THE PENTHOUSE
TAYLOR Jefferson Rusk moved into the hotel a week ahead of the
team. He took the key to his assigned room on the ninth floor，
dropped it into his back pocket， then checked into the penthouse
suite as E. Fudd.
The huge twenty-fifth-floor suite had a 360-degree view of
Park City， and access was limited by a special key to the private
elevator. Taylor s plan was to stay hidden.
\"You guys going to win the Super Bowl， Mr. Rusk?\" The
bellman unloaded Taylor s bags from the dolly. \"We got it on pay
TV here in the hotel. Every room ll be filled at triple the rate.\"
\"My name is Fudd. E. Fudd.\" He handed the bellman a fifty-
dollar bill. \"Mr. Rusk is registered into a room on nine. Anybody
wants him， send them there.\" He handed the bill to the uniformed
man. \"General Grant will arrive every day the identities of Mr.
Ft~dd and Mr. Rusk stay separate.\"
; The tall quarterback pulled back the curtain to view the city
skyline; the sun was high， casting hard shadows through the light
smOg. The Pistol Dome was humped up far to the south， dark
The bellman slid the fifty-
\"That s the latest line outta
Vegas.\"
\"I don t gamble.\" Taylor stared at the giant growth on the
horizon. \"Too much like believing in God， banking on a miracle
to keep the corn growing or the dice rolling Too much ritual，
not enough substance， to show He has chosen you.\" The quar-
terback pointed at the Dome. \"There s your cathedral， one hundred
and sixty million dollars of veneration. The Opium of the Masses.
OPM. Other People s Money.\"
The bellman s pointed face pulled into a wolfish smile. \"I was
just wondering if you heard talk? Sixteen points is a big spread.\"
Taylor turned to the pockmarked， nervous， rumpled man. Dirty
gold braid decorated his dark-green outfit.
\"Well， what do you think?\" The man was looking for an edge
on life. Any edge.
\"What do you think?\" Taylor tossed back.
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