"I need your help to win our party's nomination and become your next president." Hartmann extended his hands to the crowd. "Your presence here in Atlanta can help me only if you demonstrate in an orderly manner. Any acts of violence, whether provoked or not, will certainly be used against us. You have the opportunity to make a simple, but eloquent statement. A statement made by Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. That violence is an abhorrent act. That it will not be tolerated, by you, under any circumstance."
Hartmann's eyes were drifting across the crowd again, headed straight for him. Spector held his breath and concentrated, the pain howling in his head. Just a little more. Spector stood on his toes. Their eyes locked…
… there was a sound. A Secret Service man knocked Hartmann down. Gunfire. There were screams and people tried to move, but were packed too closely together. Spector looked at a hilltop. There were maybe a hundred men in Confederate uniforms. Puffs of smoke came from their guns, then the echo of the shots across the park.
Hartmann was gone. There wouldn't be another chance. Not here, anyway. Spector jumped in behind a joker who was as broad as three normal men. It didn't matter where he was going. It would be safer than here. The Turtle whooshed by overhead. There were a few more rounds and then the gunfire stopped. Spector stepped on something that cracked. There was a groan. He held onto the joker's leather belt, which had WIDE LOAD painted on in gold.
No shit, Spector thought. But this was one time he was glad to have a fat freak as company.
6:00 P.M.
From the end of the corridor, Mackie watched the tall, thin man with coffee-and-cream skin close and lock the room door. 1531, just as der Mann said. It came to him that Amerika was decadent, even as his departed comrades of the Red Army Fraction used to say. Where else in the world might a man see a nigger wrap himself in a suit that cost more money than Mackie Messer had ever owned at one time in his life, and stroll out upon the town with a white woman on his arm?
To himself he laughed at his target's apparent attempt at disguise. She looked just like one of the ReeperbahnstraBe girls, armored against unaccustomed daylight. It was appro priate. Just a whore; just another fucking whore. Who had lured the Man and would pay.
They turned away from him, toward the elevators. He pushed off from the wall next to the fire extinguisher under glass. He couldn't do them here-he was already thinking them; it was only logical, he mustn't leave a witness-because this crazy bourgeois palace was hollow at the core, like the culture that built it, and anyone on one of a dozen levels could see everything that went on out on the catwalks surrounding the atrium. His move had to come on the quiet; der Mann had been very explicit.
But that was no problem. Mack the Knife was subtle, like. Like his song. He would follow, and know the time.
Maybe he'd ride the elevator with them. He licked his lips at the joke. That would be really kriminell. They'd never suspect him. They might not notice him even. Perhaps they were in love. Perhaps the black man had a hard-on.
He moved. A voice grabbed at him. "Hey, you. Not so fast."
He turned. A squat white man in a brown suit stood there with a wire hanging out of his ear. Hotel dick; Mackie had the gradations of cop burned into his autonomic nervous system by the time he was toddling the Sankt Pauli cobblestones. He had been as discrete as possible, staying back in the entry to the room where the ice machine lurked and clattered to itself, fading through the wall into a utility closet when people got too near. But there was a limit to how covert even Macheath could be, hanging out here over sixty meters of emptiness in this unsettling outside-in place.
The suit laid a hand on his arm. You couldn't do that, not to Mackie Messer.
"You're lucky," he said. He touched the man on the point of his cheekbone, buzzed a fingertip.
Blood started. The man cried out and doubled over, slapping a hand to his face. Mackie phased through the steel fire door and started running down the stairs. He didn't dare lose his quarry now. Women were always changing their minds; no knowing if she would be returning to this place.
Spector sat on the edge of the bed, feet tucked underneath him. He was almost surprised to find his room clean when he returned. It had been that long since he stayed in a hotel. He was alternately planning his next move and watching TV. Right now, the television had his attention. A local reporter, trying not to look out of his depth, was interviewing Hartmann in the lobby.
"Senator, do you feel Reverend Barnett had anything to do with this afternoon's disturbance?" The reporter held the microphone up to the senator, who paused before replying.
"No. I think that, whatever our differences, Leo Barnett would not stoop to such tactics. The reverend is an honorable man." Hartmann coughed. "But I do feel that those individuals who disrupted the meeting likely share many of his dangerously narrow views. It is precisely this kind of unreasoning bigotry that we must all struggle to eliminate. Leo Barnett wants to solve the problem by removing wild card victims from society. I want to overcome the hatred itself." Hartmann sat back in his seat, folded his hands and stared hard into the camera.
"The guy's fucking good," said Spector. "But it won't make any difference."
The camera cut back to the studio. A black woman reporter turned to her co-anchor. "Thanks to Howard for that interesting interview. Dan, what have the police discovered so far about the perpetrators of the disturbance?"
"Not much, I'm afraid. Several of them are in custody, captured by the Turtle, but the police are getting very little cooperation." The reporter tapped his thumbs together. "There are rumors that most of them are members of the Ku Klux Klan, but that's been unsubstantiated. Although the disturbance was obviously well-planned, none of the individuals involved claims to be the leader of the group. And so far, no clue as to where the authentic Confederate uniforms and muskets came from." The reporter frowned and turned back to the black woman.
"Well, I'm sure the authorities will keep us posted if any new information comes to light in this bizarre incident." The black woman shook her head. "Although dummy ammunition was used, several individuals were hurt in the panic that ensued." The video cut to earlier footage of the panic in the park, the cameraman was running with the rest during the panic, bouncing the picture all over. "At least one person, a street performer, was allegedly trampled to death. Ironically, he was believed to be playing dead at the time. His name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin."
"Fucking A," said Spector, punching the TV off. He was off the hook for that one, anyway. But that didn't get him any closer to Hartmann. He'd almost felt something holding him off for the instant that thev locked eyes. No. Just imagination. To do that he'd have to have powers like the Astronomer or Tachyon. "Astronomer for president," he giggled. "That'd make even Reagan look good by comparison. "
He popped up off the bed and walked slowly around the carpeted floor, considering his options. Killing Hartmann might be more than he was up to. He could take the money and go someplace else, another country maybe.: Maybe work for a casino in Cuba. Nope. He'd always done what he was paid to do. Fucking middle-class ethics again. Didn't stop him from killing people, but made him live up to a contract.
He sighed and walked to the phone. Tony was his only shot, he'd known that ever since they met in the lobby. It was kismet, or something. Didn't stop him from feeling like shit, though. He punched in the number and waited. An unfamiliar female voice answered the phone.
"Could I speak to Tony Calderone, please?"
"He's not available right now. Could I take a message?" The woman sounded tired.
"Yes, tell him James called. He'll know who you mean. Tell him I'd like to firm up that dinner invitation he extended."
Spector was almost surprised at how cool and polite he sounded.
"Yes, James, uh, what was your last name?"
"Just James. He'll know who you mean."
"I'll give him the message."
"Thanks." Spector hung up the phone and sighed. Mayb
e he'd order a steak from room service and hope the Peaches were on TV again tonight. If they're America's team, he thought, we're all in a shitload of trouble.
8:00 P.M.
Spotlights dazzled Jack's eyes. The long lenses of television cameras were trained on him like shotguns. An eddy of stage fright turned his knees to liquid. He hadn't done this sort of thing in years.
He looked up into the lights, gave the world a crooked grin-reflexes coming back, good-and said his line:
"The thirty-first state, the Golden State, is proud to cast its three hundred fourteen votes for the cause of joker's Rights and the next president, Senator Gregg Hartmann!"
A roar. Applause. Silly hats and flying ace gliders took to the air. Jack tried to look noble, cheerful, and triumphant till the spotlights moved off to the state chairman of Colorado.
Take that, Ronald Reagan, he thought. I'll show you how to work a camera.
He climbed down from the little red-white-and-blue podium that had been brought in for just this purpose. The guy from Colorado, not sure of his totals, was fumbling his line. Fortunately Colorado had gone for Dukakis and Jackson. The first ballot gave Hartmann 1,622 votes; Barnett 998, with Jackson, Dukakis, and Gore splitting the rest. Nobody was close to winning.
Chaos descended on the floor while media commentators made wise judgments and hedged predictions about what would happen next. Rule 9(c) went out the window once the first ballot was cast and floor managers were promising uncommitted delegates the moon.
The second ballot was called early, thirty minutes after the first, just so campaign managers could have enough numbers to see how things were going. Hartmann gained about fifty votes, mainly at the expense of Dukakis and Gore.
The convention burst into a series of sweaty huddles while media commentators tried to make up their minds whether fifty votes signified a "trend" toward Hartmann, or just a "lean." Floor managers went into fits at the thought of delegates slipping through their fingers.
The pandemonium went on four hours. By the time a sleepy-eyed Jim Wright called for the third ballot just before midnight, the three commercial networks had died of inertia and gone back to their standard summer fare of reruns and Johnny Carson, and only PBS was covering the action for an audience of a few thousand hardcore political junkies.
Hartmann hit an even eighteen hundred. The trend was solidifying. Hats and gliders zoomed ceilingward. Jack picked up his podium and threw it about a hundred feet into the air, a tumbling star-spangled sign of triumph, then reached out and carefully caught it before it could brain somebody.
The celebrations in Jack's suite went on for hours. He was stumbling off to bed before he realized that he really should have called Bobbie. Even if she turned out to be the starlet with the cellulite obsession, Jack figured he could have given her enough healthful exercise to make her happy.
10:00 P.M.
– -Peachtree, tiled and echoic. They walked arm in arm. Sara had drunk two glasses of wine. It was the first alcohol she had had for over a year. She had never drunk much liquorexcept for the weeks after the tour.
Ricky was regaling her with the latest candidate jokes going the rounds. "How about this one: if Dukakis, Hartmann, and Brother Leo went boating together on Lake Lanier, and the boat's engine blew up and it sank, who'd be saved?"
"The nation," Sara said. "Last time I heard it, it was Reagan, Carter, and Anderson. But then, you're too young to remember."
"What goes around comes around, Rosie. But I was old enough to vote in '80, if barely."
"You probably think I'm a wicked old lady robbing the cradle." She frowned; where was that coming from? Steady, she told herself.
Ricky patted her hand. "I certainly hope so, Rosie." He laughed then, to show it was a joke. She felt the tension come into her, just the same.
A thin current of sound was running down the corridor, between the rocks of their laughter. "What's that song?" she asked.
He raised a brow at her. "Don't you know it?" She did, but she'd needed something to say. "It's `Mack the Knife.' Standby of every low-rent lounge singer in the northern hemisphere."
"The Muzak's broken in here, see, so they hired this white dude to walk around and whistle."
She laughed and squeezed his arm briefly. Damn. What am I doing? She looked around, almost as if seeking some external cause for her behavior.
Movement behind. Her tongue pushed out between suddenly dry lips; she made her face turn to the side, as if she was admiring the brash fashions draped on the headless silver-and-black-and-olive-green mannequins posing in a boutique window.
"Somebody's following us. No, don't look!"
"Give me some credit, Rosie. I'm a journalist, remember? I didn't sleep through your seminar."
He glanced to the side, then faced forward. "Just some kid in a leather jacket." A frown spoiled the smooth perfection of his forehead. "Looked like he had a hunchback. Poor son of a bitch. "
She looked back again. "Now, quit that, or you're going to turn into a pillar of salt. You were the one who wanted subtlety."
"I don't like the way he looks," she said. "He-feelswrong, somehow."
"The instincts of a seasoned ace reporter. Well-seasoned."
"is that a crack about my age?"
"The wine you drank." He patted her hand. "That's the spirit. Whistling past a graveyard, like. Walk on. Keep your head up. Never let them see you're afraid. It unleashes all those primitive Nordic predatory instincts."
She fought her neck muscles, which were trying to rotate her head toward the leather boy. "You think he could be one of Barnett's little helpers?"
"Been known to happen during this convention, Rosie. Wouldn't that be an irony, to get jumped on suspicion of being Hartmann fans?"
This time she did look back. He was sauntering along, hands in pockets, first the white shoe, then the black. Ricky was right, one shoulder definitely rode higher than the other.
There was something a little too elaborate about the way he wasn't paying attention to them.
At least he's small. But then, Ricky wasn't exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger…
Once around a curve, Ricky grabbed her hand and they took off running, Sara wobbling on her ingenue heels, Ricky's Guccis slapping the rubber runner. The passageway wound round and around. She kept looking back, saw no sign of pursuit.
They slowed, Sara puffing for breath, Ricky gracious enough to pretend to be winded. "One more turn and we're back in the Hyatt," Ricky said. "Another potentially ugly confrontation avoided. That's how we eighties types handle things."
They turned the bend and there he was. Leaning with his back and his cheek against cool tile, sizing them up. He started to whistle: "Mack the Knife."
Sara grabbed Ricky's wrist and hauled him back around out of sight. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Rosie," he said. "We should just bluff our way past. "
"Don't you see?" The terror was upon her. It glowed in her eyes like white-hot wires. "How did he get in front of us?"
"Some kind of service passage. We're right near the hotel. If he causes trouble we can make a lot of noise and someone will come rescue us."
And then he came out of the wall at them, lunging like a shark.
Like a dancer Ricky swung Sara behind him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Party party," the boy said with a Hans and Franz accent, laughing, spraying spittle from loose lips. "Everybody get down tonight."
There was a buzzing in the air, oppressive as the humid night outside Peachtree Center's artificial chill. The boy swung a hand karate-fashion for the side of Ricky's neck.
Ricky wasn't a racquetball ace for nothing. Nothing wrong with his reflexes; he blocked with a spidery forearm.
The hand went through it. There was a savage shrilling moment like a buzz saw hitting a knot in a plank, and then Ricky's forearm and splayed hand just sort of toppled.
Ricky stood staring at the red hoop of blood springing out the suit-coated stump. Sara screamed.
Ricky pointed his arm, hosing his own blood into his assailant's eyes. The boy fell back, sputtering and swiping at his face. Ricky hurled himself at him, windmill arms whirling. "Rosie, run!"
Her legs would not move. Ricky was pummeling the boy with stump and inexpert fist. It looked like the worst of playground bullying; Ricky was- a head taller, with a good six inches' reach-
That sound came again. She knew she would hear it every time she closed her eyes for the rest of her life. She smelled something like burned hair.
Ricky's arm fell off at the shoulder. His blood vomited over the wall, white with a mosaic sprinkling of blue and green and yellow.
He turned a martvr's face to her. "Rosie," he said, and his gums were shocks of blood, "Please run, for god's sake run-" The hand passed playfully. His lower jaw was sheared away with the rest of his words. His tongue flopped at her unmoored, a ghastly parody of lust.
She turned and fled, the charnel-house sound pursuing. As she rounded the corner the heel of her left shoe snapped. She went to her knee with an impact like a gunshot. She skidded twenty feet, bounced off a wall. She tried to struggle up. Her leg would not carry her; she fell heavily against the tile.
"Oh, Ricky," she sobbed. "I'm sorry." Sorry for blowing the escape he had bought her with his life; sorry for the strange guilty surge of relief down underneath the terror that she would not have to face the question that another night in his room would bring between them.
She began to push herself along with her hands, knees up, scooting sideways on her rump. He came around the corner, looking twelve-feet tall. Blood splashed his leather and his skin, unnaturally bright in the fluorescent light. He was smiling around teeth like a collapsing fence.
"Der Mann sends his regards."
Single-mindedly she sculled away from him. There was nothing in the world but the motions of a losing race.
– And voices, down the corridor, welling up from where the passage from the Hyatt dipped under Center Avenue. A party of delegates in Jackson buttons appeared, black, middle-aged, well dressed, talking happily amongst themselves about their candidate's last-minute upsurge at day's end.
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