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moments before was quiet, became a mob scene as the reporters jostled and pushed one another, shouting out questions at Rye and cursing one another. Five security guards sprang into action and, linking hands, held back the reporters. Flashbulbs popped, exploding light across the Hilton lobby like it was Christmas.
    Rye strode over to the ballroom and positioned himself in front of the huge walnut doors he knew would look so impressive as background for his photo in the morning papers. He crinkled up his glacial blue eyes and flashed his relaxed country-boy smile for the cameras. "What the hell you boys doin' up so late?" he said after a barrage of pictures had been taken. "Must be well past your bedtime."
    "Heard you had a little problem, Mr. Whitman," yelled a reporter for the Wall Street Journal , trying to make himself heard over the general din of shuffling feet and popping flashbulbs.
    "Now who the hell told you that?" Rye smiled like an indulgent father.
    "Come on, Rye, we hear there's been some trouble," shouted the tall, young, pimply-faced boy known as the Miami Herald 's Wunderkind. He was hanging over the security guard's arms.
    "Give us a break," whined a reporter from the Naples Times. He managed to dig his incredibly sharp elbow into the Wunderkind.
    "No trouble," said Rye, beaming at them. "We just had a few differences that needed ironing out. But everything is fine now."
    A blue-eyed young woman, newly hired by NBC and frantic to show her worth, shouted from the rear, "Mr. Whitman, we all know there's been a proxy fight. And from what we hear, you were lucky to make it out with your ass."
    "Who let that cunt in here?" snapped Rye.
    "I heard that, Mr. Whitman," she yelled back.
    "You'll hear a lot more if you don't shut that mouth of yours."
    "Rye, don't," Maurice said frantically.
    "I don't have to take that kind of shit."
    The woman from NBC pushed her way to the front of the reporters. Her sharp blue eyes glared at him. Her voice was high-pitched and hysterical.
    "Come on, Mr. Whitman, you've raped this state till it's nothing more than one long housing development."
    "Careful I don't do the same thing to you. You look like you could use a good—"
    "Rye!" Maurice's voice was heavy with warning.
    "Okay, okay," answered Rye, "but let's get the hell out of here. I've had enough for tonight."
    Maurice and John formed a flying wedge. The security guards cleared a path, and the three men pushed through the mob of reporters.
    The reporters started pushing and shoving one another out of the way like dogs before a hunt. Rye could feel their hot breaths on him as they shouted. The noise of shuffling feet and shouting voices, combined with the damp Miami heat, was overpowering. Rye tried to ignore it. Keeping his eyes straight ahead and his shoulders hunched, he pushed through the crowd, past the Hilton lobby and out the swinging doors into the hot Miami night. He could still hear them shouting questions after him.
    A ten-passenger, chauffeur-driven, cobalt-black Mercedes swung into the driveway as if on signal. Maurice threw open the door before the car had even stopped, and Rye and John piled into the back seat. Maurice waited until they were safely in, then jumped in himself. The chauffeur put the car back into gear and, with a piercing screech, pulled away from the curb and onto the city streets, just as the crowd of reporters crashed through the hotel doors.
    "Okay, boys," said Rye as he pulled off his tie and opened his shirt to the frigid air blowing out of the air-conditioning vent, "now let's get down to real business."
    He punched a button on an electrified bar that folded out from the seat in front of him. The machine dropped a glass, squirted a perfectly mixed four-to-one martini out of a bright pink nipple, and dumped a load of ice. Rye watched his machine work with almost as much delight as he had felt the first day he got it. Rye loved gadgets.
    "Here's to close calls," he said as he downed the martini.