Wild Cards VI--Ace in the Hole

by George R. R. Martin

  David Harstein turned and walked away. Jack slid slowly down the wall, terror and remorse shuddering through his body. It was at least five minutes before he got control of himself. When he stood up, he had huge sweat stains under his arms.

  Delegates passing through the tunnel looked at him with pity or disgust, assuming he was drunk. They were wrong.

  He was sober, perfectly sober. He had been so terrified he’d burned every ounce of alcohol in his system.

  Jack stepped back into the auditorium just as Jim Wright announced the latest delegate totals. Hartmann’s total was going into the sewer.

  7:00 P.M.

  The hotel concourses were nearly deserted. Most of the people were watching the main event over on the convention floor. Spector walked into the snack bar, a bottle of Jack Black tucked under his arm. He’d slept most of the day away, had to get something to eat. The Marriott restaurants were out of the question; after the fight with Golden Boy, there were sure to be people looking for him. But he was weak from hunger and had to get something.

  He wandered around the aisles of junk food and souvenirs, picking out a couple of candy bars, a can of cashews, some sausage sticks. A young black man was behind the register, staring at a small black-and-white television. Spector set his stuff on the counter and peeled off a bill.

  “Be right with you, mister,” said the clerk. “They’re supposed to show Tachyon’s hand exploding after these commercials. Missed it live. Damn, I bet that was something to see. Did you catch it?”

  “Tachyon’s hand blew up? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You been by the pool all day or what?” said the clerk, shaking his head. “Some ugly little dude shook the doctor’s hand and blew it clean off. They say … Wait a second. Here we go.” He turned the television around so Spector could see, too.

  The video was in slow motion. Tachyon was working the crowd, shaking hands. “Who gets him?” Spector asked.

  “Some little hunchback. See, there he is.”

  Spector opened his mouth. Shut it. It was the same little twerp who’d been on the flight down with him. The hunchback took Tachyon’s hand and blood went everywhere. The cameraman was jostled by the panicked crowd and the video ended.

  “Is he still alive?” Spector had always wanted Tachyon dead, but found himself hoping for the best. After all, killing Tachyon was something he planned to do himself, someday.

  “So far.” The clerk turned the television off and rang Spector up. “I guess he’s tougher than he looks.” He sacked the junk food and handed it over with Spector’s change. “You don’t go shaking hands with the devil, mister.”

  It’s a bit too late for that, Spector thought, smiling. He pocketed his change and headed back to the room.

  “Hey. Jack.”

  “What is it, ese?”

  “Orders from Devaughn.”

  “Yeah.” Jack spoke without enthusiasm. He was hiding from interviews in the middle of what remained of his loyal delegates—the disloyal ones, a third of the total, were off caucusing with their new managers.

  “After the recess,” Rodriguez said, “the Jackson camp is gonna move to suspend the rules of the convention in order to let Jesse speak. We’re supposed to vote in favor.”

  Jack looked at Rodriguez in surprise. “We can’t let a candidate speak. Hell, they’ll all wanna—”

  “News is, Jackson’s going to drop out.” Rodriguez smiled and tapped his nose. “I smell something, Jack. Betcha Jackson’s cut a deal with the boss. Betcha he’s gonna be veep.”

  Jack’s mind worked through the idea. He hadn’t been in charge of his own delegation since he’d gone off the balcony on Thursday: it was Rodriguez who had been riding herd on California and voting Jack’s proxy for Hartmann. He had to respect Rodriguez’s instincts here.

  As for the Hartmann/Jackson ticket: why not? It was the same deal that Roosevelt and Garner had cut in ’32, during the last stalled Democratic convention.

  “Our totals and Jesse’s,” he said. “Are they—?”

  “Not enough. Jesse’s people are working on Dukakis now.”

  “Barnett will have to smell something.” Or Fleur, he thought. Fleur had the sharper nose.

  Maybe, Jack thought, it was Fleur who was the secret ace, not Barnett. He wondered if Fleur had been in the military.

  “After this morning,” Rodriguez being tactful, “there’s no approaching them. Someone talked to Fleur whatsername: she says No. Doesn’t even want to talk about it.”

  Jack rose to his feet, scowling toward the massive battleship-prow of the podium as Jim Wright called the convention to order and announced there would be another ballot. The damned vote would take forever: the managers had totally lost control of the delegates and each delegation would have to be polled man-by-man. The move to suspend the convention rules would come after the vote total was announced. And then that would have to be voted on—God, how long could this go on?

  “Fuck! Fuck!” Rodriguez was shouting into his cellular phone. He slammed the thing into its cradle, then looked at Jack. “Dukakis will go along with it. He hasn’t got anything to lose, and maybe he can pick up some of Jackson’s delegates. But we can’t change the rules without Barnett. We need a three-quarters vote.”

  “This sucks, ese.”

  “Barnett’s going over the top if this Jackson stunt doesn’t work.” Rodriguez took a breath. “Okay. Here’s what Devaughn wants. We’re gonna start spreading the rumor that Jackson is dropping out, that all he wants to do is address the convention and make a plea on behalf of his constituency. Nobody’s calling the shots with his individual delegates anymore. Maybe Barnett’s troops won’t pay attention when he tells them to vote no.”

  “Maybe.”

  Rodriguez shrugged. “The whole scheme’s a maybe.”

  Jack felt his hands balling by his sides. There had to be some way to repair things, some way to repair the damage that the assassin aces had done—hell, that Jack had done.

  He remembered longshoremen dancing on a countertop.

  David Harstein, he thought wildly. Get Harstein on the platform. Use him to influence the entire convention to nominate Hartmann by acclamation.

  No. Stupid. Everyone would notice. People watching on TV would wonder how come they weren’t as enthusiastic as the people at the convention. And the air-conditioning might blow Harstein’s pheromones away.

  Harstein’s power was subtle; it had to be used subtly. He could only influence a few people at a time.

  Maybe, Jack thought, a few important people.

  Maybe Barnett’s campaign manager.

  Jack thought of Fleur dancing on tabletops, flinging her underwear into the Omni atrium, calling Leo Barnett on the phone to tell him how good Tachyon was in bed … Jack gloried in this picture for a moment before the whole thing fell apart.

  David Harstein hated his guts. Who was he to make plans for the man?

  The hell with that. Harstein wanted Hartmann elected, right? If nothing else, Jack could resort to blackmail. He knew Harstein was a secret ace. He could threaten to reveal it.

  He thought of himself weeping in the tunnel and his stomach turned over.

  Jim Wright read Alabama’s delegate total. All for Barnett.

  That decided it. Jack was moving, walking from California to New York across the massive front of the podium.

  Harstein was seated in the bleachers watching his daughter address the New York delegation. His look was both sad and proud. Jack slapped Harstein on the shoulder and pinned him to his seat.

  The actor’s eyes were veiled, cautious, watching. “I thought we had reached an understanding. You leave me alone. I leave you alone.”

  Jack spoke quickly. “Listen, it’s important. In a few minutes there’s going to be a motion to suspend the rules of the convention in order to let Jackson speak. He’s going to withdraw and give his support to our man.”

  “Good for Gregg Hartmann.” Scowling. “What’s that got to do
with me?”

  “The vote has to be damn near unanimous. Barnett has enough votes to block us. I figure we can talk to Fleur van Renssaeler and make her change her mind.”

  “We?” The pointed emphasis made Jack want to melt into the ground. “Is this your plan? Or have you told Hartmann about me?”

  Jack shook his head. He was trying not to cringe. “Nobody knows but me. I won’t say anything, but you’ve got to help me.”

  Harstein rubbed wearily at his forehead. “And you expect me to talk my way into Barnett’s headquarters and change everybody’s mind?” He seemed almost to be talking to himself. “What year do you think this is? 1947? This sort of thing didn’t work then, and it isn’t going to work now.”

  He was right. It was so obvious. How could Jack have been so stupid?

  Jack caught himself just on the point of shrugging and walking away. Harstein’s pheromones had already got Jack agreeing with him. What did he mean, it didn’t work then? David had talked Franco right off his throne. Still, when he spoke, he didn’t sound convincing even to himself.

  “If we don’t do this, Barnett’s going to win. This will all be for nothing.” Sweat poured down Jack’s face. He felt as if his heart was going to explode any second. “All we have to do is change one mind. Fleur’s.”

  Davidson looked away, thinking. Jack took a desperate lungful of air, tried to calm his trembling limbs.

  “I’ve made a life,” Davidson said. “I’ve got a family. I can’t risk them. My counterfeit identity won’t stand up to thorough investigation.” He looked at Jack. “I’m an old man. I don’t do that sort of thing anymore. Maybe it should never have been done.”

  Surprise sang in Jack’s veins. He wants my understanding, he thought.

  “You’re doing that sort of thing now,” Jack said. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t trying to influence people.”

  “Jack, you still don’t get it, do you? I can’t help but influence people. I can’t turn my power on or off. That’s why I’m not a delegate. That’s why I keep to myself. What right have I got to replace a man’s opinion with mine? Is mine necessarily any better than his?” Harstein shook his head.

  Jack fought against the ferocious urge to just agree with Harstein and walk away. “Our opinions,” he said, fighting to get every word out, “are one hell of a lot better than the ravings of a man who threatens us. Your daughter—” He pointed at her and remembered her name, Sheila. “Sheila has the wild card. You’ve got a full dose, both chromosomes, and even if your wife didn’t have the virus, you couldn’t help but give Sheila a latent. And if she marries someone with another latent, their kids could end up with a full wild card.”

  Harstein said nothing. His eyes traveled to where his daughter stood among the other delegates. Sheila was looking back, her face worried. She knew, then, of her father’s identity, guessed that Jack knew as well.

  “Do you know what will happen to them if Barnett becomes president?” Jack went on. “They’ll be confined to a nice hospital in some remote location, a hospital with a razor-wire fence. And you won’t have grandchildren—Barnett’ll see to that.”

  Harstein turned to Jack. The ice had returned. “Kindly don’t mention my daughters again. Don’t you ever use that line of argument with me. You don’t give a damn for them, or me.”

  Harstein fell silent. Looked at his daughters again. Spoke softly. “‘We have seen the best of our time: machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders, follow us disquietly to our graves.’” He looked at Jack. “That was an unfair argument. But it convinced me; I will do what I can.” He hesitated. “I’m a little surprised. I thought you’d threaten to expose me. I’m glad to see I was wrong.”

  That’s always an option, Jack thought. But didn’t say it.

  He didn’t mind developing a reputation for decency for a change.

  It took only a minute to walk from the Omni complex to the Omni Hotel next door. It was almost ten minutes before Jack and Harstein could get an elevator to Barnett’s headquarters. A lot of Barnett’s people were around: there was a lot of staring. Jack ignored them and did a lot of thinking.

  Their convention IDs were enough to get them into the hotel, and probably into the operations room. Security would be greatest around the candidate, and Barnett’s room was on another floor. Jack’s problem would be staying in the operations room long enough to get next to Fleur and let Harstein’s pheromones do their work.

  Harstein’s mention of blackmail had set Jack’s mind working.

  While waiting for the elevator, Jack got some hotel stationery from the front desk and penned a note, then wrote Fleur van Renssaeler on the back.

  The note said: I need five minutes of your time. If I don’t get it, the world (and Reverend Barnett) will find out about your sins of the flesh with Tachyon.

  He considered signing it Yours in Christ, Jack Braun but decided that might be pushing things a little far.

  The elevator doors opened and Jack stepped inside, surprising the hell out of two Barnett supporters of the little-blue-haired-lady variety. Jack smiled politely as he entered and pressed the button for Barnett HQ.

  People waiting for the elevators did a lot of double takes as Jack stepped out, but nobody stopped him as he headed for the operations center. He walked right through the door, past a lot of young women on telephone banks, and failed to see any sign of Fleur. He grinned at the nearest worker.

  “Where’s the boss lady?” he said.

  The girl stared. She was maybe seventeen, cute in an unformed blonde way. Her glasses slid down her nose. Her name, according to her name tag, was Beverly.

  “I—” she said. “You’re—”

  Harstein bent close to her and said, “Go ahead. You can tell him.” He smiled reassuringly.

  “Ah—”

  Harstein’s expression was gentle. “It’s really all right, Beverly,” he said. “Mr. Braun’s here on business, and I’m just tagging along.”

  Beverly pointed with a pencil. “I think Miss van Renssaeler is in her office,” she said. “Two doors down. 718.”

  “Thank you.”

  The room was beginning to buzz with alarm. People were glaring at Jack and dialing phones. He smiled at them all reassuringly, gave them a wave, and left. Harstein followed.

  “I hope it’s a small room,” Harstein said. “You have no idea what the advent of air-conditioning has done to my power.”

  Heads poked from the door as Jack strolled to 718 and knocked. He could hear televisions, and a phone ringing in the room. The phone cut off, and he heard steps coming to the door. It opened.

  A silver-haired man stood there, his eyes widening in shock, then narrowing in anger. He flushed.

  “Yes.” Fleur’s voice, on the phone. “I guess he’s here. Thank you, Veronica.”

  “You are not welcome here,” the silver-haired man said.

  “I’d like to see Miss van Renssaeler,” Jack said.

  The man tried to slam the door. Jack held it open with his hand. “Please,” he said.

  The door jerked open. Fleur looked at Jack from over the rims of square-cut reading glasses. Her mouth was a grim slash. Two other men stood behind her, in various uneasy postures. Televisions turned to various networks babbled along one wall.

  “I don’t think we have anything to talk about, Mr. Braun,” she said.

  “We do,” Jack said. “I’d like to apologize, for a start.”

  “Fine, you’ve done that,” Fleur said. She started to close the door.

  “I’d like to speak to you for just a few moments.”

  “I’m busy. You may write for an appointment, after the convention.” The door closed to a few inches, and again Jack stopped it. Jack produced the envelope from his pocket.

  “Okay,” he said. “Here’s my appointment request. I’d like you to read it now.”

  He lightly tossed the envelope inside and let Fleur close the door. He looked down the corridor to see two securit
y men walking toward him, doubtless summoned by the phone ladies. Their expressions, in the face of a man who used to throw Russian tanks off Korean mountainsides, lacked confidence.

  “Uh,” the nearest one said.

  Jack grinned at them. “No problem, officers. I’ll be leaving as soon as Miss van Renssaeler gives me an appointment.”

  They looked at each other, then decided to wait. “We were told there was a problem,” one of them said.

  “Problem? No problem.”

  The guards did not seem reassured.

  The door opened. “Five minutes,” said Fleur. “And that’s all you get.” She turned to the men in the suite with her. “Reverend Pickens, Mr. Smart, Mr. Johnson, I hope you’ll excuse me. Something’s come up.”

  The men filed out past Jack, offering mixed distrust and relief. Jack stepped into the room, and Harstein followed.

  “Who’s this man?” Fleur said. “I didn’t agree to see him.”

  “Josh Davidson, madam.” Harstein gave a stage bow, sweeping low.

  “He’s an old friend of the family. He’s with me.”

  “He can wait outside.”

  “Madam, I will not interfere in your business,” Harstein said. “An old fellow like me finds it hard to wait in cold air-conditioned corridors. I won’t be any harm. ‘Have I not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly?’ I’m an object of pity. Pray do not scorn and cast me out.”

  Fleur looked at him. The corners of her mouth twitched in reluctant amusement.

  “This is against my better judgment,” she said, “but you can stay.”

  Fortunately, her better judgment did not prevail.

  9:00 P.M.

  The Jackson motion came up, was seconded, passed overwhelmingly. Harstein kissed Fleur’s hand good-bye, and he and Jack made their way to the elevators.

  “We may have just made a president,” Jack said. He felt pleasantly drunk, as if on champagne.