George Martin - Ace In The Hole

"She will expect all of this from us."

Tachyon paused and scanned the congregation. His attention was drawn to the bank of votive candles burning near the lectern. Crossing to it, he lifted one of the tiny candles and returned to the lectern. The flame flickered hypnotically before his eyes.

"In one year Jokertown has lost two of its most important leaders. We are frightened and saddened and confused by the loss. But I say they are still here, still with us. Let us be worthy of them. Win honor in their memories. Never forget."

Bending, Tach pulled his knife from its boot sheath. He placed the candle on the lectern and positioned his forefinger directly over the flame. With a quick slash, he cut his finger and extinguished the flame with a drop of his blood.

"Farewell, Chrysalis."

Running into Fatman had rattled him a bit, but a couple swallows of whiskey had helped calm Spector down. He sat. hunched over the edge of the bed, staring at the headline.

"HARTMANN TO SPEAK IN PARK TODAY." The senator was going to make a public plea to the jokers to demonstrate in a non-violent manner. It was risky, what with all the lunatics wandering around. No one was crazier than a politician with his back to the wall, though. And Hartmann was really up against it. Spector turned on the TV and tuned it to a channel that showed the times and places of the day's events. After a few moments waiting, there it was. A one o'clock speech and nothing about any cancellation.

Spector chewed his lip and paged through the paper absentmindedly. He needed an angle. He'd need a way to blend into the crowd and still stand out enough to manage to catch Hartmann's eye.

A small, corner ad caught his attention. It was Keaton's Kostumes. MASKS, MAKEUP, COSTUMES, PARTY SUPPLIES, and MORE it promised. A man in a costume held up the list and smiled in a stupid, exaggerated way. He looked like Marcel Marceau. Spector tossed the paper, wiped the ink stains off on his gray pants, and started laughing.

Jack passed through the enormous brass revolving door into the Marriott lobby, saw the swarms of press and Hartmann delegates, and tried not to think of pigs at a trough. The campaign was doing its best to feed its people and get everyone back onto the floor in the short time allowed by the luncheon recess, and the Marriott had obliged with a vast buffet that was serving up pasta salad and rare roast beef by the ton. Jack could see Hiram Worchester perched on a sagging sofa near the lounge piano, a plate piled high with food balanced on either knee. The glass elevators were jammed full of press and delegates taking hookers up to their rooms for a little noon relief. The piano man was playing "Piano Man" once again. Jack had an oppressive feeling he knew precisely what song was going to come next.

Fortunately Jack didn't have to cluster around the buffet tables and gobble his lunch with the others while the pianist offered the inevitable salute to Eva Peron-Jack had a permanent reserved table at the Bello Mondo, secured by offering the maitre d' a crisp new hundred-dollar bill every day.

A good meal and a few double whiskeys would come in about right. It had been a lousy morning anyway. CBS commentators had jabbered right through most of Jimmy Carter's seconding speech for Hartmann, and the other networks had cut away for commercials. Chairman Jim Wright, who Jack figured wanted Hartmann to win, had cued the band to play "Stars and Stripes Forever" at the end of the speech, which got the audience up for a massive floor demonstration that those watching TV had entirely missed. Jack could have sworn he heard deVaughn's screams all the way from the Marriott.

Jack was beginning to believe, in a purely superstitious way, in the existence of a secret ace who was out to get Hartmann. Or maybe just Gremlins from the Kremlin.

"Jack! Mr. Braun!" An avuncular Father Christmas figure rolled toward him, a straw porkpie hat shadowing his long white hair and straggly beard. Louis Manxman, a reporter for the LA Times, who had been aboard Hartmann's campaign plane from the start. There was a purposeful look in the newsman's eye.

"Hi, Louis." Jack tucked his briefcase under one arm, jammed his hands into the pockets of his Banana Republic photojournalist's jacket, and tried to skate past. Manxman moved purposefully to block him and grinned up through metal-rimmed bifocals.

"I want the story on that test vote Monday night."

"Ancient history, Louis."

"The papers have been praising Danny Logan's masterful strategy, the way he put it together at the last minute. Even deVaughn didn't know what was happening-you shoulda seen his face when he realized. But I know Logan from way back, and it doesn't seem like his kinda move at all. I've talked to every delegate head I could find, and they all say their orders came from you, not Logan."

"Logan knew what I was doing." Jack tried to move left. Manxman moved to block.

"A source told me the old mick was passed out Monday night."

"He was celebrating." Moving right.

"Celebrating from breakfast on, from what I hear." Blocking.

Jack glared at him. "I'm a busy man, Louis. What the hell do you want, anyway?"

"Was it you or wasn't it?"

"I will not confirm or deny. Okay?"

"Why deny it? You're a Hollywood boy-you should relish the publicity. Don't be such a weenie."

Jack stopped for a moment and wondered if "weenie" was going to be the operative word for this convention.

The inevitable happened, and the man in the white tuxedo pounded out the opening bars of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." Jack felt his temper fraying.

"I'm late for lunch, Louis. I won't confirm or deny. That's for the record; that's my statement. Got that?"

The Santa Claus look was gone. "Forty years too late to take the Fifth, Jack."

Anger snarled in Jack. He fixed the reporter in a cold stare and stepped forward as if to walk right through him.

They were nearing the white piano on its pedestal. The man in the white tuxedo was still ringing through his paean to South American fascism. Anger began to roil in Jack in the wake of fear and humiliation. He said goodbye to Amy, then stepped up to the piano. The man in the white tuxedo gave him an automatic smile.

There was a big fishbowl on the piano with a green drift of tip money in the bottom. Jack reached for the rim of the glass, exerted just slightly, and cracked off a hand-sized piece. His golden force field fluttered slightly. The piano man stared. Jack pulverized the glass in his hand, then reached forward, opened the front pocket of the man's jacket, and poured the glass inside.

"Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" died away.

"Play that song again," Jack said, "and I'll kill you." Walking away, Jack felt he ought to be ashamed of this brand of cheap satisfaction.

Somehow he wasn't.

12:00 NooN

Troll was Chrysalis's only pallbearer. The massive security chief from the Jokertown clinic cradled the coffin in his arms as if it were a sleeping child, and led the procession into the churchyard. More prayers were said, and Father Squid blessed the grave with incense and holy water. Tachyon scooped up a handful of dirt, and dribbled it slowly onto the coin. It gave back a hollow, scrabbling sound like claws on glass, and Tachyon shuddered.

The sun looked bloated and somehow diseased as it floated in the pall of a smoggy New York summer day. Tach longed for the end. The dead had been buried. Now Atlanta was beckoning. But there was still the receiving line to be endured, and thirty minutes of human handshakes. Tach decided to spare himself some of the grossities. He pulled out a pair of red kid gloves, and worked them over his slim, white hands.

"Hello, Father," said a familiar voice to his left. "Good to see you again, Daniel."

Tachyon couldn't restrain himself. He flung himself into Brennan's arms, hugging the human with a fierce grip, and a show of naked emotion that he knew the man was only tolerating. With a sharply indrawn breath, Tach held Brennan at arm's length and eyed him critically.