Wild Cards VI--Ace in the Hole

by George R. R. Martin

  Hartmann stared silently at the back of Billy Ray’s head as the limousine inched its way through bumper-to-bumper traffic on its way to the hospital.

  Jack thought about the secret ace. If the fragment of Sara’s photocopy clue was anything to go by, the unknown ace had to be a veteran who had somehow got his blood test suppressed. This left out Jesse Jackson, who, being a seminary student, had a draft deferment. The other candidates were all veterans, but the way Jack figured, the most likely suspect was Leo Barnett.

  Barnett was a populist charismatic preacher who claimed to interpret the word of God, whose flock had mostly voted for Reagan in the last two elections, but who had followed him blindly into Democratic ranks. He preached against the wild card and wild card violence, but he didn’t have the votes to take the nomination unless so much chaos broke out at the convention that a backlash gave him the nomination.

  Maybe Barnett had been off in his tower praying for disasters to befall Gregg Hartmann. Maybe the angels had obliged him.

  Or maybe it hadn’t been the angels who had obliged.

  There was another possible clue in Sara’s “secret ace” paper, the doodles that included a row of crosses. Maybe Sara made those crosses when thinking about the Reverend Leo Barnett.

  Jack held off making a judgment until he saw the videotapes. Dukakis impressed him as hardworking, intelligent, and fairly dull. Hardly the sort to employ twisted aces to chop up his enemies. But Barnett was riveting.

  In the videos, he prowled the stage like a wary panther, wiping away buckets of sweat with a succession of huge handkerchiefs, his voice ranging from a mild, just-folks West Virginia twang to a lacerating, scornful jeremiad shriek. And he was clearly no brainless ranting Holy Roller. His ice-blue eyes burned with fearsome intelligence. His messages were so well-constructed, so well-reasoned—at least within their apocalyptic framework—that his communications skills had to be the envy of any of the other candidates’ speechwriters.

  And Barnett was—Jack hated to admit this—sexy. He was still under forty, and his blond Redford good looks and dimpled chin obviously had his female audience in thrall. There was one incredibly revealing scene, Barnett straddling a prostrate young semi-deb who had been possessed by the Spirit, Barnett shouting into his phallic microphone while the girl babbled in tongues, and writhed and grunted in what to Jack’s jaded Hollywood mind seemed clearly to be a series of staggering sexual climaxes.… And Jack, looking into the preacher’s intent face and ferocious predator eyes, knew that Barnett knew he was bringing the girl off just with the power of his presence and voice, and that Barnett rejoiced in the twisted sexual glory of it all.…

  Jack remembered a night in 1948, sitting after a Broadway debut in a Sixth Avenue coffee shop with David Harstein, the member of the Four Aces whose pheromone power hadn’t, at that point, been revealed to the public. Unknown to them, a meeting of the Communist Party USA was being held down the street. The meeting ended and several of the party members showed up in the coffee shop and recognized Jack and Harstein. What started out as autograph-seeking turned into a combative political debate, as the comrades, fired-up from their meeting, demanded ideological concurrence from the two celebrities. Hunting Nazis and overthrowing Juan Peron was all very well, but when were the Four Aces going to proclaim solidarity with the workers? What about assisting anti-Dutch forces in Java and Mao’s army in China? Why hadn’t the Aces fought alongside the ELAS in Greece? What about assisting the Russians in purging Eastern Europe of unsound elements?

  All the downside of celebrity, in short.

  Jack had been all for saying good night and moving on, but Harstein had a better idea. His pheromones had already flooded the small coffee shop, making everyone amenable to his suggestions. Shortly thereafter the comrades, including several hulking dock workers and a couple horn-rimmed intellectuals, were standing on the counter doing Andrews Sisters impersonations. The late-night crowd was entertained with “Rum and Coca-Cola,” “Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy,” and “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.”

  Jack thought about how easily Harstein had controlled the hostile crowd as he watched the last Barnett video, the one shot in Jokertown. Barnett moved amid the devastated landscape of a gang battle in New York, calling down the powers of heaven to heal Quasiman, who rose from the dead … and seeing that, Jack knew in his bones the identity of the secret ace.

  Barnett could make things happen. How the talent worked, Jack couldn’t say. Barnett had to be able to affect things at a distance: make TV producers cut to commercial when he needed it, compel candidates like Hart and Biden to self-destruct, make his followers love him and give him money, maybe erase the wild card from his own military record, erase Tachyon’s impotence and give him a letch for Fleur, maybe even give long-distance orgasms to the faithful. The twisted leather boy with the buzz-saw hands could be someone Barnett had promised to heal of the curse of his wild card, provided he did the Lord’s bidding first.

  Jesus, Jack wondered. Had anyone really looked at these videos? Had anyone at all been able to tell how important they were? They were like a flaming Biblical hand in the sky, its index finger pointing at Leo Barnett.

  Barnett. The secret ace had to be Barnett.

  And now Jack gnawed his lower lip and looked at Hartmann, wondering whether or not to tell him. Hartmann was still staring with a peculiar intensity at Billy Ray, who sat riding shotgun in front of him. Was he blaming Ray for what happened to Ellen? Jack wondered. Ray, from what others had told Jack, was certainly blaming himself.

  Jack started to say something to Hartmann, then choked the words down. Somehow he couldn’t interrupt Hartmann’s thoughts, not after the events of the day.

  He’d talk to Tach about it first, he thought. Show Tachyon the clues, the videos. Between the two of them, they’d be able to figure out a response.

  All this long-distance mind-control stuff was more in Tachyon’s bailiwick, anyway.

  5:00 P.M.

  Spector sat in the hospital reception area and paged through a copy of Reader’s Digest. The couch was made of hard, red vinyl and had been repaired with silver duct tape. A dying fluorescent light flickered and buzzed overhead. The hospital stank. Not just the usual smell of antiseptic and disease, but jokers. The deformed had a stink all their own. But it was probably the only place in town that had bed space for them.

  A young, rail-thin nurse with tired eyes walked over. “You can see him now. Room 205.” She walked away without looking up from her clipboard.

  Spector stood, stretched, and walked down the scuffed linoleum hallway. He’d decided not to fill the contract. There was no way in the world he was going to help Barnett and his shithead followers into the White House. He’d keep the money, of course. It’d stake him to a new start somewhere else. He’d go back to Teaneck first and get his things together, then take off. Maybe just spin a globe and go wherever his finger landed, like in the movies. There were bound to be plenty of places where his talents would be marketable. If his current employer wanted to try to track him down, they were welcome to give it their best shot. He wasn’t really worried about it. But first he wanted to check on Tony and make sure he was going to be okay. After that, he was bouncing back to Jersey on the next plane.

  He rapped the door to 205 open and poked his head in. Tony opened his eyes and smiled. It wasn’t the same with so many broken teeth. “Come on in.”

  Spector sat down in a chair next to the window. Tony had gauze over one eye and an ugly mouse under the other. They’d taken stitches along his cheekbone and in his forehead. His lips were puffy and discolored.

  “Want me to spring you?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. The doctors said I had a couple of seizures secondary to the concussion. Nothing serious, but that’s why they won’t be transferring me out until this evening. I’ll be staying at the same hospital as…” He closed his eyes.

  Spector nodded. “Hurt to talk?”

  “Hurts to blink, even. You okay?” Tony lift
ed himself up. “Those guys take it easy on you, or something?”

  “I’m fine. They always want to mess you pretty boys up. Figure us ugly guys got enough trouble already.” Spector shook his head. “You’re going to make some dentist very happy. He’s going to look at your mouth and see a new home entertainment system.”

  Tony was quiet for a moment. “You heard about Ellen?”

  “Yeah.” The news about Mrs. Hartmann’s miscarriage had been the day’s top news story. “A shitty break. Sorry.”

  “From a personal standpoint, I am, too. But this is going to put the man over the top at the convention.” Tony reached up and scratched his nose, then winced. “I guess that sounds kind of cold. But it’s going to help so many people that I think the trade-off is worth it.”

  Spector glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. “I’ve got to get going, Tony. Things to do. I may not get a chance to see you again for a while, but I can always look you up on Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  “Can you do me a favor before you leave?”

  “Sure, name it.”

  “All my writing stuff is at the Marriott. I know we’re getting the nomination tonight and I have to finish off the acceptance speech. There’s a black briefcase on my bed. It’s got everything I’ll need, my laptop, CD player.” Tony edged his shoulders up the bed, sitting up as straight as possible. “With Ellen’s accident and the story about some assassin hanging around, there’s nobody else to get it for me. I kind of got lost in the shuffle.”

  “Uh, I don’t think they’re just going to let me waltz up to your room to pick up your shit.” Spector felt bad about crawfishing, but really didn’t want to go back to the Marriott. He might see Barnett and have to kill the bastard.

  “No problem. I’ll write you out a note. Show it to the security people at the entrance and they’ll take care of it. I can call the nurse at the front desk here, have her give you my room key.”

  Spector couldn’t say no, much as he wanted to. “Okay. It may take awhile. Traffic is a bitch out there.”

  Tony smiled. Even with split, purple lips, the guy still came across like a winner. He took Spector’s hand and shook it. “The team’s still working.”

  “Right,” Spector said, handing him a pen and a piece of paper. “I couldn’t let you go outside looking like that. You’d need a mask to cover up all those stitches.”

  Tony grabbed him by the elbow. “That’s it, Jim. Masks. That’s the angle I’ll work with. Something that really showcases Joker’s Rights.” He let go of Spector and raised his hands. “America, wear a mask for one day. See what it’s like to be treated as something less than human.”

  Spector stood quietly for a moment. “I think it needs a little work.”

  “No problem. Now that I’ve got the angle, the words will come.” Tony began writing.

  “I’ll get your stuff back as soon as I can.” Spector didn’t shake his head until he was out of the room.

  6:00 P.M.

  Projected on the screen of the electron microscope, the wild card lay in its distinctive crystal pattern.

  “Jesus,” breathed Ackroyd. “It’s beautiful.”

  Tachyon scraped back his bangs. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He grimaced. “Trust us Takisians to create a virus to match our aesthetic ideal.”

  He swung around on the lab stool just as Hiram began to slide down the wall.

  “Ackroyd!”

  They each grabbed an arm, but it was like trying to stop an avalanche. All three ended up seated on the floor. Hiram ran a hand across his eyes and muttered, “Sorry, must have blacked out for an instant.”

  Unlimbering his flask, Tach held it to Hiram’s lips. Worchester gulped down brandy, then his head fell to the side as if his neck were too fragile to support its weight. An enormous, ugly scab crusted on his neck. Tach touched it with a cautious forefinger, and Hiram straightened abruptly.

  “Hey, can I have a sip of that?” Jay pointed with his chin to the flask. “It’s been a hell of a week.” The detective’s Adam’s apple worked as he gulped down the brandy. Ackroyd gusted a sigh, and wiped his mouth.

  “There can be no doubt?” Hiram’s eyes pleaded with Tachyon.

  “None.”

  “But just because he’s an ace … well, that proves nothing. He’d have been mad to admit to the virus. He might be a latent.”

  An uneasy silence fell over the three men. Tachyon, squatting on his heels, gazed thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Three floors above him Ellen Hartmann rested in her hospital room. Dreaming of her lost child. Never dreaming that her husband was a secret ace, and possibly a ruthless killer. Or had she known all along?

  Jay cleared his throat and asked, “So what do we do now?”

  “A very good question,” sighed Tachyon.

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Contrary to popular belief I do not have the solution to every problem.”

  “We’ve got to have more proof than this,” said Hiram, pushing to his feet.

  Ackroyd jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the screen of the microscope. “What more proof do you want?”

  “We don’t know if he’s done anything wrong!”

  “He had Chrysalis killed!”

  The two men were nose to nose, breathing in sharp angry pants.

  “I demand evidence of wrongdoing.” Hiram pounded his fist into his palm.

  “That’s evidence,” Ackroyd howled, pointing again to the screen.

  Tachyon shouted, “Stop it! Stop it!”

  Hiram’s hands closed on Tachyon’s shoulders. “You go to him. Talk to him. There may be some logical explanation. Think of all the good he’s done—”

  “Oh, yeah.” Sarcasm lay like acid on the words. Ackroyd took another long pull at the flask.

  “Think of what we stand to lose,” Hiram cried.

  “So he’ll just lie to Tachyon. Where the hell does that get us?”

  “He cannot lie to me.” Hiram’s hands dropped from his shoulders, and the big ace fell back a step. Tach drew himself up to his full, if inconsequential, height. Dignity and command wrapped like a cloak about him. “If I go to him, you know what I will do.” Hiram’s eyes were filled with dumb misery, but he nodded slowly. “Will you accept the truth of what I read in his mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though it is inadmissible in a court of law?”

  “Yes.”

  The alien whirled on Jay. “As for you, Mr. Ackroyd, take the jacket. Destroy it.”

  “Hey, that’s our only proof!”

  “Proof? Are you really suggesting that we publicize this? Think … what we hold could spell the ruin of every wild card in America.”

  “But he killed Chrysalis, and if we don’t nail him Elmo takes the fall.”

  Tachyon dragged his fingers through his hair, nails digging deep into his scalp. “Damn you, damn you, damn you.”

  “Look, it’s not my fault. But I’m damned if I’m going to agree to some sleazy little deal that lets Chrysalis’s murderer walk.”

  “I swear to you upon my honor and blood that I will not let Elmo suffer.”

  “Yeah? What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet!” Tachyon turned off the microscope with a vicious jab, carried the slide to the basin and washed the blood-stained fibers down the drain.

  Hiram fell into step next to him as the alien headed for the door. Tach laid a hand on his chest.

  “No, Hiram. I must do this alone.”

  “And if he’s got Buzz Saw Boy waiting for you?” asked Jay.

  “That is the risk I must take.”

  7:00 P.M.

  Spector thumbed the plastic SPECIAL VISITORS badge on his lapel and laughed quietly to himself, Earlier in the week, he would have killed until he was waist deep in bodies to get one of these. Now, he didn’t need it anymore. Life was fucking like that.

  Hartmann’s floor was surprisingly quiet. He’d expected wall-to-wall aides and Secret Service. S
pector pulled out Tony’s room key and counted off the room numbers in his head. He figured it was time to get out of the country. Australia, maybe, or some other place where they spoke something that resembled English. He stopped in front of Tony’s door and inserted the key. As he pushed in, he felt someone pulling it open from the other side.

  Spector took a step back. A joker wearing Secret Service gear looked at his visitor’s badge and motioned him in. The joker was tall and wiry, and gave Spector the once-over when he stepped inside. His scaly, prominent brow ridge and some ugly lumps on his forehead were the only visible signs of his jokerhood. Spector figured there were more, but he wasn’t interested enough to ask.

  “Who are you?” the joker asked in a perfunctory manner.

  “I’m a friend of Tony Calderone. He sent me over to pick up his writing materials.” Spector pointed to a black briefcase on the bed. “I think that’s it.”

  “I see. Would you put your hands on your head, sir?” Spector did as he was told and the joker frisked him quickly, but thoroughly. Spector tensed. If this guy looked at him too long, he might get recognized. He was sure the feds had a file on him with Demise in big letters at the top. “This is news to me, so I’m going to check with Calderone.” The joker moved to the phone, flipped through a notebook to find the number, and punched it in. He was careful not to turn his back, but showed no sign of placing Spector’s face. “Tony Calderone, please.” Short pause. “Tony. This is Colin. There’s a guy here who says he’s picking up your writing equipment. You did. Describe him for me. Okay. Yeah. I’m sorry, we just forgot.” Colin hung up. “You Jim?”

  “Yeah. Are you done with me?”

  The joker raised a hand to signal silence and put a finger to his earpiece. “Yeah, I’m still in Calderone’s room. There’s a guy here who’s going to deliver his writing kit to the hospital. Why didn’t someone remind me I’d forgotten?” Long pause. “No, the hotel people say no one stayed in Baird’s room again last night. Okay, I’ll check it again later, but I think we’re wasting our time. Talk to you later.” The joker sighed and headed for the door. “Let yourself out,” he said to Spector. “Don’t forget to tell Tony I’m sorry.”