By the time Seth reached the hotel, he had made his calls. Somehow, he had created a fragile symmetry to his day. Providing there were no disasters, he would survive it. If Seth Goldman was anything, he was a survivor.
Then disaster presented itself in a cheap rayon dress.
Standing outside the front entrance to the hotel, she looked a thousand years old. Even from ten feet away he could smell the alcohol.
In low-budget horror movies, there was a surefire way to tell that the monster lurked nearby. There was always a musical cue. The threatening cellos before the bright brass of the attack.
For Seth Goldman, no music was needed. The end-his end-was a silent indictment in a woman's puffy red eyes.
He couldn't let it happen. Couldn't. He had worked too hard, too long. Everything was riding on The Palace and he would not let anything get in the way.
How far would he go to stanch the flow? He would soon find out.
Before anyone saw them, he took her by the arm and led her to a waiting cab.