in a small booth, ignoring the babble of everyone around him. He looked slowly around the room. There were lots of red-rimmed eyes and pained expressions. Spector figured most of them had gotten fucked-up or fucked or both last night. He hadn't managed much sleep himself until the early morning hours.
A waitress stopped at his table and made a face that might have been a smile the first thousand or so times she'd done it. She pulled out her pad and pencil and raised her eyebrows expectantly. "What can I get for you this morning, sir?" The words came out in swift, staccato fashion. So much for Southern hospitality.
"Just coffee for now." Spector smiled slowly. He wanted food, too, but figured he was going to get his money's worth out of this bitch. The waitress gave him a dirty look and shot away from the table.
Spector leaned back in his chair and forced his surroundings to go out of focus. He had to come up with a plan to get at Hartmann. The pain was chewing at him big-time this morning, making it hard to think. '.Maybe he could get some inside dope from Tony. Find out where and when the senator would be most exposed. It would have to be crowded enough that nobody would realize exactly what had happened. At least, not for a while.
The waitress swept back over and set his coffee down hard, slopping it over into the saucer. "Sorry," she said, clearly not meaning it. "Will there be anything else?"
Spector waited a long moment before replying. "I'll need just a few more minutes."
The waitress rolled her eyes and walked away.
Spector picked up his cup and took a large swallow. The coffee burned his mouth and throat going down. No problem; it would heal before he decided what to order. He'd never have blisters on his tongue again.
Spector glanced over at the line of people waiting to be seated. A trim, bearded, older man walked past the crowd and looked slowly around the room. The man saw Spector and began walking purposefully over to his table. Spector tensed his legs, ready to bolt up if necessary. The man looked familiar, somehow. He stopped at the other side of the table and smiled.
"Pardon me, it's rather crowded in here this morning. Do you mind if I join you? My name is Josh Davidson." Spector was about to tell him to fuck off when he remembered that Davidson was one of his favorite actors. All the tension went out of him when Davidson smiled again.
" No, please, sit down, Mr. Davidson." Spector handed the actor his menu and looked for the waitress. He was damned if Josh Davidson was going to have to wait for service if he could do anything about it.
" Thank you so much," Davidson said, carefully seating himself. He pulled a folded newspaper out from under his arm and opened it up.
Spector spotted the waitress and was about to signal her when a large man emerged from the crowd. Hiram Worchester smoothed the creases in his lapels and looked from table to table.
"Mind if I read a section? " Spector reached for the front page, which Davidson had set aside.
"Be my guest."
Spector grabbed the paper and opened it quickly. He peeped up over the top. Fatman was still looking about. If he's looking for Davidson, I'm sunk, he thought. As satisfying as it might be to croak the blimpy bastard, he couldn't jeopardize the job. A waiter walked over to Worchester and nodded deferentially.
"I have to leave, Mr. Davidson," Spector said. "Not really feeling too well. Mind if I keep your front page?"
"Not at all. It's the least I can do."
Spector stood and walked slowly toward the door, keeping the newspaper raised in front of him. It looked stupid, but was better than having Worchester recognize him.
The waitress walked past him as he left. "Good riddance," she said, just loud enough for him to hear. Spector was too preoccupied to even care.
11:00 A.M.
Tachyon leaned against the side of the pew, and licked sweat from his upper lip. He was afraid he was going to faint from the stifling heat, and the four enormous fans in the back of Our Lady of Perpetual Misery did little to stir the heavy, moist air. He considered removing his velvet coat, but that would reveal the sweat-darkened circles beneath his armpits, and what an offensive state in which to say farewell to Chrysalis. He was supposed to verbalize