Wild Cards VI--Ace in the Hole

by George R. R. Martin

  “It scared hell out of him, Cal. I saw it. I know something’s there.”

  “That’s still far from proving it.”

  “Then it has to get closer. You know what Video told us last year. Gimli and Kahina had definite Soviet connections. An agent met with them one night last year in New York, and Gimli called him Polyakov.”

  “Polyakov’s dead, Senator. All our sources say the same thing; the KGB and the GRU believe it too. Maybe they’re just using his name to confuse us.”

  “They’re all wrong. Video still has the pictures in her mind. He matches Polyakov’s description.”

  “So do a few thousand other people. There’s a lot of fat, bald, old men. Plus, you’re not going to get any court to accept a joker’s wild card talent as evidence. A mental projection isn’t a photograph.”

  “It’s a start. Find her, look at what she has. Listen to her. Then keep digging.”

  Redken sighed. Plastic crackled like dry leaves, and his voice was suddenly muffled by something soft. “Okay, Senator. I’ll do it. I’ll try. How soon do you need this?”

  “A week ago. Yesterday at the latest.”

  Another sigh. “I get the idea. I’ll call New York as soon as I’m off. Anything else?”

  “Soon, Cal. I gotta have this soon.”

  “You’re asking me to miss lunch.”

  “You do this for me and I’ll buy you your own damn restaurant.”

  “You got a deal, Senator. Talk to you later.”

  The last word was obscured as Redken placed another bite of something in his mouth. The line clicked and went dead.

  “Somebody’s on us.”

  “What?” Tachyon slewed around in the cab, and stared out the back window.

  Ackroyd laid a hand on his arm. “Easy. He’s good. You’ll never spot him that way. Cabby.” The detective fished out his wallet. “There’s an extra fifty in it for you if you can lose the gray Dodge. Back about three cars.”

  The man’s black face split in a wide grin. “Sure thing, mister.”

  Tachyon followed Jay’s mortified gaze as the detective fanned out a ten and three ones. Grumbling, Tachyon pulled out his wallet, and stripped off the bills, tucked them into the driver’s shirt pocket. And promptly landed in Ackroyd’s lap as the cab accelerated abruptly into a hard left turn. Blaise, grinning delightedly, clung like a young monkey to the front seat.

  “Just like Paris, K’ijdad.”

  “Huh?” asked Jay.

  “Never mind. You know enough of my secrets,” growled Tachyon.

  Jay glanced behind. “Still on us. Damn, he’s good.”

  “What are we going to do?” The fluttering in his stomach was back, and Tach could feel a fine shivering running through his hands.

  Ackroyd ran a hand across his mouth. “There’s probably not going to be time for any long good-byes.”

  The Motel 6 sign loomed ahead.

  “Sara’s there, too,” said Tachyon.

  “Jesus Christ. You got the whole New York Philharmonic there? Maybe the Dodgers?”

  “This is no laughing matter.”

  “No shit. Punch it, buddy. Everything she’s got.”

  The cab gunned down the street, turned with a squeal of tires into the parking lot. The threesome were out before the car had stopped rolling. Jay flung his remaining ten over his shoulder as they pelted for the room.

  Sara was curled up on the bed, legs tucked beneath her, pillow clutched to her chest, listening to the television. Polyakov, a bemused expression on his round face, stepped back to avoid being trampled. Jay seized the edge of the door, and slammed it shut. Threw the deadbolt. Tachyon ran to Sara, and yanked her up off the bed. Blaise flung himself into the Russian’s arms.

  “No time to explain. Hartmann knows. There is someone after us.” Tachyon seized Sara’s dress at the neck, and pulled. It ripped with a loud rending sound. Sara screamed, and covered herself. She was wearing only her bra. “Into the shower, quick! Don’t come out, and by the way, you rent by the hour.” The alien was propelling her toward the bathroom door, unsnapping her bra as they went.

  Heavy footfalls were coming down the hall at a run.

  Polyakov’s gray eyes were calm, fatalistic. “There’s no time.”

  “Yes, there is. Jay will get you out of Atlanta. For the gods’ sake, Blaise, move!”

  The water thundered on. Polyakov gently sat the boy aside.

  “Open up! Open the goddamn door!”

  Tachyon recognized Billy Ray’s voice.

  “Now!” he hissed urgently to the detective. Ackroyd formed his fingers into a gun. Polyakov vanished. There was an audible pop as the air rushed back into the space formally occupied by a body.

  Tachyon leaped across the room, seized the bottle of vodka on the dresser, ripped open his collar, and in a long, low dive threw himself onto the bed.

  The door blew open, splinters flying across the room as Billy Ray bulled through. Jay shielded Blaise with his body, and Tach covered his face. The Justice Department ace had a gun, a .44 Magnum. Tachyon stared down the barrel. It yawned like a cave’s mouth.

  “All right. Where is he? Where the fuck is he?”

  “Huuuh?” asked Jay.

  “Asshole!”

  Ray stiff-armed the detective, and Ackroyd went down. Ray tore the closet door off its hinges, and flung down the clothes. Glanced beneath the bed, headed for the bathroom door. Tachyon crossed his fingers, and prayed to whatever ancestors might be lurking nearby.

  “Get out of there. Now!”

  Sara’s voice floated over the rush of falling water. Clearly female. Heavily Southern. Tachyon prayed that he was the only one who heard the panic underlying the words.

  “Wal, sugah, how many you boys there gonna be?”

  The shower curtain rasped back. Sara screamed. For a long moment there was silence from the bathroom. The sharp report of a slap. Ray re-entered the room, the pale pink imprint of a palm already fading from his cheek, the front of his white uniform wet from the thundering water.

  Breathing heavily, he said, “He was here. That goddamn Russian was here.”

  Jay looked to Tach. “Russian? I don’t see any Russian. Do you see a Russian? And sweetcheeks in there sure don’t sound Russian. Russian costs you extra.” He grinned at the outraged ace.

  “Why did you try to get away from me?”

  Tachyon sighed, took a long pull on the bottle. “Because I was afraid you were the press, and I didn’t want to be found visiting a prostitute.”

  “You always take a kid?” He gestured at Blaise with the .44.

  “Could you put the gun away? It makes me nervous when you wave it around like that. Most fatal shootings are accidental, you know.”

  Ray glared at him. “This wouldn’t be an accident. Answer the fucking question.”

  With a delicate clearing of the throat Tachyon said, “Well, that is the matter in a nutshell. It’s time the boy learned.” He glanced about the motel room. “This lacks the ambience that I could wish, but she is very good. I tried her myself last night. Of course, nothing can compare with the woman my father gave to me on my fourteenth birthday—”

  Ray stormed back through the shattered door.

  “Fourteen? No kidding?”

  “Oh Ackroyd, please!”

  12:00 NOON

  “You call the press conference,” Jack told him. “The press hasn’t seen you for days. If I call them, they might not show up.”

  Barnett had agreed.

  Jack watched the convention while the plans went forward. Hartmann had clearly lost all momentum. Totals changed on every ballot. The only steady factor was Barnett’s slow advance, gaining with every step as the opposition began to disintegrate. Rodriguez looked poleaxed every time he announced California’s changing delegate count. Jack’s heart went out to him.

  The press conference was arranged in one of the hotel’s function spaces, the place Barnett used as a press office. Jack managed to down two more Bloody M
arys before the business began.

  Fleur spoke first, standing behind a podium crowned with a forest of network microphones. Jack and Barnett stood off to one side as Fleur went through a long round of mike tests.

  She kept casting Jack sidelong glances throughout. Obviously she didn’t trust him an inch.

  Even hidden behind his Hollywood shades, Jack felt naked.

  “Before the Reverend Barnett’s announcement,” Fleur said, “there will be another brief announcement from someone who may be a surprise to you. I’m referring to Mr. Jack Braun, the head of Senator Hartmann’s California delegation, also known as Golden Boy.”

  Jack didn’t smile or wave as he stepped to the podium. Microphones jabbed at him like a forest of spears. He took off his shades, folded them, smiled into the blinding camera light. He hoped the booze and sleeplessness hadn’t made his eyes too red.

  “I’ve just finished a two-hour interview with the Reverend Leo Barnett,” Jack began. He could hear automatic cameras making zipping noises as they fired at him. He gripped the podium and tried not to feel the earthquake that rocked his nerves.

  “This convention has seen a lot of strange events, a lot of violence,” he said. “Some people have been killed. Two attempts have been made on Senator Hartmann’s life, both by wild card aces, and I have fought both those aces personally. The Reverend Barnett has claimed all along that wild cards have been responsible for much of the chaos that has plagued this campaign. After the meeting today, I can only agree with him.”

  Jack’s forty-year-old media reflexes told him that the TV cameras’ long lenses were zooming in. Except for the sound of automatic cameras and snapping shutters, the room was absolutely quiet. Jack screwed his face into an expression of deep sincerity and gazed steadily out into the audience, just like when, years ago, he’d played Eddie Rickenbacker telling General Pershing he wanted to fly.

  “There are secret aces at this convention,” Jack said. “There is one in particular who has a very influential role. He’s responsible for a lot of the chaos here, for at least some of the deaths. I believe he can influence people at a distance to cause them to act in ways contrary to the law and their own interests. Other aces, murderous aces, work for him. They have tried to destroy his opponents by violence.”

  Jack could sense Barnett and Fleur standing to one side, their heads together as they tried to figure out where he was taking this. Jack gave the cameras a grim Clint Eastwood smile.

  “After my interview this morning, I’ve concluded that that secret ace…” Insert dramatic pause here, he thought. “Is the Reverend Leo Barnett.”

  Cameras began swinging crazily, trying to get Barnett’s reaction. Jack raised his voice and shouted into the mike stand.

  “Barnett’s behind the assassination attempts!” he said. Triumph sang in his veins. “I defy Leo Barnett to prove he isn’t an ace!”

  Barnett gaped at him. Fleur van Renssaeler’s face was dead white, her mouth moving in furious, silent anger.

  Barnett shook his head slowly as if shaking off a punch, then stepped forward. Though he never intended to, Jack found himself backpedaling, surrendering the podium.

  The preacher leaned over the microphones, hands in his pockets, and gave a shaky grin. “I don’t know what Jack’s up to, here,” he said. “I came down for another reason entirely. But if it’s what Jack wants, I’m willing to stand right here for however many hours it takes to assemble a team of doctors to give me the blood test.” His grin widened. “I know I don’t have the wild card, and anyone who says I do is a liar or…” He cast a sidelong glance at Jack. “Deeply misguided.”

  Jack stared back into the preacher’s blue eyes and felt his triumph drain into his black Italian wingtips.

  Somehow, he thought, he’d fucked up again.

  Spector turned on the tap over the bathroom sink and took a mouthful of water. He swished it around for a few moments and spat it out. The water was stained brown from the dried blood. Spector took another mouthful and swallowed it. He was as thirsty as he was tired. It was always this way when he had to heal up after a major injury.

  He tested his jaw. It moved up and down without too much trouble, but side to side hurt like hell. He could feel the bone popping in its socket. After a few months it might not be so bad. All in all, things could be much worse.

  He heard a sound at the door. Spector knew he didn’t have time to get back under the bed. He looked around the bathroom. The only place big enough was the shower. He stepped inside just as the door to his room shut. Somebody was talking softly to himself in the bedroom, and Spector had an idea who it was. When the noises approached the bathroom, Spector held his breath. Again. Much more of this and he’d turn blue permanently.

  He focused the death-pain. It was always there, always ready. He saw pudgy fingers on the edge of the shower curtain.

  The man tore the plastic curtain back, and opened his mouth to scream.

  Spector locked eyes before the desk clerk could get anything out. He pushed him to the point of death, then stopped. Spector caught him by the collar as he slumped over. He leaned the man against the bathroom wall and emptied his victim’s pockets. He took the keys and wallet, and ignored the rest. This guy probably knew just about everything there was to know about the hotel. If Spector could get him to tell the truth, he might find out a few things.

  Spector bent down. He steadied the man with one hand and slapped him with the other. When he started to come around, when Spector was sure he could feel it, he popped the guy really hard a few times.

  The man opened his eyes. Spector put a hand over the pudgy mouth. “Quiet. If you call for help. If you answer my questions in anything but a whisper. If you don’t answer my questions. I’ll kill you. You understand?”

  The man nodded. Spector slowly took his hand away. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s.” He took a breath. “Hastings.”

  Spector checked the wallet. “So far, so good. What are you doing in here?”

  Hastings stared wide-eyed around the room; he seemed to be looking through Spector for a way out. “Uh, the government people told us to be on the lookout for anyone we thought was suspicious. I just had a feeling about you.”

  “I don’t much appreciate that”—he checked the first name on the driver’s license—“Maurice.”

  Hastings wiped his mouth. “You’re not who you say you are. Not Baird. You’re an ace.”

  Spector nodded. “You know, with your deductive skills and your gift for hunches you’d make a damn good P.I.”

  The man gave a half-smile, trying to acknowledge the compliment in spite of his fear. “Thanks.”

  Spector waited a few moments, then added. “I hate P.I.s.” He was enjoying the hell out of this. He’d almost forgotten about this jerkoff, and now he had the fat bastard on a horn.

  “Oh, god, please, don’t kill me. I’ll do anything.” Hastings was shaking. He wiped his mouth again.

  “Oh, I’m not going to kill you. Not if you give me what I want,” Spector lied, trying to think of the best place to hide the body. “We’ll start with an easy question. Where’s the nearest unoccupied room on this floor?”

  “We’re full up. I swear.”

  Spector clucked his tongue. “Don’t bullshit me. I know there’s always a few left vacant for contingencies. You know what I’m going to do if you keep lying to me? I can make you do an airwalk from the tenth floor down to the lobby. The fall will only take a few seconds. Make quite a mess, though. Maybe I should just put you in the shower and liquefy you. Down the drain you go. No muss, no fuss.”

  “No, please.” Hastings clasped his hands together. “I think 1019 is open. Just don’t kill me. I’m sorry I bothered you. I can do whatever you need. Give the Secret Service some bad leads. Really.”

  Spector pulled a card out of Hastings’ wallet. “This is your passkey?”

  He chewed his lip for a second before replying. “Yes.”

  Spector leaned in cl
ose to Hastings and stared into his eyes. “You’re not lying to me now?”

  “No. May God strike me … It’s the truth, I swear.”

  “Right. Get into the shower.” Spector pulled back the curtain. “Do it now.”

  Hastings hustled his overweight body inside. “But why?”

  Spector locked eyes again, and made it count this time. Hastings collapsed onto the tile. His body twitched and then was still. “That’s why.” He slowly closed the curtain. “Nobody fucks with me and gets away with it.” It wasn’t the best place to put a corpse, but as usual he’d had to improvise.

  Spector checked himself in the mirror one more time. Now he had a crooked jaw to match his crooked smile. Maybe, when it was all over, he could buy a crooked house in the Bahamas. But not until Hartmann was done with. Then, he could worry about vacation time.

  1:00 P.M.

  “You weenie.” There was a furious glare from Tachyon’s violet eyes as he stalked by, medical bag in hand. Behind him, reporters were clustered three deep around Barnett, who had of course passed the blood test without registering the taint of any black rain from Satan.

  “Oh, shut up,” mumbled Jack, from deep in the heart of another Bloody Mary.

  Tachyon spun on his heel, marched back, stood in front of Jack, his pointed chin thrust out. “You may have just given the nomination to Barnett! You realize that?”

  “I thought that was you.” Jack’s formless anger centered on Tachyon. “I thought that was you, off banging Fleur and switching to Jackson when things got tough.”

  Tachyon colored. “The only thing you can do now is try to move California to Jackson.”

  Jack sneered at him. “Fuck you, asshole. At least I’m doing something.”

  Tachyon stared at him, swallowed a retort or two, then flounced away.

  Jack, standing by himself at the back of the press room, realized he was going to be mobbed by reporters as soon as Barnett finished his speech. He headed back to the bar set up in the back of the room, found a 500-milliliter flask of 151-proof rum, and put it in his pocket.