I sat on the closed toilet lid with a towel around my neck, Vera's body inserted between me and the wall-to-wall mirror that ran along the countertop. "What are you going to do about the bruises on my face?"

"Trust me, kid."

She had bottles and powders, lotions, creams, goo in jars, brushes, applicators, sponges, Q-tips. She worked with her face very close to mine, issuing instructions. "Close your eyes. Now look up… God, quit blinking! You're making a mess." She painted on lipstick with a brush, her own lips forming the shape she wanted me to form with mine.

Forty minutes later, she stepped back, scrutinizing her handiwork. She twisted the lipstick back down in the tube. "Yeah. I like it," she said. "What do you think?" She moved aside so I could see my reflection in the mirror.

I looked at myself. Suddenly, I had these dramatic eyes, all the color of a maiden in the first blush of youth, dewy mouth, hair standing out in a dark windblown tumble. I cracked up.

"Go ahead and laugh," she said acidly. "You look damn good."

Dietz returned to the room at seven, glancing at us both without remark. Vera had done herself up in six minutes flat, her personal best she said. She was wearing a black dress with a low-cut top filled to the brim with bulging breasts, black hose with a seam up the back, black spike heels. She stopped dead in her tracks and put her hands on her hips. "What do you say, Dietz? Come on. Cough it out."

"You look great. No shit. Both of you look swell."

" 'Swell' doesn't even come close." And then to me, "I'll bet he still calls women 'gals.' "

"Not so far," I said.

Dietz smiled to himself, but refused to engage. He propelled us across the hall and down three doors into the safety of the banquet room, which was small and elegant: chandelier, white woodwork, walls padded in cream-colored silk. Six tables for six had been laid out with a spray of orchids as the centerpiece. Each table was numbered and I could see that place cards were set out, names in script.

Many of the CF employees were already there, standing together in groups of three and four, drinks in hand. I spotted Mac Voorhies and his wife Marie, Jewel and her husband (whom I'd only met once), Darcy Pascoe and her boyfriend, the (allegedly) dope-peddling mailman. Vera slipped her hand through Dietz's arm and the three of us circled the room while everyone was introduced to everyone else and we all promptly forgot who was who. I could see Vera doing an eyeball cruise, checking across the heads to see if Neil Hess had arrived yet. I was just hoping he'd be tall enough for her to spot.

Dietz bought us each a drink. His was a plain soda water with lime, mine a white wine, and Vera's a tequila sunrise. She sucked that one down and bought herself another. I watched her with interest. I'd never seen Vera so tense. She turned to Dietz. "God, how can you drink without smoking a cigarette?"

"This isn't alcohol."

She rolled her eyes. "That's even worse. I'm going to bum one," she said. "No, I'm not. Well, maybe one. A puff."

"Is that Neil?" I asked. A doctorish type was poised in the doorway, searching for a familiar face. Without a reference point, of course, it wasn't possible to tell just how short he was, but he looked okay to me. Pleasant face, dark hair cut stylishly. He wore a navy suit, pale blue shirt I could have bet would have monogrammed cuffs. The bow tie was unexpected-I hadn't seen one in years. Vera raised a hand. His face brightened when he spotted her. He made his way across the room while she moved to join him, tucking her arm in his when they connected at the midpoint. She had to bend a bit to talk to him, but the disparity in their heights didn't seem remarkable to me. I tried to picture him with his head on my pillow, but it really didn't wash.

17

Vera, in charge of the seating, had of course set it up so that Neil Hess and I were together. She and Dietz were at the table to our left. Dietz had apparently interceded to some extent, arranging it so that I was secured in one corner of the room, facing the entrance. Dietz was seated with his back to me, facing the entrance as well so he could keep an eye on the door. Vera was on his left, fully visible to me while all I could see of him was the back of his head. Both tables flanked an emergency exit that the security director had assured Dietz would remain unlocked for us during the course of the banquet.

By eight, everyone had arrived and the assembled group settled at the tables like a flock of birds. The noise level had risen several decibels as a result of the alcohol consumed. These were company relationships and there was a sense of giddiness and unease at the sudden shift from business to social behaviors. The three-course dinner was served at a leisurely pace: a salad of baby lettuces, boneless chicken breasts sauteed with lemon and capers, miniature vegetables, hot breads, and finally a dense chocolate cake in a puddle of vanilla sauce. I ate like a forest animal, head coming up to check the door at any sign of movement, worried that Mark Messinger would show up with an Uzi and mow us down like weeds. Judging from the set of Dietz's shoulders, he was more relaxed than I, but then he was staring down the front of Vera's dress, a titillating distraction for any man.