Ace In The Hole wc-6 Read online

  Puppetman cursed. Gregg pulled his hand back.

  "Tell him that it was a joker, Reverend," Fleur snapped coldly. "Tell him how you shook the sinner's hand and how he tried to crush it. I still think you should go to the hospital. A fracture-"

  "It's only a bruise, sister. Please…" Barnett smiled at Gregg as if sharing some private joke. "I'm sure the Senator has had similar experiences. Handshaking's the bane of politicians."

  "That it is," Gregg said. He was so damned tired of smiling. He nodded to the stonefaced Fleur. "And I'm especially sorry it was a joker."

  "A joker with one of your campaign buttons," Fleur sniffed.

  "Which my people, like yours, give out by the thousands," Gregg countered, a little too sharply. He turned to Barnett. "There are enough misunderstandings already. I wanted to give you and your staff my congratulations on a hard fight over the platform, and to say that I'm glad we could finally come to a compromise. "

  That made Barnett's lips twitch, and Gregg knew he'd touched a nerve. "I did not agree to the modified plank," Barnett said. "There were, well, weak-hearted souls among my delegates who saw fit to accept it over my protest. It was a mistake, and-I must confess my own vanity-I'm sick over it. But the Lord also makes use of defeats, Senator. He's shown me that I was wrong trying to play these political games. I'm finding that this convention is hardly the place for someone like me."

  For a moment, Gregg felt an uplift of optimism. If Barnett were to withdraw his nomination, even if he instructed his delegates to vote for Dukakis or Jackson… But Barnett was smiling again, taking out the well-worn Bible stuffed in his suit jacket's pocket and patting its gilded covers. "I am a man of God, Senator. For the remainder of this convention, I intend to do what I know best: I will pray. I will lock the doors of this world and open the doors of my soul."

  Gregg's face must have shown his confusion. "Today was hardly a defeat for you, Reverend, and hardly a victory for me. I'd like to work with you to make a new path, one both we and our party can follow. Isolating yourself isn't the answer."

  Barnett nodded seriously, as if weighing Gregg's argument in his mind. "It might be that you're right, Senator. If so, then I have to trust that God will make it known to me. Still, I fully expect to spend the rest of this convention in prayer and not in playing the convention power games. Fleur's wellequipped to handle all that for the time being. I'm a stubborn fool sometimes. I don't really believe in compromise, I've no delusion that there is more than one right path. The God L know and the God I've seen in the Bible doesn't compromise. God never came to `understandings,' God never made 'concessions to political realities.'" Barnett glanced at Gregg, concern lining his high forehead. "I don't mean to offend you, Senator, but I have to say what I believe."

  "Yet I believe in the very same God, Reverend. We're only men, not God Himself. We do the best we can; we're not enemies. It's human pride that keeps us apart. The least we can do as leaders is shake hands and try to resolve our differences." Gregg lathed his words with earnest conviction. "For the good of all. That would seem to be a truly Christian act." Gregg gave a bluff, self-deprecating chuckle and put out his hand once more. "I promise not to squeeze."

  Puppetman quivered in anticipation. For a moment, he was certain that it had worked. Barnett hesitated, rocking on his toes. Then the preacher thoughtfully clasped his hands together around his Bible.

  "The act I'd like to see us share, Senator, is prayer. Let me make an invitation to you. Join me in my vigil. Let's leave the politics to the delegates and kneel together for the next several days."

  "Reverend…" Gregg began. He shook his head. Why? Why does he avoid us every time?

  Barnett nodded, almost sadly. "I thought not," he said. "We walk very different paths, Senator." He began walking toward his room, clutching the Bible in his right hand.

  Gregg let his hand drop to his side. "You don't shake hands with enemies, Reverend?" Gregg's voice was harsh, tinged with Puppetman's vitriol. Fleur, following behind Barnett, flushed angrily. Barnett simply favored Gregg with another of his sorrowful, secretive smiles.

  "People expect Biblical quotes from a man of God, Senator," he said. "It's not surprising, since the Bible often has just the right word for the occasion. One comes to mind now, from I Timothy: `The Spirit distinctly says that in later times some will turn away from the faith and will heed deceitful spirits and things taught by demons through plausible liarsmen with seared consciences.' Now that's a bit of hyperbole, Senator, but I think that-unbeknownst, perhaps-a demon taints your words. We're not enemies, Senator. At least I don't think so. And even if we were, I'd still pray that you'd come into the light and cleanse yourself. There's always hope for redemption. Always."

  Barnett gave Gregg an unblinking, long stare. There was a distinct click as he turned the deadbolt behind him.

  The brandy kept hitting the cut on his lip, and each time it drew a yelp. And a smirk from the bartender. Tachyon considered telling her to fuck off, then he realized what a picture he must present. The mark of Sara's nails from last night's fiasco lay like red furrows dug in the white skin of his cheek. His lower lip was split and slightly swollen from Fleur's nail. What a singularly unsuccessful lothario he was. No wonder the young woman behind the bar smirked. Women. They always stuck together.

  "Hi. Mind if I join you?"

  Josh Davidson slid onto the stool next to him. Tach turned to greet him with genuine pleasure. "No, not at all."

  "When a man sits huddled on a stool at a bar, it generally means he wants to be alone, but I thought I'd take a chance."

  "I'm glad you did. Buy you a drink?"

  "Sure."

  An awkward silence fell between the two men, punctuated only by Davidson's order. Suddenly they shifted to face one another, and both said in chorus,

  "I've admired-"

  "I've always admired you-"

  They laughed, and Tachyon said, "Well, isn't that convenient? We obviously have good taste." Tach paused and sipped brandy. "Why are you down here?"

  Davidson shrugged. "Curiosity."

  "About what?"

  "The political process. Can a man make a difference?"

  "Oh, yes, I'm convinced of it."

  "But you come from a culture that puts a premium on individual effort," said Davidson, rolling his glass between his palms.

  "I take it you don't agree?"

  "I don't know. It seems a questionable proposition to allow one man's vision, opinion, to shape policy."

  "But in this political system it never happens. Even in my aristocratic culture the absolute despot is a fantasy. There are always competing interests."

  "Yes, so how do you choose between them?" Frowning, Tachyon said, "You make the decision."

  "That sounds so easy. But what right do you have to substitute your judgment for… for.."

  "The will of the people?" suggested the Takisian. "Yes."

  Tachyon steepled his fingers before his mouth, threw back his head and regarded the wine glasses hanging like crystal stalactites from their rack. "A representative owes the People not only his industry, but his judgment, and he betrays them if he sacrifices it to their opinion.. Edmund Burke." Davidson's laughter was sharp and clear. Tachyon stiffened. "Doctor, you astound me."

  Tachyon didn't reply. He knew he astounded people. He had astounded people since the moment of his arrival on this planet. August 23, 1946. Ideal, where had the time gone?

  Forty-two years. He had lived almost as long on this world as on his own. Home.

  "Hello? Where are you?" Dark, thoughtful eyes, soft with concern.

  "On a world that doesn't exist for me anymore." Homesickness lay like a jagged lump in the back of Tach's throat.

  "So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,

  Passed over to the end they were created,

  Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

  Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!

  Gives not the hawthorn bush a swee
ter shade

  To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,

  Than doth a rich embroidered canopy

  To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?"

  The men's eyes locked. "Doesn't that describe Takis?" asked Davidson softly.

  "And Earth. Treachery may be the one constant in an inconstant universe." Tach rose abruptly. "Pray excuse me. You were right, I do need to be alone."

  11:00 P.M.

  The day had been a total washout. Spector sprawled on the bed, two pillows propping him up. He had the TV remote control in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. It was his bedtime ritual, and helped him feel less out of place.

  He wasn't going to get to Hartmann in this building, not unless he was lucky beyond belief. And he'd used up his luck in getting this far. He didn't have access to the areas of the hotel that Hartmann would be in, except during press conferences. And he'd noticed that politicians rarely looked you in the eye unless you asked them a question. He wasn't dumb enough to draw that kind of attention to himself.

  He sipped at his drink and played channel roulette. Atlanta had gotten pounded again, this time by the Cardinals. The news was full of political bullshit, of course. Was Hartmann porking this stupid reporter bitch? Did Leo Barnett really think God spoke to him? Spector wished he'd gotten contracts to kill them all. Politicians were mostly people who'd had too little morals and ethics to stay lawyers.

  He'd eventually settled on an old movie. It was a period piece, set in France during the revolution. There was a guy in it who talked like Odie Cologne from the King Leonardo cartoons. Spector thought the actor had a double role, but hadn't been paying close enough attention to be sure. None of the colors looked like anything that occurred in nature. Just pastels that blurred and bled into each other anytime someone moved. Ted Turner's movies looked about as good as his baseball team.

  It had been weird running into Tony, even weirder finding out that he was a honcho for Hartmann. Tony was a good guy and Spector liked him, but he'd always been something of a bleeding heart.

  The actor was in deep shit now, headed for the guillotine. He didn't seem particularly upset about it. Spector would have gone kicking and screaming. He knew what it was like to die.

  He could use Tony to get at Hartmann, if there was no other way. Spector had always prided himself on the fact that he never fucked over his friends. He'd never had many, so it wasn't that hard to do. But the job came first.

  The actor had just sent a little blonde number up to the big blade with a kiss and now it was his turn. "It's a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done before. It's a far, far better rest I go to, than I have ever known." The actor stood before the guillotine, noble, unafraid. Naturally, the camera pans up so nobody can see his head flop into the basket.

  "What a fucking sap," Spector said, as he zapped the TV off. He downed another slug of whiskey and turned off the lights.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wednesday July 20, 1988

  7:00 A.M.

  The heavy thrum of the engines ran through every nerve. Tachyon stared gloomily out the plane's window, until returned to the present by a dig in the ribs from his seat companion. The stewardess indicated the covered tray with her eyes, and raised her eyebrows.

  "Thank you, no. But I would like a drink. A screwdriver. Put that orange juice to good use." He smiled at her. She didn't respond. In fact she gave him a look that clearly said you lush.

  He returned to his moody contemplation of the boiling thunderheads two thousand feet below. The stewardess returned with his drink, and Tach dug into his pocket for money. He came up with an inch-thick pile of pink message slips. Tachyon, call me, goddamn it! Hiram. He got the woman paid, and stared again at Hiram's insulting and uncommunicative message.

  What the fuck did Worchester want, and what the fuck had Davidson meant? Did he mean to imply that Tachyon was a shepherd, and the jokers "silly sheep?" Or was the reference to a king meant for him? Or had it held a more personal meaning? Davidson had looked odd. Or was it just an irritating affectation on the part of a professional actor who couldn't carry on a conversation without a scriptwriter?

  "Silly sheep. Goddamn him." Tach pulled out a handkerchief, and gave his nose a quick blow.

  I'm going home to bury one of my lost sheep. Oh, Chrysalis.

  He propped his head on his hand.

  9:00 A.M.

  He'd had to wait almost forty-five minutes to get seated. The atrium coffee shop was a blur of activity. Waitpersons bounced around from table to table like pinballs. Spector sat by himself in a small booth, ignoring the babble of everyone around him. He looked slowly around the room. There were lots of red-rimmed eyes and pained expressions. Spector figured most of them had gotten fucked-up or fucked or both last night. He hadn't managed much sleep himself until the early morning hours.

  A waitress stopped at his table and made a face that might have been a smile the first thousand or so times she'd done it. She pulled out her pad and pencil and raised her eyebrows expectantly. "What can I get for you this morning, sir?" The words came out in swift, staccato fashion. So much for Southern hospitality.

  "Just coffee for now." Spector smiled slowly. He wanted food, too, but figured he was going to get his money's worth out of this bitch. The waitress gave him a dirty look and shot away from the table.

  Spector leaned back in his chair and forced his surroundings to go out of focus. He had to come up with a plan to get at Hartmann. The pain was chewing at him big-time this morning, making it hard to think. '. Maybe he could get some inside dope from Tony. Find out where and when the senator would be most exposed. It would have to be crowded enough that nobody would realize exactly what had happened. At least, not for a while.

  The waitress swept back over and set his coffee down hard, slopping it over into the saucer. "Sorry," she said, clearly not meaning it. "Will there be anything else?"

  Spector waited a long moment before replying. "I'll need just a few more minutes."

  The waitress rolled her eyes and walked away.

  Spector picked up his cup and took a large swallow. The coffee burned his mouth and throat going down. No problem; it would heal before he decided what to order. He'd never have blisters on his tongue again.

  Spector glanced over at the line of people waiting to be seated. A trim, bearded, older man walked past the crowd and looked slowly around the room. The man saw Spector and began walking purposefully over to his table. Spector tensed his legs, ready to bolt up if necessary. The man looked familiar, somehow. He stopped at the other side of the table and smiled.

  "Pardon me, it's rather crowded in here this morning. Do you mind if I join you? My name is Josh Davidson." Spector was about to tell him to fuck off when he remembered that Davidson was one of his favorite actors. All the tension went out of him when Davidson smiled again.

  " No, please, sit down, Mr. Davidson." Spector handed the actor his menu and looked for the waitress. He was damned if Josh Davidson was going to have to wait for service if he could do anything about it.

  " Thank you so much," Davidson said, carefully seating himself. He pulled a folded newspaper out from under his arm and opened it up.

  Spector spotted the waitress and was about to signal her when a large man emerged from the crowd. Hiram Worchester smoothed the creases in his lapels and looked from table to table.

  "Mind if I read a section? " Spector reached for the front page, which Davidson had set aside.

  "Be my guest."

  Spector grabbed the paper and opened it quickly. He peeped up over the top. Fatman was still looking about. If he's looking for Davidson, I'm sunk, he thought. As satisfying as it might be to croak the blimpy bastard, he couldn't jeopardize the job. A waiter walked over to Worchester and nodded deferentially.

  "I have to leave, Mr. Davidson," Spector said. "Not really feeling too well. Mind if I keep your front page?"

  "Not at all. It's the least I can do."

  Spector stoo
d and walked slowly toward the door, keeping the newspaper raised in front of him. It looked stupid, but was better than having Worchester recognize him.

  The waitress walked past him as he left. "Good riddance," she said, just loud enough for him to hear. Spector was too preoccupied to even care.

  11:00 A.M.

  Tachyon leaned against the side of the pew, and licked sweat from his upper lip. He was afraid he was going to faint from the stifling heat, and the four enormous fans in the back of Our Lady of Perpetual Misery did little to stir the heavy, moist air. He considered removing his velvet coat, but that would reveal the sweat-darkened circles beneath his armpits, and what an offensive state in which to say farewell to Chrysalis. He was supposed to verbalize that farewell. Sum up in brilliant, poignant words what Chrysalis had meant to Jokertown. And he had no idea what he was going to say. He hadn't really known Chrysalis, and on some level he hadn't really liked her. But one could scarcely say that in a eulogy.

  Staring at her flower-draped casket, Tach wondered if Chrysalis's ghost was hovering nearby, listening to the hurried mumbling as the Living Rosary Society told their beads and offered prayers for the repose of her soul.

  The procession began, led by a joker altar boy with a bronze helix hung with the joker Jesus. He was followed by two others swinging censors that sent clouds of incense into the already highly redolent air. Tach coughed, and covered his mouth with his handkerchief.

  "I hate all this Catholic mumbo jumbo. She was raised a Baptist and she should a'died a Baptist."

  Tach turned his head slowly and regarded the man seated next to him in the pew. He was a big man with a weathered face that was florid beneath his tan. The black suit coat strained across his belly, and tendrils of sweat left shiny lines on his jowls. There didn't seem to be anything to say so Tach didn't. "I'm Joe Jory, Debra Jo's daddy."