I recommend the drug table. Koko’s serving a superb bicarbonate of soda.”

In spite of himself, Abelman chuckles. It’s not a signal of mirth. It’s the venting of tension that so often precedes the deadly serious business of confrontation. He sets his plate aside, wipes his hands on his coat. “Very well, Senator. Let’s get it over with. I’ll give you my stand in the most straightforward of terms. I find your street football bill not only reprehensible but also morally obscene. I’ll do everything in my power, take every conceivable action, pull every available string to see it defeated.” Abelman’s an old man, prone, on occasion, to loosen the cork of maturity that usually bottles up his emotions. When he finishes speaking, his face is a window depicting the choleric fury inside him.

Rather than accepting Abelman’s statement at face value as a sincere demarcation of a man’s belief, Barin takes it as a negotiable demand in the collective bargaining that commonly passes for political integrity. “Cy, I don’t think I need remind you. I’m in a position to do you a lot of good. Harriman owes me a rather large favor. I can cash it in to spring your mass transit bill out of committee. Or that parks and forests thing you’re so set on enacting. I can assure you of passage. Just tell me what you want, and it’s yours.”