The sensitives [antikvár]

T HE game was five-card stud, it was eight in the morning after a long night, and B. B. Thayer's suite at the Devon was filled with the aromas of freshly-grilled ham, eggs shirred in sherry, home-fried potatoes, and rich, strong coffee; all of it coming from the buffet table set against the far wall. You could count on Thayer for that level of hospitality. He lived in Houston, but he kept the suite at the Devon on East Fifty-seventh Street for his poker trips to New York. The buflfet had been open all night and now the aroma of the coffee was enough to take my mind away from the business at the table. Breakfast time after a twelve-hour session, time to finish it off, deal once more around, and go home. I was ready for home. I had a headache splitting my skull from top to bottom, and the sharp edge of the axe was buried between my eyes. Waiting for the next hand to be dealt, I stretched my arms and glanced around the table at the other players. On my left was Thayer himself, whose money came from natural gas. Next to him was Theresa Fabrikant, who ran an advertising agency that billed over two hundred million a year. After that came