The Key to Midnight

place was called Smooth Joe's, and on the roof it boasted a pair of ten-foot-tall neon cowboy dancers.
        Business was good for so early in the week: sixty or seventy cars surrounded the building. One was a chocolate-brown Mercedes with Maryland plates, and the stout man pulled in beside it.
        Without another word to the driver, Chelgrin got out of the Chevrolet. The night air was vibrating with a thunderous rendition of Garth Brooks's 'Friends in Low Places.' He got quickly into the rear seat of the Mercedes, where Anson Peterson was waiting.
        The instant the senator slammed the door, Peterson said, 'Let's roll, Harry.'
        The driver was big, broad-shouldered, and totally bald. He held the steering wheel almost at arm's length, and he drove well. They headed from the suburbs into the Virginia countryside.
        The interior of the car smelled of butter-rum Lifesavers. They were an addiction of Peterson's.
        'You're looking very well, Tom.'
        'And you.'
        In fact, Anson Peterson did not look well at all. Although he was only five feet nine, he weighed considerably in excess of three hundred pounds. His suit pants strained to encompass his enormous thighs. The buttons on his shirt met, but he had no hope of buttoning his jacket. As always, he wore a hand-knotted bow tie - this time white polka dots on a field of deep blue, to match his blue suit - which emphasized the extraordinary circumference of his neck. His face was a great, round pudding paler than vanilla -but within it shone two tar-black eyes that were bright with a fierce intelligence.
        Offering the roll of candy, Peterson said, 'Would you like one?'
        'No, thank you.'
        Peterson took a circlet of butter-rum for himself and, with a girlish daintiness, popped it into his mouth. He carefully folded shut the end of the roll, as if it must be done just so to please a stern nanny, and put it in one of his jacket pockets. From another pocket he withdrew a clean white handkerchief; he shook it out and scrubbed vigorously at his fingertips.
        In spite of his great size - or perhaps because of it - he was compulsively neat. His clothes were always immaculate, never a spot on shirt or tie. His hands were pink, the nails manicured and highly polished. He always looked as if he had just come from the barber: Not a hair was out of place on his round head. Occasionally Chelgrin had eaten dinner with the fat man, and Peterson had finished double servings without leaving a solitary crumb or drop of sauce on the tablecloth. The senator, hardly a sloppy man, always felt like a pig when, after dinner, he compared his place with Peterson's absolutely virginal expanse of linen.
        Now they cruised along wide streets with half-acre estates and large houses, heading out to hunt country. Their monthly meetings were always conducted on the move, because a car could be checked for electronic listening devices and stripped of them more easily than could a room in any building. Furthermore, a moving car with a well-trained and observant chauffeur was almost proof against an eavesdropping directional microphone focused on them from a distance.
        Of course it wasn't likely that Peterson would ever become the target of electronic surveillance. His cover as a successful real-estate entrepreneur was faultless. His secret work, done in addition to the real-estate dealing, was punishable by life imprisonment or even death if he were caught, so he was motivated to be methodical, circumspect, and security conscious.
        As they sped toward the countryside, the fat man talked around his candy. 'If I didn't know better, I'd think you engineered the election of this man in the White House. He seems to be determined to set himself up so precisely that you can knock him down with a single puff of breath.'
        'I'm not here to talk politics,' Chelgrin said shortly. 'May I see the report?'
        'Dear Tom, since we must work together, we should try our best to be friendly. It really takes so little time to be sociable.'
        'The report.'
        Peterson sighed. 'As you wish.'
        Chelgrin held out one hand for the file folder.
        Peterson made no move to give it to him. Instead, he said, 'There's nothing in writing this month. Just a spoken report.'
        Chelgrin stared at him in disbelief. 'That's unacceptable.'
        Peterson crunched what remained of his Lifesaver and