It had come a half hour ago in the form of a coded call to the Bowery message drop.
He was glad there was no smoking on airplanes. He hated smokers: smokers jokers. He'd been on an airplane once, when he'd come across from Germany to be close to the Man.
He held his pass up to his face, opened it, shuffled through it. He could barely read the red type, and not just because it was blurred. He hadn't gotten what you called a good education in Germany. He never learned to read real well, even though he did learn to speak English. From his mother. The whore.
The ticket had been waiting for him when he asked at the Eastern counter. The clerk there was afraid of him. He could tell. She was a fat nigger bitch. She thought he was a joker.
You could see it in those calf-stupid eyes. People always thought he was a joker. Especially women.
That was probably why the Man sounded funny. That woman after him. Women did that. Women were shit. He thought of his mother. The fat, cognac-swilling whore. The bottleneck stuck in her mouth in his mind turned to a fat nigger cock. He watched it slide in and out for a while, moistened his lips.
His mother had fucked niggers. She'd fucked anybody with the ready, in Hamburg's Sankt Pauli district. ReeperbahnstraBe. Where he'd grown up. One of them had knocked her up. When she got drunk and beat Mackie up, she told him his father was a deserter, a GI Stockholm-bound from 'Nam. But his father was a general. He knew.
Mackie Messer was maximum bad. His father couldn't have been just anybody, could he?
His mother had abandoned him; naturlich. Women did that. Made you love them so they could hurt you. They wanted you to put that man-thing in them so they could take it away: bite it off. He tried to imagine his mother biting off the huge black dick, but it dissolved into tears that streamed down his face and dripped off his chin onto the collar of his Talking Heads T-shirt.
His mother had died. He cried for her again.
"Eastern Airlines Flight 377, for Raleigh-Durham and Atlanta, will now begin boarding passengers holding passes for rows one through fifteen," the ceiling said to him. He wiped away tears and blew his nose on his fingers and joined the big flow. He was going where he was wanted, and was content.
Spector stood in the jet's cramped restroom and splashed some water from the sink over his face. His stomach was churning and his skin was cold. He'd gone into the bathroom hoping to throw up, but no luck. He was so nervous he couldn't even manage to take a leak.
There was an impatient knock at the door.
"I'll be out in a minute," Spector said, drying the water from his face with his coat sleeve.
Another knock. Harder this time. Spector sighed and opened the door.
A hunchbacked joker in a Talking Heads T-shirt was standing outside. He pushed past Spector and closed the door. The little creep's eyes were like something dead, even worse than Spector's.
"Fuck you, too, shrimp." Spector clutched his way back to his seat without waiting for a reply.
It was the first time he'd ever flown. The plane was much smaller than he'd expected and was getting bounced around by what the captain called "some minor turbulence." He'd already put away two little bottles of whiskey and asked the stewardess to bring a couple more. She hadn't gotten back to him, though. He was sitting between a guy who had been a helicopter pilot in Vietnam and some reporter. The reporter was playing around with a lap-top computer, but the ex-pilot hadn't stopped chattering since they boarded.
"You see that redhead over there?" Spector followed the line of his finger to a woman a few rows away who was looking over at them. Her lipstick and tight knit dress were bright crimson. Her eyes were green and heavily made up. She was licking her lips in an exaggerated manner. "She wants me. I can tell. Wants me bad. Ever make it in a plane before?"
"Nope." Spector was clacking the two empty bottles together in his sweaty palm.
The ex-pilot leaned back, brushed a piece of lint from his lapel, and sucked in his gut. "Gonna play it cool, though." He looked out the window and nudged Spector. "You see those black dots out on the wing. That's where the rivets have been working back and forth. God, I hate flying in these death traps. I saw one miss the runway at National in Washington once. Nobody walked away from that one. If the impact doesn't get you, the fire and poison gas will. I was safer back in 'Nam."
Spector slipped the bottles into his suit pocket and turned to look for his stewardess. She was nowhere in sight. Probably in first class sucking off some rich shithead. He'd been an idiot to fly coach, but was a prisoner of his middle-class upbringing. "Time to make the big move," the ex-pilot said. He made eye-contact with the redhead and walked slowly to the rear of the plane. She smiled back at him and nodded, then started giggling when he disappeared into the restroom.
"Don't let him fool you," said the reporter, without looking up. He was in his early thirties, about Spector's size, and already balding. "These babies are safe as they can be."
"Really," Spector said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
"Yeah. He could tell you're a white-knuckler. Just having some fun with you, I expect." The reporter folded up his computer and looked over at the redhead. Hope he has fun jerking himself off.
The stewardess, a blonde with cropped hair, who seemed slightly too large for her uniform, handed Spector a plastic cup of ice and two more miniature Jack Blacks. "Thanks," he said, fishing in his wallet for a small bill. He had one bottle opened and poured before she could make change.
"You going to Atlanta for the convention?" The reporter asked.
"Uh, no." Spector took a long, cool swallow. "Not really into politics myself. Got other business."
"Not into politics?" The reporter shook his head. "This could be the most exciting convention since New York in '76. It'll be a real dogfight. Me, I'm betting on Hartmann." The reporter sounded like someone who'd gotten a tip at the racetrack.
"Funny things can happen. Especially in politics." Spector drained the glass and opened the other bottle. A warm, empty feeling spread comfortably through his insides. "If I were you, I wouldn't bet the farm."
The ex-pilot stalked slowly up the aisle, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He glared at the redhead. The plane lurched and he bumped into the hunchbacked man. The joker's hands seemed to blur for a moment, and Spector thought he saw bits of dust spray up from the armrest. He hoped it was just the Jack Black kicking in.
"No such thing as a sure thing," Spector said.
11:00 A.M.
Five television sets were blaring in the living room of the suite the Hartmann contingent had taken as staff headquarters, all tuned to different stations. On the screen nearest Gregg,
Dan Rather was holding forth with a patriarchal Walter Cronkite, back on the air for special convention coverage. Cronkite, as always, sounded the way you'd expect God would sound.
"… perception is that despite the majority recommendation, Hartmann simply isn't strong enough to guarantee passage of the joker's Rights plank. Does this indicate that Hartmann isn't strong enough to win once the delegates are released from their first-vote obligations; that Barnett, Dukakis, Jackson, or a dark horse like Cuomo may eventually emerge as the nominee?"
"Walter, no one has a lock on this convention. The closeness of the primary results showed that. Hartmann is seen as a Northern liberal who can't win in the South, and frankly, his long involvement with joker causes is a liability outside the coasts and metropolitan areas. Barnett has Southern appeal and could woo voters from Bush, especially among the fundamentalist factions. Still, he's too conservative and strongly religious for the Democratic constituency. Dukakis is Mr. Bland, with nothing particularly against him, but nothing particularly for him. Jackson has charisma, but the question remains whether he can win outside cities with large black populations. Gore, Simon, Cuomo or any dark horse's only hope is a deadlock convention that turns to a compromise candidate. All this is reflected in the bitter platform fight. Of course-"
Gregg twisted the knob, t
urning off the sound in midsentence. The other sets babbled on. "Rather has his head up his ass," John Werthen commented. "The right vice-presidential candidate and-boom-there goes any regional weakness."
"C'mon, they all know that," Tony Calderone threw in from across the room. "They're just going for drama. Blame their writers."
Gregg nodded tiredly to no one in particular. Puppetman was quiet, Gimli seemed to be gone for the moment, and Mackie would be on his way soon, if not already in flight. He felt drained, lethargic.
The staff meeting had been going for an hour. Plastic cups of cold coffee sprawled everywhere, floating old cigarette butts; stacks of paper spilled from table to floor, Danishes were petrifying in cardboard boxes stacked on the floor. Gregg's staff bustled through the blue-tinged air, a half dozen conversations competing with the TV sets.
Amy came through the hall door in a rush. "Barnett's made it official," she announced as everyone turned to her. "The minority report's not only against any joker's Rights plank, Barnett's personally calling for a return to the Exotic Laws."
The room was loud with disbelief. With the surging emotions, Gregg felt Puppetman for the first time that day. "That's crazy," Tony said. "He can't be serious."
"Too damn stupid. It doesn't have a chance of being adopted," John agreed.
Amy shrugged. "It's done. You should see the convention floor-goddamn chaos. Devaughn's going nuts trying to keep things calm with our delegates."
"Barnett's not worried about the floor. It's the outside convention he wants to influence," Gregg told them.
"Sir?"
"The jokers outside the Omni, in Piedmont Park. When they hear the news, they're going to explode." More fodder for his anti-joker rhetoric. Puppetman stirred below at the thought, rising. Gregg pushed him back.
"He'll lose the delegates on the fence. They'll think he's too militant." John again.
Gregg waved a hand. "He's a one-issue candidate: the jokers. He's obsessed."
"The man's not rational." "That only gets said here."
A quick laugh skittered around the room. Gregg swung to his feet and tugged his tie into place, running fingers through gray-flecked hair. "Okay. You folks know where to start," he said. "If Barnett's going to start pushing, we have to push right back. Get on the phones. Start using all the influence we have. What we need to do is get all the neutrals out of their corners. We're all agreed that Barnett's course will lead to greater violence out on the streets, to say nothing of the lack of compassion it shows. Tell 'em, pressure 'em, convince 'em. Get all our people doing the same. Amy, you might see if you can set up a meeting with Barnett for me; maybe what he's really after is a compromise. In the meantime, I need to touch base with Ellen and see how she's doing."
"Then I'm going to see if I can do any good outside." The last words held a strange sense of anticipation, a feeling he hadn't expected. Gregg began to wonder if Puppetman was buried as deeply as he thought.
12:00 NooN
Spector followed the reporter into the men's room. The concourses were crammed with people, and he was sure that the man hadn't noticed he was being tailed. Spector didn't know the reporter's name. He preferred it that way when he was going to kill someone.
The reporter went to the far end of the busy bathroom and took the last stall. Spector walked calmly over to the one that adjoined it and closed the door. He felt sort of bad about this.
But the guy had shot off his mouth about how tight security was going to be at the hotel, and how he'd greased a lot of palms to get his room there. These were things Spector hadn't taken into account. He hadn't had time to make any plans. He usually played things by ear anyway.
Spector heard the pages of a magazine being turned in the next stall, but no sounds of progress. He leaned down to make sure no one was close enough to see what he was up to. All the pairs of feet were facing toward the mirrors or moving toward the exit. He took a deep breath and slid off the toilet onto his back. He could feel the cold, damp tiles through his suit. Spector grabbed the metal wall between the stalls and hauled himself under.
The reporter folded up his magazine and looked down. He managed to blink a few times before Spector locked in. His death experience rushed unchallenged into the reporter's mind. The man dropped the magazine and keeled over to one side, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth. The man's pants were crumpled around his ankles. Spector fished into the pockets and pulled out his wallet, then slid back into his own stall, and up onto the toilet seat. He waited several moments for some sound indicating he'd been seen. There was only the incessant noise of shoes on tile and running water, punctuated by an occasional flush.
Spector flipped open the wallet. Everything he figured he'd need was there-driver's license, a non-photo press card, Social Security card. The lack of ID would make it hard for the cops to identify the corpse. They'd probably figure that some opportunist lifted the wallet before calling them in. Things were going better than usual. He stood and flushed the toilet, then opened the door and walked to the mirror. He lifted his chin and turned his head side to side. Sharp and cool, he thought. He winked at the mirror and smiled crookedly. If everything worked out, he'd be on a plane back to Jersey tomorrow. And the Democrats would have one less hat in the ring.
It was as if New York's Jokertown had been turned upside down and dumped on the Atlanta streets.
Every large city has its small version of a jokertown, but Atlanta had never witnessed this kind of display. A blinding sun burned from cloudless blue onto a sea of signs, masks, and strangely distorted bodies. The crowd-estimated by the authorities at 15,000-had marched from Piedmont Park and besieged the Coliseum. Ranks of police and National Guardsmen watched, waiting.
Mid-morning, when it was apparent that the majority report was not going to be quickly adopted, a bonfire had been started just down from the Omni. Before the encouraging cameras, shouting and chanting jokers burned their masks in the flames. A Flying Ace Glider sailed from the crowd a little too close to the flames. The styrofoam melted, the wings turned brown, shrunken and deformed. A joker picked up the smouldering mess. "Hey, a Fucking Flying joker!" he shouted. The rest of the jokers picked up the bitter humor. Gliders all over the area sailed into the bonfire or were altered by holding them over Bic lighters.
The Atlanta police unwisely chose that moment to clear the area. A double line of helmeted officers hit the ranks of demonstrators. The jokers predictably shoved back: rocks were thrown, someone's minor ace sent a few police sprawling, and suddenly it was a full-fledged melee. Jokers, reporters, and bystanders were clubbed indiscriminately.
The Turtle appeared late in the fray and bellowed for order. His telekinetic power forcibly pushed apart the remaining jokers and police. Some sixty people were arrested, and though the injuries were largely minor, the shots of bloodied heads were spectacular.
The mood of the demonstrators, already fragile, turned ugly.
A few blocks from the convention site, the jokers reformed. Fire hydrants were opened by the jokers to abate the day's heat; each time, the police moved in to shut them off again but avoided direct confrontations. Taunts were exchanged across the lines.
A counter demonstration by the KKK arrived downtown in the late morning, producing scattered skirmishes between clansmen and jokers in the streets. If anything, the Klan was more brutal than the police: shots were reported, and jokers were treated for gunshot wounds at the local hospitals. Wildfire rumors spread through the crowd that two jokers had died, that the police were not arresting KKK members and had in fact let them through the barricades.
At noon, word arrived that Leo Barnett was calling for a return to the Exotic Laws. Barnett was crucified in effigy in front of the Omni. The Turtle's shell hovered overhead as if herding the demonstrators, keeping a clear space between jokers and police.
"I don't like it, Senator," Billy Ray told Gregg as they stepped from the limo near the barricades; other secret service men in three-piece suits flanked them. The
joker crowd bristled with shouts and curses. "I don't think this is a good idea."
Gregg grimaced, irritated. He gestured harshly at the ace. "And I'm getting tired of people telling me what I should do." Ray's mouth tightened into a hard line with the rebuke. Before Ray could answer, a shadow fell over them and a voice boomed from loudspeakers. "Senator! Hey, you come out to help?"
The noise brought the cameras around. Gregg waved up at the Turtle's shell-the Turtle had a squadron of Turtleshaped Flying Ace Glider frisbees hovering around him like electrons around a nucleus; a few melted Fucking Flying jokers were mixed in with the group. "I was hoping we might keep things calm, at least. I know you're doing what you can."
"Yeah. Frisbee tricks. Latest in crowd control." The frisbees began whirling faster, looping in intricate patterns. "Think you can get me into the crowd?"
"No problem." Frisbees rained on the pavement. The shell dipped gracefully, banking behind the barricades and swiveling so that it faced into the crowd. The loudspeakers hissed as the volume was nudged higher. "OKAY, MOVE THE BARRICADES ASIDE. MAKE A PATH FOR THE SENATOR
OR I'LL HAVE TO MAKE IT FOR HIM. C'MON, PEOPLE!"'
Hovering at head height, the Turtle eased through the barricades and into the jokers like a plow. Gregg stepped forward in his wake. Carnifex, the secret service people, and several of the police followed. Reporters and cameramen jostled for position.
Gregg was recognized immediately. The chant began to rise on either side of the Turtle and his entourage. "Hartmann! Hartmann!" Gregg smiled, reaching out to brush the hands that stretched toward him from the front ranks. "Hartmann! Hartmann!" He was beaming, his jacket off and his tie loosened, a patch of sweat darkening his spine: The Candidate At Work. He knew the scene would be featured in all the evening reports.
Inside, he was not so complacent.
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