Graham was right: it was a hell of a party. The whole floor had been made into a replica forties ballroom. Men in suits. Women in cocktail dresses. The band playing Glenn Miller swing music. Standing near the elevator door was a gray-haired, suntanned man who looked vaguely familiar. He had the broad shoulders of an athlete. He stepped onto the elevator and turned to me. "Ground floor, please." I smelled whiskey.

A second, younger man in a suit instantly appeared by his side. "This elevator is going up, Senator."

"What's that?" the gray-haired man said, turning to his aide.

"This elevator's going up, sir."

"Well. I wantto go down." He was speaking with the careful, over-articulated speech of the drunk.

"Yes, sir. I know that, sir," the aide replied cheerfully. "Let's take the next elevator, Senator." He gripped the gray-haired man firmly by the elbow and led him off the elevator.

The doors closed. The elevator continued up.

"Your tax dollars at work," Graham said. "Recognize him? Senator Stephen Rowe. Nice to find him partying here, considering he's on the Senate Finance Committee, which sets all Japanese import regulations. But like his pal Senator Kennedy, Rowe is one of the great pussy patrollers."

"Oh, yeah?"

"They say he can drink pretty good, too."

"I noticed that."

"That's why he's got that kid with him. To keep him out of trouble."