Ace In The Hole wc-6 Read online

  Well, Downs just wasn't here. The Man could hardly blame him for that; it wasn't his fault. Fuck it. He phased through the outer wall, into the corridor.

  As he did, a door across and down one opened.

  "I tell you it's those Chinese people," a woman was saying in that nosy whine that made these New York people sound to Mackie like big, fleshy insects. "They're all drug dealers, you know. I saw all about them on the 60 Minutes. This Mr. Downs, he's, like, a crusading investigative reporter. I figure he got too close to them, the tong sent somebody over to mess his place up. There must be a dozen of them, the noise they were making. With sledgehammers and chain saws."

  She pushed out into the hallway like an East River tug in housecoat and fluorescent-pink, fuzzy slippers, with a hankie tied over curlers, and a super in tow. The super was a black man not much taller than Mackie, with a mustache and gray-stippled hair bushing out in back from beneath a Montreal Expos baseball cap. He had on paint-smeared, gray coveralls. He nodded distractedly at the woman while grumbling to himself, and tossing his big steel ring of keys for the master to Digger's apartment. He didn't notice Mackie.

  The woman did notice Mackie. She screamed.

  He smiled. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to him all day.

  The super looked up at him, his mouth a shout of pink in his dark face. Mackie felt his hands begin to vibrate as of their own accord. This wasn't going to be a total loss after all.

  Jack saw the weird red pyramids, looking like some strange form of acoustic tile, that crowned the Omni Center, and headed in their direction. He'd got lost in Peachtree Center looking for cigarettes, and taken the wrong route to the convention.

  Ted Turner's Omni Center was built of a new type of steel that was designed to rust. The theory was that the rust would protect the steel underneath, and from what Jack had seenand Jack had built a lot of buildings over the last thirty years-the theory was perfectly correct.

  Still, the damn thing was so ugly.

  He was approaching one of the convention's back entrances. A uniformed guard stood outside the closed door. Jack nodded into the mans shades, then tried to step past him to the door.

  "Wait a minute." The guard's voice was sharp. "Where do you think you're going?"

  "Into the convention."

  "Like hell you are."

  Jack looked at him. Connally, the man's name badge said. He had a broken nose and a little silver Christian cross pinned to his collar.

  Great, Jack thought. Probably a Barnett supporter. He unclipped his ID and floor pass from his pocket and waved them in the guard's face.

  "I'm a delegate. It's okay."

  "No one gets through this door. Ever. Those are my instructions. "

  "I'm a delegate."

  Connally appeared to reconsider. "Okay. Let's see that ID."

  Jack handed it over. Connally squinted as he looked at it. When he looked up, there was an evil grin on his face. "You don't look sixty-four to me," he said.

  "I'm well-preserved."

  The guard reached for his walkie-talkie. "This is Connally. Situation Three."

  Jack waved his arms. "What the hell is that?"

  "You're under arrest, asshole. Impersonating a delegate." "I ant a delegate."

  "The Secret Service are on their way. You can talk to them."

  Jack stared at the guard in rising despair. This, he realized, was only Monday.

  12:00 NOON

  "Devils and ancestors. What are you doing here?"

  Jack Braun eyed Tachyon sourly. "I'm headed for that bar." His long arm speared the underside of the raised piano bar. "For a drink

  … or two… or three, and if anybody tries to get in my way-"

  "You should be on the convention floor."

  "I was trying to get to the goddamn convention floor when this lard-assed security guard accused me of impersonating a delegate, and had me arrested. It took Charles Devaughn to cut me loose. So I've had a rather trying morning, Tachyon, and I'm going to get a drink."

  "The Barnett forces are desperately politicking for delegates. You need to be there to keep California solid."

  "Tachyon, in case you've forgotten; I'm the head of the California delegation. I think I can handle it." Braun roared, and several ever vigilant reporters craned to see the fight. "Jesus, you've been an American citizen what, five, six months, and already you're an authority on American politics?"

  "Anything I do, I do well," replied Tachyon primly, but he was working to subdue a smile. Braun spotted it and suddenly grinned.

  "Relax, Tachyon. Gregg's not going to lose California."

  "Jesse Jackson wants to talk to me," said Tach with one of his bewilderingly abrupt changes of topic.

  "Are you going to?"

  "I don't know. I might learn something."

  "I doubt it. Jesse's one smart operator. And besides, you're not working for the Hartmann campaign. Objectivity of the press and all that."

  Tachyon frowned. "What do you think he could want?"

  "At a guess I'd say your support."

  "I have no delegates, no influence."

  "Balony. Tachyon, these conventions are like a big shambling dinosaur. A prod in the ass can sometimes start the whole beast off in a new direction. If you were to switch your support, many of the jokers would follow. People might decide that you knew something. It could tilt things toward Jackson, and that's what he's after."

  "Then I won't see him. This convention is tOO close already."

  "Drink?"

  "No, thank you. I think I'll head over to the convention center."

  Jack started up the stairs. Tachyon stared at that broad back and powerful shoulders and wondered if he could shift some of his burdens onto those shoulders.

  "Jack."

  Something of his confusion and fear must have penetrated, for Braun paused part way up the stairs, and walked slowly back down. Laying his hands on Tachyon's shoulders, he frowned down at the smaller man. "What? What's wrong?"

  "Do you think… do you think it's possible for one of the candidates to be an ace?"

  "What, here?"

  "Yes, of course here! No, the candidate for dog catcher in Shawnee, Oklahoma. Don't be an imbecile!"

  "I'm not, you just took me off guard, that's all. Why? You got something?"

  "No," he said airily, and suspicion flared in the big ace's blue eyes.

  "It's hooey… bunk. Nobody could keep a thing like that hidden from the press. Remember Hart."

  "He was careless."

  "Look, if you're worried check it out. You could do it easily enough."

  "Yes, but information received telepathically is not admissible evidence. Also, given the current climate in this country, what would they do if they discovered I had been using alien mind powers on potential presidential candidates?"

  "Hang your skinny alien ass out to dry."

  "Precisely." Tach shrugged. "Well, never mind. I just thought I'd mention it… get your opinion…" His voice trailed away into silence.

  "Forget it, Tachy." Jack gave him a shake. "Okay?"

  "Okay. "

  "Now I'm going to get that drink."

  "Don't be too long," Tach yelled after him. "Oh, go to hell."

  "American whiskey. Straight up. A double. Two doubles."

  "Hard day, sir?"

  "Hard liquor for a hard day," Jack said. He lowered his briefcase to the ground and noticed for the first time-what was wrong with him anyway?-that the petite blonde waitress here in the atrium lounge was really quite attractive. He gave her the Hollywood smile that he'd practiced in countless mirrors throughout the late forties. "They've probably got you working overtime, too," he said. "Call me Jack, by the way."

  "Overtime sucks, Jack," she said, and waggled away with a swing to her hips that hadn't been in evidence for any of her other customers. Jack began to feel slightly better.

  After the Secret Service had testified to his bona fides and let him go, Jack spent most of the morning telli
ng his delegates thev were about to have their votes taken away if they didn't look out. Then Tachyon had harassed him for not doing his job, handed him the jive about a secret ace; and the campaign parliamentarian Logan, who was supposed to meet him here in the Marriott lounge, was already late.

  The cheerful waggle of a waitress's butt, he thought, is enough to give a man heart for the struggle. Flying Ace gliders swooped overhead in dancing accompaniment to his thoughts.

  The waitress brought his drinks. He chatted with herher name was Jolynn-and tossed down the first drink. Logan still hadn't showed. Jolynn had to leave to see to another customer, and Jack tipped her ten dollars, reflecting that all in all he enjoyed being rich, even at the cost of having to pretend intelligent conversation with a chimpanzee on TV for four years. He watched as a young man in a white dinner jacket crossed the atrium lounge to the white piano, then sat down and banged out the opening chords to "Piano Man." Jack felt his head try to retreat, like that of a turtle, between his shoulders.

  Moss Hart, Jack thought desperately. Kurt Weill. George and Ira Gershwin. Richard Rodgers-Jack could still remember the opening night of South Pacific.

  Maybe he could just tip the guy a hundred bucks and tell him not to play anything.

  "Honky Tonk Women" was next, followed by "New York, New York." Where, Jack thought, was Morrie Ryskind when you needed him?

  Logan still hadn't showed up. Jack sipped his second drink and stared fixedly at Jolynn's heart-shaped ass as it perambulated about the other end of the lounge.

  Then another female form drew his attention. Sluts on the right, he thought, an expression he'd acquired decades ago in Camp Shenango.

  The woman was walking right for him.

  Then he saw she was wearing a Barnett button. A slut for the Lord, he concluded.

  Then he recognized her. She was Leo Barnett's campaign manager-that was bad enough-but there was an old score between them that made everything far worse.

  Oh, god.

  The piano struck up the opening bars of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." Another whole set of memories invaded him, including being spat on the year before in Buenos Aires by a female Peronista.

  Jack rose, his heart sinking like a lead plummet, and prepared his face for more spittle.

  "Jack Braun? You have no idea how long I've looked forward to meeting you again."

  IT just bet, Jack thought.

  The voice, he realized, was different. Blythe had had a New York patroon accent of the kind that didn't exist anymore, that had died with Franklin and Eleanor. And Blythe would have worn red lipstick like all the women did in the forties, a bright crimson contrast to her pale face and dark hair. "Fleur van Renssaeler, I presume," Jack said. "I'm surprised you remember me."

  Which was the civil thing to say, but perfectly ridiculous. According to some, Jack had murdered her mother, and Fleur must have found that impossible to forget even if she wanted to.

  The heart-shaped face tilted far back to look him in the face. " I was-how little? Three or four?"

  "Something like that."

  "I remember you playing with me on the floor of my father's house."

  Jack gazed at her with a face of stone. She was dragging this out incredibly. Why didn't she spit on him or claw his face or otherwise get it over with?

  "I've always wanted to say how much I admire you," Fleur said. "You've always been one of my heroes."

  Shock ran like cold fire through Jack's veins. It wasn't that he believed in the sincerity of the words… the shock came from the fact that Blythe's daughter would prove this adept at sadism.

  "I hardly deserve it." Truthfully.

  She smiled. It was a very warm smile. He realized she was standing very close, and his groin tingled at the thought she might try to bring her knee up between his legs. His wild card would keep him from harm, but old reflexes died hard.

  "Aside from the Reverend Barnett," Fleur said, "you're the bravest man I know. You risked everything to bring down the aces and… that alien. I think you've been treated shamefully ever since. After all, your whole career was wrecked by those Hollywood liberals."

  Jack's thoughts dragged with glacial slowness. She was, he realized dumbly, absolutely sincere. Something cold crept like a stalking insect up his back.

  "I'm.. surprised," he said.

  "Because of my mother?" She was still smiling, still standing close. Jack wanted to run as fast as his legs would carry him.

  "My mother was willful and obstinate. She deserted my father to whore with… that alien creature. The one who brought us the plague." She couldn't say Tachyon's name, he realized. "I was well-rid of her," she went on, "and so were you. "

  Jack remembered he was holding his drink in his hand. He took a long swallow, needing the bite of the whiskey to return his staggered senses to reality.

  "Surprised at my language?" Fleur said. "The Bible is explicit about whoredom and its consequences. The adulterer and the adultress shall surely be put to death. Leviticus 20."

  "The Bible was also clear about who got to throw the first stone." Jack's tongue was thick. He was surprised he could talk at all.

  Fleur nodded. "I'm glad you can quote scripture."

  "I learned a lot of Bible verses when I was a kid. Most of them in German." He took another drink. "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" rang in his skull.

  "What surprises me," Fleur said, "is who you're keeping company with these days." She took a step closer and touched his wrist. Jack managed barely to keep from jumping out of his skin. "Senator Hartmann is surely the moral heir of the Roosevelt-Holmes clique that almost destroyed our country in the forties. You saved us from those people then, and now you've fallen for the liberal humanist line again."

  "That's me." He managed to grin. "Fallen."

  "I thought I might raise you again." Her fingers ran up and down his strong wrist.

  Slut for the Lord indeed, thought Jack.

  "I wanted to talk to you in person. That's why I'm here in the-" She gave a bell-like laugh. "These unhallowed halls."

  "Everyone needs to go slumming now and again." He stared at her, sickness rising in his belly. Fleur van Renssaeler, he realized, was the most twisted bitch he'd ever met in his life. His third wife included.

  "I thought perhaps we could get together. Talk about… politics. Talk about Senator Hartmann, Reverend Barnett."

  "Barnett wants to put me in a concentration camp."

  "Not you. You're a proven patriot. The Lord has turned your curse into a blessing."

  Jack could taste bile. "Glad to know I'm immune to the Lord's roundup. How about every other poor sucker who's got a wild card?"

  "If I could just explain it to you. Talk you back onto the right path. The path of Reverend Barnett and my father." Finally Jack's anger rumbled to the surface. He saw Logan's head above the crowd of delegates, and knew it was time to go.

  "Barnett's path I can't say anything about," Jack said as he picked up his briefcase. "But your father's I knew fairly well. He ate like a hog at the public trough, and for fun he fucked black boys in Harlem."

  The first time he'd ever used the F word to a woman, he thought as he headed for Logan.

  Though he had to give Fleur credit. She was a real professional. The smile hadn't gone, though it had, he thought, stiffened a bit.

  He felt slightly cheered. Cheap and lukewarm triumph was better than none.

  2:00 P.M.

  "Listen, Sara," Charles Devaughn said. "Whatever happened between you and Gregg on that world tour is history. It's over. Accept that." Hartmann's campaign manager had the sort of brusque preppie good looks people felt the senator had; nobody envisioned Hartmann as the round-shouldered ordinary he was.

  Sara felt her cheeks begin to glow like a spoon in a microwave. "Damnit, Charles, that's not the point. I need to talk to you about the way the senator's been acting-"

  He turned a shoulder to her, immaculately tailored and midnight blue. "I have no further comments for you, Ms. Morg
enstern. I would like to ask that you refrain from harassing the senator's campaign staffers any further. The press has certain responsibilities you'd be wise not to overlook."

  He walked. "Charles, wait! This is important " Her words bounced off his wedge of back and chased each other like arboreal animals up the Marriott's soaring organiformatrium, which she'd overheard a reporter from some fringe journal describe as Antoni Gaudi's trachea. Delegates bumping elbows in the lobby outside the function rooms turned to stare, their faces pale blank moons hanging over gardens of gaudy ribbons and campaign buttons, and in the middle of each a little square shine of plaque, like an exhibit at a botanical garden, identifying which subspecies of small-time political hustler or wanna-be this specimen belonged to.

  She struck herself twice on the thighs with the heels of her hands in frustration. You're losing it, Sara.

  On cue, the projector inside her mind brought up an image of Andrea, her elder sister, fine and beautiful as an ice sculpture. A laughing, taunting crystal voice, eyes like snowmelt: perfection tiny, mousy Sara could never hope to attain. Andrea, who had been dead for thirty years.

  Andrea, murdered by the man who would be president. Who had the power to twist others to his will. As he had twisted her.

  There was no proof, of course. Lord knew it had taken her years to acknowledge first the suspicion and then the awful certainty that there had been more to her sister's brutal death than the random urges of a retarded adolescent. It had taken her long enough to realize that that was why she went into journalism in the first place, why she was drawn to Jokertown: deep down, she knew there was more. And over the years, as she was establishing a rep as the reporter on joker affairs, she had come to be aware of a presence in the joker slum, covert, manipulative.. evil.

  She'd tried to track it down. Even a star investigative reporter-even an obsessed investigator-didn't find it easy to trace the invisible strings of a demented puppet master. She persevered.

  She was convinced it was Hartmann even before she boarded the Stacked Deck. She was certain she would discover the final evidence to convict him on the W.H.O. tour.