George Martin - Ace In The Hole

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 stood 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.

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."

"How do you do," Tach mumbled, as Father Squid, resplendent in his finest surplice, walked past with ponderous dignity.

The priest reached the altar, set his missal in place, then turned to the crowd and raised his arms wide saying in his sad, soft voice,

"Let us pray."

Throughout the mass, Jory and Tachyon struggled along, always a beat behind the standing, kneeling, sitting worshipers. Last year it had been the same situation at Des's funeraland in that moment Tachyon knew what he was going to say in the eulogy. He stopped trying to make sense of the alien ceremony, and simply sat with head bowed, tears slipping slowly from beneath closed lids as he composed his thoughts.

The little joker altar boy nudged his shoulder, and Tach returned from his reverie. Ahamper containing tiny loaves of bread. The Takisian broke off a bite, and passed on the hamper. The bread seemed to swell in his dry mouth, and he choked trying to get it down. With a quick surreptitious glance to either side he unlimbered his flask, and gulped down a sip of brandy.

Father Squid beckoned, and Tach took his place at the lectern. Pulling out his handkerchief he wiped his face, drew a deep breath and began.

"Exactly one year ago on the twentieth day of July, 1987, we gathered in this church to bury Xavier Desmond. I spoke his eulogy, as I shall speak Chrysalis's. And I am honored to do so, but the melancholy truth is that I am weary of burying my friends. Jokertown is a poorer place because of their passing, and my life-and yours-is diminished by their loss." Tach paused and stared down at his hands where they gripped the lectern. He forced himself to relax.

"A eulogy is a speech in praise of a person, but I am finding this one to be very difficult. I called myself Chrysalis's friend. I saw her frequently. I even traveled around the world with her. But I realize now that I didn't really know her. I knew she called herself Chrysalis and that she lived in Jokertown, but I didn't know her natal name or where she'd been born. I knew she played at being British, but I never knew why. I knew she liked to drink amaretto, but I never knew what made her laugh. I knew she liked secrets, liked to be in control, liked to appear cool and untouched, but I never knew what made her that way."

"I thought about all of this on the plane from Atlanta and decided that if I couldn't speak in praise of her, at least I could speak in praise of her deeds. A year ago, when war raged in our streets and our children were in danger, Chrysalis offered her place-her palace-as a refuge and fortress. It was dangerous for her, but danger never disturbed Chrysalis."

"She was a joker who refused to act like a joker. The crystal lady never wore a mask. You took her as you found her, or you could just be damned. In this way, perhaps, she taught some nats tolerance and some jokers courage." Tears were streaming down his face. In order to speak past the lump in his throat he pushed his voice higher and louder.

"Because we worship our ancestors, Takisian funerals are even more important than births. We believe our dead stay close by to guide their foolish descendants, a belief that can be terrifying or comforting, depending on the personality of the ancestor. Chrysalis's presence, I think, will be more terrifying than comforting because she will require much of us."

"Someone murdered her. This should not go unpunished. "Hate rises like a smothering tide in this country. We must resist it.

"Our neighbors are poor and hungry, frightened and destitute. We must feed and shelter and comfort and aid them."