Ace in the Hole Read online

  Be quiet. We can’t do anything about it now.

  Then it had better be soon. Soon, do you hear me, Greggie?

  Gregg forced the power back into its mental cage. The effort cost him. Puppetman struggled, its anger a rasping, continual presence. Shaking the bars.

  Lately, it was always shaking the bars.

  The problem had only begun in the last few months. At first it was rare, something he thought of as some strange fluke, a quirk attributed to the weariness of a long campaign. But it had happened more and more often.

  A mental wall would slam up between Puppetman and his victims. Just as he was about to feed on those dark and violent emotions, he would be cut off, pushed back by some outside force. Puppetman would howl as the link to the puppet was severed.

  He’d prayed that problem would disappear; instead, it worsened. For the past two weeks the block had reared up every time Puppetman had tried to feed. Lately, he’d begun to sense a mocking laughter riding with the interference, a faint, whispering voice just on the edge of recognition.

  The power inside Gregg was becoming desperate and uncontrollable. And Gregg was afraid the internal struggle was beginning to show.

  Make me wait much longer and I’ll show you the real puppet. I’ll give you a goddamn graphic demonstration of which one of us is in control.

  The power slipped loose of Gregg’s hold for a moment, defiant. Gregg willed it to be silent, but still it screamed at him as he set the mental bars around it once more. Puppetman gibbered and spat. You’re the fucking puppet, do you hear! I’ll make you crawl! Understand? You need it as much as I do. If I die, you die. You have nothing without me.

  Gregg was sweating with the effort, but he won. He closed his eyes and leaned back as the elevator lurched to a halt at the ground floor. Puppetman lapsed into brooding silence inside; Amy watched him with concern.

  The doors opened, and the coolness and noise of the lobby hit them. Some of the crowd in the lobby, most of them sporting Hartmann buttons and hats, had spotted him—there were screams and a rush toward him. Waiting Secret Service men stepped smoothly between them, cutting off the supporters; Gregg waved and smiled. They began to chant: “Hartmann! Hartmann!” The lobby echoed with it.

  Amy shook her head. “What a circus, huh?”

  Ray ushered Gregg toward the private room where he was to meet Hiram and Braun, and then took his station just outside. Gregg went in. The air-conditioning here was more oppressive than the lobby’s. He shivered and rubbed his arms.

  Only Jack—Golden Boy—was present, a handsome, tall man who looked as if he hadn’t aged a day in the four decades since the heyday of the Four Aces, still the image of the movie star he’d once been. He rose to greet Gregg. Braun seemed subdued, which didn’t surprise Gregg. He hadn’t figured Jack would much care for the attempt at reconciliation. Frankly, he didn’t give a shit whether Jack was happy with it or not—Gregg was going to make the two of them bury this particular hatchet; publicly, at least.

  “Senator, Amy,” Braun said. His eyes lingered a bit too long on Amy. Which also hardly surprised Gregg; he knew they were having an affair. Puppetman knew lots of hidden things. “Good morning. How’s Ellen?”

  “Getting bigger each day,” Gregg replied. “And tired a lot. Like all of us.”

  “I know what you mean. Ready to begin the good fight?”

  “I thought we’d already begun, Jack,” Gregg commented. His voice sounded glum and irritable against Braun’s heartiness. He made himself smile.

  Braun glanced at Gregg strangely, but he laughed. “I suppose so. You know Californians: it’s bad enough everyone was a little jet-lagged. I was up most of the night with your uncommitted superdelegates. I think we have things worked out. Listen, I thought you said Worchester was going to be here.”

  “You haven’t seen him this morning?” Gregg frowned, irritated.

  “Not yet. And it isn’t exactly like him to pass up a meal—though he’ll probably bring his own in since I hear even the Bello Mondo isn’t up to his standards.” A grimace and shrug. “Hey, I know the reason you wanted this breakfast meeting was to get the two of us to patch up our differences, and I appreciate the sentiment—I’d like it, too. But maybe Hiram isn’t quite as forgiving as you think.”

  “I don’t believe that, Jack.”

  Jack gave Gregg a lopsided, bitter smile. “He’s never served you a plate of thirty silver dimes, either.”

  “Amy…” Gregg began.

  “Already gone, sir,” his aide said. “I’ll find him or starve trying. Save me a roll, okay?”

  As she left the room, Gregg turned to Braun. “Okay, we’ll go ahead and eat. If Hiram shows, he shows.” The words snapped out more sharply than Gregg intended. He was in no mood for games, not with Puppetman slamming against his restraints. Braun was looking at him strangely again, but before the ace could say anything, Gregg shook his head and waved the anger away. “God, that sounded horrible, Jack. I’m sorry. I’m just not myself this morning. Point me in the direction of the coffeepot, would you?”

  Strange, Jack thought. He’d never felt uncomfortable in the presence of Gregg Hartmann before. Yet here he was, face-to-face with the man he hoped would be the next president, the man who had talked him into coming out of his public isolation and joining his crusade for office, and something was missing.

  I’m tired, thought Jack. So is Gregg. No one can be charismatic every minute.

  He poured himself coffee. The cup rattled in the saucer—hangover, maybe, or nerves. If it hadn’t been Gregg asking for this meeting, he wouldn’t have come. “I saw a car full of Nazis outside,” he said. “Nazis in uniforms.”

  “The Klan are here, too.” Hartmann shook his head. “There’s potential for a serious confrontation. The crackpot right likes that kind of thing—it gives them publicity.”

  “Lucky thing the Turtle is here.”

  “Yes.” Hartmann gave him a look. “You’ve never met the Turtle, have you?”

  Jack held up a hand. “Please.” He smiled to cover his nervousness. “Let’s keep it down to one reconciliation a day, okay?”

  Hartmann knit his brows. “Is there a problem between you?”

  Jack shrugged. “Not that I know of. I just … sort of assume there would be.”

  Hartmann stepped toward Jack, put a hand on his shoulder. There was concern in his eyes.

  “You assume too much, Jack. You think everyone’s got a chip on his shoulder about your past, and it’s just not true. You’ve got to let down the defenses, let people get to know you.”

  Jack stared at the coffee swirling in his cup and thought about Earl Sanderson spiraling to a crash landing at his feet. “Okay, Gregg,” he said, “I’ll try.”

  “You’re important to this campaign, Jack. You’re head of the California delegation. I wouldn’t have chosen you if you weren’t suited for the job.”

  “You could get some heat on account of me. I’ve told you that.”

  “You’re important, Jack. You’re a symbol of something bad that happened a long time ago, something we’re trying to prevent from happening again. The other Four Aces were victims, but so were you. They paid with prison or exile or their lives, but you…” Hartmann gave his boyish, half-apologetic smile. “Maybe you paid with your self-respect. Who’s to say that isn’t worth more in the long run? Their agony ended, but yours hasn’t. I think it all balanced long ago, that everyone’s paid too much.” He squeezed Jack’s shoulder. “We need you. You’re important to us. I’m glad you’re aboard.”

  Jack stared at Hartmann, cynicism ringing in his mind like funeral bells. Was Gregg serious—lives and sanity and prison terms balanced against his own worthless loss of dignity? Hartmann had to be laughing behind that sincere expression, making fun of him.

  Jack shook his head. From the time he’d met him aboard the Stacked Deck, Hartmann had been a man who could make Jack feel good about himself. What he was saying now wasn’t substantially different from wh
at he’d said to Jack before. But now the message seemed the reflex posturing of a politician, not the message of a concerned friend.

  “Is something wrong, Gregg?” Jack blurted.

  Hartmann dropped his hand, turned partly away. “Sorry,” he said. “Things have been a little strained.”

  “You need some rest.”

  “Guess we all do.” Hartmann cleared his throat. “Charles said you did some good work for us last night.”

  “I got some congressmen drunk and laid, is all.”

  Hartmann gave a laugh. “Charles has given me their names and room numbers. I’ll be phoning them as soon as we’ve finished breakfast. Perhaps—”

  The door opened. Jack jumped, spilling coffee. He turned and saw, not Hiram Worchester, but Amy. Embarrassed at his nervousness, Jack reached for a napkin.

  “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. I just got a phone call from Furs in Jokertown. It’s a potential problem. Chrysalis has just been found dead in New York. Ace abilities were involved.”

  Surprise stumbled into Jack’s mind. He’d spent months with Chrysalis aboard the Stacked Deck, and although he’d never been comfortable around her—the organs and muscle visible through the transparent flesh reminded Jack of too many things he’d seen in World War II and Korea—he’d developed an abstract admiration for the way Chrysalis handled her deformity, the cultured accent, cigarette holder, antique playing cards, and dry style.

  Hartmann’s face went rigid. When the candidate spoke, his voice was strained. “Any more details?”

  “Beaten to death, looks like.” Amy pursed her lips. “Barnett can make some propaganda out of this—it’s more ‘wild card violence’ that will have to be restrained.”

  “I knew her well,” Hartmann said tightly. The masklike face seemed unusual in a man who was so open around his friends. Jack wondered if there were aspects to this death he hadn’t known about.

  “Tony Calderone checked in late last night,” Amy said. “Maybe you should get him preparing a statement in case Barnett tries to use this.”

  Hartmann gave a sigh. “Yes. I’ll have to do that.” He turned to Jack. “Jack, I’m afraid I’m going to have to abandon you.”

  “Should I leave?”

  Concern entered Hartmann’s eyes again as he looked at Jack. “I would appreciate it very much if you’d stay. You and Hiram Worchester are two of my most visible supporters—if you could settle your differences, it would mean a lot to me.”

  Jack thought for a moment, wondering if Judas and St. Paul ever settled their differences.

  He sighed. It had to happen sooner or later. “I don’t have a problem with Worchester, Gregg. He’s just got one with me.”

  Hartmann smiled. “Good,” he said. He raised a hand and squeezed Jack’s shoulder again.

  The room seemed very empty after Hartmann and Amy left. Jack watched breakfast turn cold on the buffet.

  Earl’s glider crashed again and again in his mind.

  9:00 A.M.

  “Sara,” Ricky Barnes said, “you’ve got to get off this Hartmann thing. It’s making you crazy. You’re acting obsessive/compulsive.”

  They sat at a round table covered in green-checked oilcloth near Le Peep’s front window. Outside, a clot of farm-state delegates in loud ties floated down the tiled rectilinear intestine of Peachtree Center, headed for the Hyatt lobby. More delegates vied with ferns for elbow room around them, trying to fortify themselves on lightweight New Egg Cuisine. It was that, fast food, or hotel restaurants, which had waiting lists past the turn of the century.

  “Rolling Stone says that’s the disease of the eighties,” Sara Morgenstern said, dissecting her omelet with her fork. Her winter-pale hair was swept from the left side of her head to the right today. She wore a simple pink dress that came to the tops of her crossed knees. Her stockings were sheer black, her shoes wedge-soled and white.

  Barnes took a bite of his own tofu and spinach omelet. The coat of his severe black two-piece was draped over his hooped chairback. With his suspenders and white shirt he might have passed for an Inherit the Wind epoch Southern Methodist minister, except for his gold-wire yuppie granny glasses.

  “It’s getting a lot of competition from AIDS,” he said. “But seriously, you’re a long way off your usual Jokertown beat; your Washington desk is handling everything that comes out of Atlanta this week, and they won’t be as indulgent of your little foibles as the New York bureau is. Senator Gregg’s the Post’s special pet. It’s as if Katie Graham invented him. They’re not going to be happy with you throwing rocks at him.”

  “We’re journalists, Ricky,” she said, leaning forward, reaching as if to touch the hand resting beside his plate. The white fingers stopped millimeters short of the milk-chocolate ones. Ricky didn’t react. He was an old friend, who’d taken a journalism seminar from her at Columbia a few years back, and knew her reticence had nothing to do with his race. “We have to report the truth.”

  Ricky shook his long and neatly groomed head. “Sara, Sara. You’re not that naive. We report what the owners want or what our peers want. If the truth happens to fall inconveniently in between, it doesn’t have much constituency. Besides, what is truth, as the man who washed his hands asked?”

  “The truth is that Gregg Hartmann is a murderer and a monster. And I’m going to expose him.”

  When Hiram Worchester shambled into the room, Jack gave a start and reflexively began to rise from his chair before deciding not to. He settled back into the chair with his coffee and cigarette. He and Hiram had been on the Stacked Deck together; even if they hadn’t been friends, there was no need for formality.

  Hiram looked as if he hadn’t slept. He headed wordlessly for the buffet, took a plate, began to fill it.

  Jack felt perspiration speckling his scalp. His heart seemed to change rhythms every few seconds. Why the hell, he demanded of himself, was he so nervous? He took a long drag on his Camel.

  Hiram kept filling his plate. Jack began to wonder if his wild card had suddenly run to invisibility.

  Hiram turned, chewing a cruller as if he wasn’t really tasting it, and took a seat opposite Jack. On the Stacked Deck he had used his control of gravity to remove a lot of his weight, something that made him oddly agile. He didn’t seem to be doing that now. He looked at Jack out of dull, marble eyes. “Braun,” he said. “This meeting wasn’t my idea.”

  “Mine either.”

  “You were a hero of mine, you know. When I was young.”

  We all have to grow up sometime, Jack thought, but decided against saying it. Let the man have his moment.

  “I’ve never made any claims to heroism myself,” Hiram spoke on. Jack had the feeling it was a speech he’d been working on for some time. “I’m a fat man who runs a restaurant. I’ve never been on the cover of Life or starred in a feature film. But whatever else, I’m loyal to my friends.”

  Good for you, chum. This time Jack almost said it. But he thought of Earl Sanderson fluttering to the floor of the Marriott and instead said nothing.

  He blinked sweat out of his eyes. Why am I doing this to myself? he thought.

  Hiram spoke on, robot-like. “Gregg tells me you did good work in California. He says we might have lost without all the celebrity support and money that you organized. I’m grateful for that, but gratitude is one thing and trust is another.”

  “I wouldn’t trust anybody in politics, Worchester,” Jack said. And then wondered if that piece of fashionable cynicism was true, because he did trust Gregg Hartmann, knew him for a genuinely good man, and he wanted the man to win more than he had wanted anything in thirty years.

  “It’s important that Gregg Hartmann win this election, Braun. Leo Barnett is the Nur al-Allah in American dress. Remember Syria? Remember jokers stoned to death in the streets?” There was a weird gleam in Hiram’s eyes. He raised a fist and clenched it, forgetting it contained half a cruller. “That’s what’s at stake here, Braun. They’ll do anything to stop us. They’ll bribe, smea
r, seduce us, resort to violence. And where will you be, Braun?” Loudly. “Where will you be when they really start turning the screws?”

  Suddenly Jack’s nervousness was gone. A cold anger hummed through him. He’d had quite enough.

  “You … weren’t … there,” Jack said.

  Hiram paused, then became aware of pastry dough ballooning out between the fingers of his upraised hand.

  “You … weren’t … fucking … there.” The words grated slowly from a place inside Jack that seemed like a twilight graveyard, a place without warmth, an endless plain of autumn grass marked with gray stones that noted the passing of Earl, of Blythe, of Archibald Holmes, of all the young men he knew in the 5th Division, all those who died at the Rapido crossing, little stick figures scattered like so many handfuls of dust beneath the pounding guns of Cassino …

  Jack stood up and threw the cigarette away. “For someone who doesn’t claim to be a hero, Worchester, you sure make a great speech. Maybe you should consider a career in politics.”

  With quick, vicious movements of the napkin, Hiram swabbed dough from his hand. “I told Gregg you can’t be trusted. He told me you’ve changed.”

  “Could be he’s right,” Jack said. “Could be he’s wrong. The question is, what can you do about it?”

  Hiram threw the napkin away and rose massively to his feet, a pale mountain lumbering to battle. “I can do what I have to do!” he said sharply. “It’s that important!”

  Jack’s lips skinned back from his teeth in a wolverine smile. “You don’t know that. You haven’t been tested. You haven’t been there.” He gave a stage laugh, Basil Rathbone standing on the parapet and mocking the peasants. “Everyone knows about me, Worchester, but nobody’s put the screws to you yet. Nobody’s asked you to betray your friends. You haven’t been there, and you don’t know what you’re going to do till it happens.” He smiled again. “Take my word for it.”