Wild Cards VI--Ace in the Hole

by George R. R. Martin

  “Isn’t that a little callous?”

  “Hush, Sara, you think too much.”

  2:00 A.M.

  Jack was sweating as he sat up in bed, his back propped against thick hotel pillows. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood in his hand. He’d run through two packs of Camels.

  The television was on, an old Boris Karloff suspense film. Karloff kept looking at Jack with James Spector’s eyes. Jack turned the set off with remote control. The television kept staring at him, so he got out of the bed and turned the TV set to the wall.

  He knew what he had to do. He didn’t know if he had the nerve to do it.

  He’d never done this kind of thing by himself before. There’d always been Mr. Holmes or Earl or someone to give him advice and make sure everything worked out all right.

  The secret ace had already come close to killing him twice.

  Third time, he wondered, the charm?

  10:00 A.M.

  Tachyon was seated in front of the room service tray buttering a slice of toast when Jay emerged from the bedroom. He wore one of Tachyon’s suits, and though it was too short in the arms and legs, the man looked decidedly more elegant and well kept.

  Blaise, stretched out across an armchair, looked up and sniggered. Tachyon gave his grandson a stern look. “Blaise, did you enjoy your little ride on the luggage carousel?”

  The boy looked sullen. “No. I felt stupid.”

  “Then by the Ideal you will mind your manners,” Tachyon told him, “or I will have Mr. Ackroyd teleport you back to the Atlanta airport.”

  “I can’t help it if he’s funny,” Blaise complained. “He looks like a fruit.”

  “Those are my clothes,” Tachyon pointed out stiffly. “Myself, I think it’s a dramatic improvement.”

  “I’m with the kid,” Jay said. Blaise looked surprised. Then he grinned. Jay whipped up his finger in a quick-draw move. Blaise flinched. “Gotcha,” Jay said. He smiled. So did Blaise.

  Tachyon watched this in confusion. Apparently teleporting his wayward heir halfway across Atlanta had established a rapport. He remembered George once telling him that Blaise needed to fear someone before he could care for them. Tach felt depressed.

  “He’s enough of a rapscallion without your encouraging him,” Tachyon muttered.

  “Ah, he’s okay,” Jay said, pulling a chair over to the room service cart. “For a Takisian.” He lifted the silver dome off his plate, and attacked the Eggs Benedict wolfishly.

  Tachyon was patting his lips with a napkin and Jay was mopping up the last of the yoke with a piece of toast when the knock came at the door. Tachyon stood. “Who’s there?”

  “Carnifex. Open up, I don’t have all day.”

  Tachyon glanced back at Jay. “Let him in,” the detective said. “Ray’s tough, but there’s nothing he can do against you, me, and the Cisco Kid over there.” He gestured toward Blaise.

  The alien nodded and opened the door. Carnifex glanced around and stepped into the suite, wearing his skin-tight white uniform that outlined every muscle and tendon in his body. “Regs say we’re supposed to stay out of the political bullshit,” Ray told Tachyon with disdain. “Good for you. Otherwise I’d have to whip your ass. You been hanging around Braun too much, I guess. Some of it must have rubbed off.”

  Tachyon’s mouth tightened. “Say what you came to say, Ray,” he told the government ace. “Your opinions on political and moral issues interest me not in the slightest.”

  “Gregg wants to see you.”

  “The sentiment is not reciprocated.”

  “You’ll see him,” Ray said, with a crooked smile. “Gregg said to tell you he has a proposition he wants to discuss.”

  “I have nothing to discuss with the senator.”

  “Scared?” Ray wanted to know. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold your hand if you want.” He shrugged. “Come or don’t come, either way it’s no skin off my nose. But if you don’t, you’re going to regret it.” The ace in the white suit looked around the suite: at the windows Turtle had shattered, the television Hiram had dropped, the urine stain on the sofa. “Must have been a hell of a party,” he said to Tachyon. “Somebody ought to teach you to clean up after yourself, Doc. This place is a mess.”

  He was going out the door when Ackroyd called out. “Hey, Carny.”

  Tachyon winced.

  Ray turned around with a dangerous glint in his green eyes. “That’s Carnifex, asshole.”

  “Carnifex Asshole,” Jay repeated.

  Tachyon winced again, and closed his eyes.

  “I’ll try and remember,” Jay continued. “How many of those Good Humor suits you own?”

  “Six or eight,” Carnifex said suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Must be hell to get the bloodstains out,” Jay said.

  Tachyon couldn’t believe he was hearing this. As a child Ackroyd must have enjoyed kicking over ant hills, and investigating beehives.

  Ray glared at the detective. “Stay out of my way, shamus,” he said, “or you’ll find out firsthand.” He slammed the door behind him.

  “Shamus,” Jay said. “He actually called me shamus. God, I’m so mortified.” He turned to Tachyon. “You gonna go?”

  Tach straightened, and lifted his chin. “I must.”

  Jay sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say something like that.”

  Maybe he’d got some sleep, maybe he’d just passed out from time to time. He figured he better do what he had to before all motor coordination went to hell and he couldn’t punch the numbers on his cellular phone.

  “The Reverend Barnett, please.”

  “May I say who’s calling?” The female voice spoke with a heavy Spanish accent.

  “This is Jack Braun.”

  The accented voice was prim. “The Reverend Barnett is not available to anyone, Mr. Brown. He is in a prayer vigil expected to last until—”

  “He’ll talk to me!” Jack’s voice rose to a near shout.

  “Sir,” with feigned patience, “the Reverend Barnett—”

  “Tell him,” Jack said, “that I can deliver California.”

  There was a long pause before the voice returned. “I will connect you to Miss van Renssaeler.”

  Little hangover stilettos entered Jack’s eyes at the mention of the name.

  At least he was getting closer to the reverend.

  He’s coming. Puppetman could sense Tachyon’s arrival from Billy Ray’s disgust. We’re making a mistake not trying to take him …

  No! Gregg was vehement. He’s too strong for us. If we attack him that way, he’ll have an excuse to retaliate. My way’s better.

  You’re weak. You’re feeling guilty.

  The accusation was too close. Yes, he was feeling guilty. He’d known Tachyon for twenty years, after all. Just shut up, he told Puppetman. Let me handle this.

  Sure. Sure. Who else has he told? Hiram knows. Maybe lots of others …

  Shut up!

  Gregg was facing out of the window as Billy—with obvious ill will—ushered Tachyon into the suite. “One traitor for you, Senator,” Ray said as he held the door open. “Wonder how much they paid the little creep?” Ray shut the door behind Tachyon so closely that the alien had to step quickly into the room or have it strike his leg.

  Gregg continued to shuffle through the pages of the folder he held in his hands, slowly and deliberately turning the pages. He waited until he heard Tachyon sniff in irritation. “Say whatever it is you want to say, Senator. I do not have a great deal of time to waste on you.”

  The words hurt, more than they should have. I didn’t do those things, he wanted to say. Puppetman did them. But he couldn’t say that because Puppetman was listening. He turned around to face the red-haired alien and tossed the folder on the coffee table in front of Tachyon. “Damned interesting reading matter, that,” he said. “Go on, Doctor. Pick it up.”

  Tachyon glared, but he snatched up the folder with delicate fingers. He riffled through the pages stamped with Just
ice Department seals and shrugged. “What is it, Senator? Play out this farce and be done with it.”

  “It’s simple enough, Doctor.” Hartmann seated himself in one of the chairs, lounging back. He put his feet on the coffee table with studied nonchalance. “You invaded my mind and took ammunition to use against me. I don’t like being stuck with an empty revolver in a duel. So I went looking for things about you. I wondered who was whispering about me in your ear. I wondered where the lies might have come from.”

  “They are not lies, Senator. I saw the disgusting, perverted filth in your head. We both know that.”

  Please, Puppetman begged at the insult. Let me try.

  No!

  Gregg waved a hand. “Someone convinced you to rape my mind, Doctor. I know Hiram was partially involved, but Hiram really wants to believe in me. He’s not the source. My guess was that it had to be Sara, and if it was Sara, she might have been working in concert with someone else. You see, I know Kahina—you remember poor Kahina, Doctor?—had talked with Sara. I know she and Gimli had had contact with another man, a Russian. I even had a photograph. And I have friends in high places, remember, Doctor? They checked a few other things out for me, checked backgrounds and chronologies. You’d be surprised at what they’d found, or then maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t.”

  Gregg shook his head. He gave Tachyon the famous crooked half-smile that had become the cartoonist’s icon for Hartmann. “It’s actually ironic, isn’t it, Doctor? The HUAC folks were right all along. You always were a goddamn communist from outer space.”

  Tachyon had gone white. His body shook, his lips were pressed together into a hard line. Puppetman caught the overflow of emotions and chuckled. Got him. We got him.

  “Bang,” Gregg said. “You see, I’ve got a few bullets, too. One called Blaise, and one called Polyakov—and other names. Very high-caliber ammo.”

  “You can prove nothing,” Tachyon blustered. “Your own people say Polyakov is dead. Kahina is dead. Gimli is dead. Everyone you touch seems to be dead. All you have is hearsay and innuendo. No facts.”

  “Polyakov has been seen here, in Atlanta. The other facts would be easy enough to find,” Gregg told him comfortably. “But I don’t want to go to the trouble.”

  “And what is it you do want?”

  “You know that as well as I do, Doctor. I want you to say you made a mistake. I want you to tell the press and the delegates that it was all a private misunderstanding between me and you, and that everything’s patched up again. We’re friends. We’re pals. And you’d sure as hell be disappointed if everyone didn’t vote for me. If you don’t want to actively campaign for me, fine. Leave Atlanta after you make your statement to the press. But if you don’t do that, I will start digging for those facts you’re so casually dismissing. You might take the nomination away from me, Tachyon, but I’ll make sure you get dragged down with me—you and that upstart grandson as well.”

  It had worked. Gregg was certain of it. Tachyon blustered wordlessly, his fists clenched around the folder so that the cardboard crumpled, bright spots of color on his cheeks. The prissy little wimp was about to goddamn cry, his eyes welling with tears.

  We’ve won. Even if all he does is keep his mouth shut, we’ve won. We’ll be okay. You see? Gregg told Puppetman.

  And after this is over, we’ll find a way to take him out. Finally and permanently.

  Tachyon was crying, a line of wetness trailing down from both eyes. He drew himself up like a bantam rooster, his chest puffed up, and he glared at Hartmann. Gregg laughed, scornfully.

  “We have a deal, then,” Gregg said. “Good. I’ll have Amy set up the press conference—”

  “No,” Tachyon said.

  He hurled the folder at Gregg. Papers scattered like ghostly autumn leaves. “No!” Tachyon said again, and this time it was a defiant, weeping shout. “You may do as you wish, Senator, but no. You may go to hell. And as for your threats to take me with you, I don’t care. I have been there before.”

  Tachyon turned to leave as Gregg shot to his feet. Puppetman howled inside, frantic. “You son of a bitch!” he screamed at Tachyon. “You stupid bastard! All I have to do is make one phone call and you’re finished! You’ll lose everything!”

  Tachyon glared back at Gregg with smoldering violet eyes. “I lost everything important long ago,” he told Gregg. “You can’t threaten me with that.”

  Tachyon opened the door, sniffed loudly, and closed it with silent dignity behind him.

  He awoke to the sound of the door opening. Spector was lying under his bed. He’d spent the night there, afraid to sleep in the open. He peered out through the inch-tall gap between the carpeted floor and the edge of the bedspread. A pair of brown buckle-down shoes walked past and clopped onto the tiled bathroom floor.

  “Nobody in here again last night.” It was a black woman’s voice. “Wasting our goddamn time on this junk. Guess I’d better call the man and tell him.”

  “That’s what they said to do,” said a voice from the hall. “So, I’d do it if I were you.”

  The feet moved over next to the bed. Spector held his breath.

  The woman lifted the receiver and punched in four numbers. Waited. “He’s never at his desk. Always wanting to be with the delegates, or Secret Service.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, sir, this is Charlene up in 1031. There was nobody here last night. Course, I’m sure. You know we smelled whiskey the first night he was in, but not since.” A long pause. “Yes, sir. We’ll keep an eye on the room.” She hung up the phone. “Asshole.”

  There was laughter from the hallway.

  The woman walked back toward the door. “You know, if we’re going to do this spy shit, I think we should get paid extra for it. Don’t see why we should bust our asses to make Mr. Hot-Shot Hastings shine.” She closed the door.

  Spector could hear the woman carrying on outside the room. Even a New Yorker would have trouble getting a word in edgewise with her.

  He was dead tired. His jaw felt like it had been stuck back on with ten-penny nails. Moving would take more effort than he was willing to make right now. He closed his eyes and listened to the maids’ cart squeak its way down the hall.

  Breakfast of steak and coffee hadn’t quite done the job of making Jack ready to face the Reverend Barnett and a stable of killer aces, but a couple last-minute shots of vodka had. They’d steadied his hands for shaving—not that he could have cut himself if he tried, since even the wicked cutthroat he used couldn’t match his protective wild card—but he hated to do a sloppy job.

  While he dressed, he watched the news. The day’s first ballot had Hartmann down by two hundred. About thirty of Jack’s own delegates had defected, some to Dukakis, some to Jackson. Barnett was up about forty votes total.

  A new sense of urgency poured through Jack.

  He dressed in his summer power suit of navy blue cotton, handmade by an old man in New Jersey he’d been going to for forty years, a light-blue Arrow shirt, black Italian wingtips, red tie—he never understood why power ties were supposed to be yellow now, since yellow ties always made him think of someone who’d been careless with his breakfast eggs. He put on heavy Hollywood shades, partly to hide his hangover, partly in case Demise was waiting for him somewhere, and took another welcome shot of vodka before he left. He’d buy some cigarettes in the lobby.

  Barnett’s limousine met him at the door. The traffic was impossible, complicated by marching jokers and Catholics for Barnett and Mutants for Zippy the Pinhead and shuttle buses disgorging journalists from the outlying hotels where they’d been quartered.

  Fleur met him at the door to the Omni Hotel. His nerves did a little dance at the sight of her, but he managed to repress his urge to flee, and instead smiled and shook her hand. “I have an elevator waiting,” she said.

  “Fine.” They stepped across the polished lobby floor.

  “I apologize for any difficulty Consuela gave you. She’s used to fielding calls from cranks.”

 
“No problem.”

  “She’s a refugee from the anti-Ladino persecutions in Guatemala, a poor young widow with three children. The reverend made it possible for her to stay in this country.”

  Jack turned to Fleur and smiled. “That’s remarkable, that a man as busy as the Reverend Barnett would take the time to help someone like that.”

  Fleur looked into his deep black shades. “The reverend’s like that. He cares.”

  “Not just the reverend, I’m sure. You’ve been possessed by the spirit of charity yourself, I’m sure.”

  Fleur tried to look modest. “Well, I—”

  “I mean, sacrificing your chastity just to cure old Tach of his problem.”

  She stared at him, goggle-eyed.

  “By the way, just between us,” Jack grinned, “did he ever manage to get it up?”

  Jack, smiling, followed a white-lipped Fleur out of an elevator whose temperature seemed to have dropped about fifty degrees. Secret Service people, Lady Black among them, prowled the long corridor leading to Barnett’s suite. Jack hoped she didn’t recognize him.

  He passed by a busy suite filled with tables and campaign workers. Most of them seemed to be women, many of them young and attractive.

  They came to a door, and Fleur knocked. Leo Barnett, looking younger than his thirty-eight years, opened the door and stuck out his hand.

  “Welcome, Mr. Braun,” he said.

  Jack stared at the hand, wondering if Barnett could take his mind by touching him; and then, summoning nerve from somewhere, he reached out and took the hand.

  He was shaking again. Tachyon paused, the glass almost to his lips, and considered. How many drinks did this make for the morning? Two? Three? He set the glass aside with overly broad gestures. Patted it firmly as if to keep it in place, to keep it from flying back to his hand, crossed to the ravaged room service breakfast tray, and took a bite of cold toast.

  His stomach revolted. Gasping, cold sweat breaking at his hairline, the alien staggered into the bathroom, and sluiced water over his face. From the bedroom he could hear Blaise and Ackroyd talking, laughing.