It was one of those tropical rains that sometimes fall in Florida: straight down out of a dark overcast sky, driven by no wind, and not intruding inside the screens. It was cold, though, and Number One sat wrapped in a knit shawl hung around his shoulders by his nurse. “Which king was it?” he asked, “who was wrapped in blankets with virgins to give him heat in his old age?” “David,” said Angelo. He smiled. “If you don’t require virgins, we might be able to find somebody.” Number One managed a faint smile of his own. “When you reach that point in life,” he said, “when it would make no difference whether the girl wrapped up with you was a virgin or not, the time has come … Oh, hell. I swore I’d make a hundred, and I’m afraid I’m going to. Don’t make promises to yourself. You may have to keep them.” Angelo had not come straight from the airport. Anticipating a confrontation, he had checked into a motel, affording himself a retreat if he needed one. He wore a madras jacket over a white polo shirt and a pair of Sandhurst-tan slacks.
