by Peter David
But a gentle touch rested on his arm. "No, Arthur, Merlin's right," said Gwen reasonably.
"Your style is going to be somewhat... unorthodox for a number of voters. Perhaps we shouldn't try to drop too much on them right away. I'll find someplace."
"Merlin, could you find her someplace inexpensive? In Manhattan?"
"What?" Merlin laughed in disbelief. "Arthur, I'm a magician, not a god. Do you know what your place is running you?"
"She could bunk in with us," offered Chico.
Gwen looked at them. "Oh. How .. . nice," she said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
"Yeah! You could have Harpo's piece of dirt. Who knows when he's coming back?"
"/ certainly don't." She smiled. "Thanks all for your concern, but I have a friend I can stay with out in Queens until I find a place of my own." She shook her head in wonderment. "You know, I've never had that. When I went into college I went from living with my parents to living in a dorm. And from there I went to living with Lance."
"Lance?" Percy Vale looked up.
Arthur shook his head. "No relation."
"So I'll finally be out on my own. It's scary." She looked thoughtful. "Poor Lance."
"Why poor Lance?" asked Percy. Arthur leaned forward, curious to hear her response.
"Why, because the more I've thought about it, the more I've come to realize that he needed me a hell of a lot more than I needed him. He was just determined that I not know that. I think my being on my own is going to be a lot harder on Lance than it will be on me."
Arthur's mouth twitched. "My heart bleeds for him." He lifted his glass.
Lance leaned against the wall of the building to keep himself 98
from toppling over. He felt the solid brick wall waver under his fingertips for a moment before righting itself, then he breathed a sigh of relief that it had sorted itself out before falling.
It was night, starless. The full moon was blood red-it would have tinted the clouds, had there been any clouds. Up on Eighth Avenue this late at night there were only a few cars heading uptown. Most people drove through that area with their car doors locked tight. Drivers would glance disdainfully at the human refuse that lined the streets. Lance was one of those receiving the disdainful glances.
He sank slowly to the ground and smiled, incredibly happy. Lance had certain images of himself that he felt constrained to live up to. Once that image had been of Suffering Writer.
To that end he'd spent long hours churning out reams of garbage, comprehensible only to himself (oh, Gwen had pretended to like them, but he knew better). He had starved himself, refused to go out in the daylight if he could help it. When he did feel the need for sexual release, he'd found hookers with hearts of gold to whom he could vent his creative spleen, not to mention his pent-up urges. For naturally, as with any good tortured writer, he had a woman who did not understand him and wanted him to get a regular nine-to-five job.
(Whether Lance's reality bore any resemblance to reality, is utterly irrelevant.) When Gwen had walked out on him, it had permitted him to shift over to a new persona-Utterly Dejected Writer at the End of his Rope. He looked at his distorted reflection in a puddle of water and was overjoyed at what he saw. He was strung out. Dead-ended.
Down and out. Ruined by the complete collapse of his one true love's confidence in him, he had now attained that point where he could die alone, unloved and misunderstood in the gutter of New York. Then some students or somesuch, cleaning out his papers, would discover the heretofore undiscovered brilliance of Lance Benson and make it public. He'd be published by some university press somewhere and become a runaway hit. He smirked.
And he'd be dead. They'd want more of his brilliance, and he'd be dead as a doornail. That would sure show them!
The clack-clack of the heels had been sounding along the street for some time, but Lance had taken no notice of them. Now, though, he could not help it. The heels had stopped right in front of him. Stiletto heels supporting thigh-high black leather boots which were laced up the front.
Slowly Lance looked up. The woman before him was dressed entirely in black leather. Her clothes looked as if they'd been spray painted on. The only part of her body that was not covered were the fingers, projecting through five holes cut in each glove. She wore a black beret on her head, which blended perfectly with her black hair. (Once the hair had had streaks of gray in it. Now there was not the slightest trace.) Her lipstick and mascara were black as well. They floated against the alabaster of her skin.
"Hi," she said. Her voice was low and sultry. "Nice night."
"If you like the night," he said indifferently, and looked down.
"Oh, yes. Yes indeed, I love the night." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What's your name?"
"Lance."
"Lance." She rolled the name around on her tongue, making it sound like a three-syllable name. "Lance, you look very lonely. Would you like to have a good time?"
He laughed hoarsely. "Yeah, sure. But my idea of a good time and your idea of a good time probably don't jibe."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah, really. My idea of a good time is sitting here and watching my life pass before my eyes as I prepare to die."
"Oh, you're right," said the woman. "You're very right." She shook her head. "That's not my idea of a good time at all. Tell you what-why don't I show you my idea of a good time? If that doesn't do it for you, then we'll bring you back here and you can continue your little headlong drive to self-destruction. How does that strike you?"
Lance shrugged. "Whatever makes you happy. I don't much care." He got to his feet, and the woman took his hand. He hobbled at first, since his right leg had fallen asleep. "So where are we going?"
"My place," she said. She wrapped her fingers in between his, and he shuddered. Her hand was cold, and he told her so. She nodded her head slightly in acknowledgment. "Yes, I know. My body temperature is perpetually ninety-one degrees. But don't worry," and she licked her lips slowly, "I can warm up quite nicely."
Abruptly Lance dug into his pocket. "I don't have any money, really," he said.
She waved a hand airily. "Don't worry about it. Think of it as a freebie, Lance. I'm sure you'll be able to do something for me.
His spirit brightened for the first time since Gwen had left him some time ago. "Gee, thanks.
You know, I don't even have your name."
"Morgan," he was told.
He nodded. "Morgan? Isn't that a man's name?"
She smiled. "Only if you're a man. But I happen to be a woman, my dear Lance. More woman, I would suspect, than you would even believe you could possibly handle."
"Oh," said Lance uncertainly, and then smiled with grim determination. "Well, I guess I'll just have to do my best."
"Oh, yes, Lance," said Morgan. "I know you will, I just know it."
Chaptre the Thirteenth
It was well into spring when the first of the commercial spots was aired.
Percy Vale, hunched over his ledgers in the offices of Arthur Penn, the checkbook and bank balances spread out nearby, had the television set on in the background. Campaign workers sat around stuffing envelopes and sealing them, or canvassing telephone books and comparing names to lists provided by the League of Women Voters, to see if they could encourage those not already registered to do so.
The portable color Sony had Kermit the Frog on the screen, and that charming amphibian disappeared to be replaced by the smiling visage of Arthur Penn.
Someone called out, "Here it is! Here it is again."
Most people reacted only casually. They had, after all, seen it before. Still, Percy put down his work momentarily to watch. Arthur's commercial had been shot in an empty studio, the only prop on the set being a stool. Arthur was leaning against it, gazing out at the viewer with that easy familiarity of his.
"Hello," he said pleasantly. "I'm Arthur Penn. I want to be the next mayor of New York City.
Vote for me. Thank you."
&n
bsp; The screen then went to black, and Gwen's voice, sounding very sultry, said "Paid for by the Arthur Penn for Mayor Committee.' *
Percy smiled and returned to his work. He remembered when Arthur had first presented the script for the commercial to all and sundry. There had been a long moment of skeptical silence, but Arthur had remained firm, despite the swell of subsequent protest and disbelief.
As the primaries had approached, Arthur had studied the commercials of other candidates very carefully. His decision was to try and find a different angle. Once he had eliminated the Meet the People Approach, the Photographed in Front of a Recognizable Monument approach, the Meet My Family Aren't We Wholesome approach, the Hard Hitting Tough Talker approach, and the My Opponent is a Cheating Son-of-a-Bitch approach, that had left him with exactly one option.
"But Arthur," Percy remembered himself complaining. "All that's going to happen is that people will see your commercial and wonder,' Yeah, but why should I vote for him?' "
"Precisely!" Arthur had said delightedly. "The beauty of this commercial is that it's only ten seconds long. So we can afford-what is it called? Saturation, that's it. And we'll get people curious. People like to be tested, to be challenged. Every politician sounds like every other politician. As far as I'm concerned, people are no different now than they were centuries ago. Before you can accomplish anything, you have to get their attention. And frequently the best way to get their attention is to hit them on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper." He grinned. "My entire campaign is directed toward hitting them with that newspaper. To a large extent what I say is irrelevant, as long as it's making people"-he tapped his temple with his forefinger,-"think! No one thinks anymore. Well, my friends, this campaign is not going to lay things out in nice easy packages."
That's for sure, Percy thought to himself. He shook his head. This whole campaign was hardly an easy package. As the treasurer of the Arthur Penn for Mayor Committee, he had his work cut out for him.
Merlin had certainly done his groundwork, paving the way for Arthur's return. That much was certain. An entire fictive history of Arthur being silent partner in a number of wealthy businesses had given credence to Arthur's personal fortune. The actual origin of the fortune was unknown to Percy, although he had a suspicion that if someone happened to stumble over the pot at the end of the rainbow, they might now find it empty. Merlin had a knack for making things happen. That same fictive history had supported Arthur's bid for the mayoralty. Coming from outside of politics, he could claim no prior party obligations. Coming (ostensibly) from a background in business, he could claim that he had a businessman's sense of running things, and that was what New York City needed. Someone who knew how to eliminate waste, to maximize profits. In short, to run New York City like the profit-making center it should and could be.
It all sounded great. Percy just hoped that Arthur could pull it off. And he hoped that no one tumbled wise to the whole setup. Percy wasn't sure, but he had a feeling you could go to jail for being the treasurer of an organization backing a candidate for mayor who had supposedly died over a dozen centuries ago.
Moe Dredd, his middle swathed in a white towel, sat back in the steam room of his favorite health club. He could feel his pores opening, his skin breathing in the healthful mists around him. Sweat beaded his forehead, slicked his back and upper arms. His hands rested comfortably on his lap.
The door to the steam room opened. Moe looked over with half-closed eyes and dimly made out a figure through the steam. "Is that you, Cordoba?" he called out.
There was a pause, and then a voice called back, "No. It's me, Arthur."
Moe shrunk back against the wall as Arthur stepped out of the fog, smiling pleasantly. He wore a towel as well, except that it was wrapped around him like a toga. And it was purple.
"You wouldn't by any chance be referring to Ronnie Cordoba, would you, Moe?" asked Arthur with what sounded like only mild interest. "The old racquetball companion of your leash holder, Bernie Bittberg? You might be interested to know that, with the primary only a month away, old Ronnie has joined my team. Seems he has a flair for public relations and Bernie was attempting to funnel it into the standard channels. So Ronnie came over to us.
We're a good deal more flexible."
He sat down next to Moe and patted him on the back. Moe recoiled from his touch.
"So," said Arthur, "this is our first opportunity to reall) talk. So tell me-how are you doing, you little bastard?"
"Mister, um, Mr. Penn, I don't see-"
Arthur raised a preemptory hand. "Don't. Don't even try to lie to me. It's foolishness. I know who you really are. Honestly, with the perversity with which fate names the players in our little drama, it would be a minor miracle if I didn't know you." He sighed and shook his head. "I thought we'd seen the last of each other on the field of battle, Modred, those many centuries ago. And before you try to protest again, I must re-emphasize that I know who you are, and I know that you know who you are. I have every confidence that my half sister, your mother, discovered you reincarnated in this"-he glanced down,-"less than impressive form."
"Well, I like that," huffed Moe Dredd.
"Just as I," continued Arthur, as if Moe had not said anything, "rediscovered Jenny, and Merlin found Percival."
"Ah, yes," said Moe Dredd disdainfully. "Gwen DeVere, the president of your reelection committee-an appointment that came as no surprise to anyone, I assume."
"Not to anyone who knows Gwen and knows what she's capable of."
Moe wiped the sweat from his eyebrows as they began to drip into his eyes. "That's not half as funny as putting an alcoholic in as your treasurer."
"Percy is not an alcoholic anymore," said Arthur evenly.
"Once a drunk, always a drunk," said Moe. "Even a drunk will tell you that."
"Perhaps. But I'm willing to give people a chance, despite their character flaws. Just as I'm willing to give you a chance."
"What?"
"You may not recall, Modred, but on that last day, when I received the wound that nearly killed me-and indeed, the day you were killed-you claimed you were willing to make a peaceful settlement with me. Suddenly, at the last moment, a poison adder appeared from nowhere and laid me low. My men, not seeing the snake, thought you had betrayed me, so they attacked. And that was the finish of us all."
He leaned toward Moe. "The thing I've always puzzled over, and the thing to which I doubt I'll ever get an answer, is my question of whether you arranged for that poisoned snake yourself, or whether you were actually willing to negotiate for peace. On that basis, Modred, my reincarnated bastard son, I offer you a place within my organization. Because I want to be able to trust you.'*
Modred stared at him. Then he stood, said, "I'm sorry, I can't. I just can't," and left quickly.
Arthur could have gone after him. If he had, things might have turned out differently. If he had, he might have actually become allies with Modred, instead of ending up facing his son in battle several months later. But he didn't. He let Modred go, electing to stare into the steam, and so the future was allowed to run its course, which was remarkably similar to the past.
Gwen stood in front of the door to her former apartment, listening carefully for some sound of movement. There was none.
It had been a rainy summer day, and Gwen pulled her raincoat more tightly around her. She tossed her head, smoothing out the damp strawberry-blond hair which she had permitted to grow to shoulder length because that was the way He liked it. She smiled mirthlessly to herself. Lance had always insisted that she keep it short. She wondered what he would say now.
She wondered for the umpteenth time if she should have told Arthur she was coming back to her former home to finally reclaim items she'd abandoned when he'd carried her away. How long had it been? she wondered. She couldn't quite recall, for the past months had been idyllic. Although Arthur had been residing in his more traditional-style apartment, he and Gwen had found many an evening to sneak off to the castle and hav
e, as Arthur referred to it, a dalliance.
In addition her self-respect had shot up a hundredfold when she'd been voted president of Arthur's election committee. Merlin had pitched a holy fit on that score, but it had been fair and square. Everyone who worked with Arthur had come to genuinely like Gwen, and she'd blossomed under the appreciation to become a hard-working, quick thinking, aggressive woman-the woman she'd always had the potential to be, until Lance had smothered it. But he could only smother it for as long as he was an influence on her. And now that influence had been broken.
And yet... and yet...
She was back. Because she'd left behind books, clothing, and other personal possessions.
But mostly because she had left behind a part of herself. And she wanted to reclaim it, clear up the "unfinished business" between herself and Lance. Last time she'd left, she had been swept up and saved by her shining knight (and what a warm feeling just thinking of that moment gave her). This time she wanted to walk out on her own, head held high. It was what she knew she needed.
So why, with all that, did she feel a mixture of disappointment and relief that Lance might not be home? That her big confrontation would not occur? She didn't know, but rather than stand in the hallway and procrastinate any longer, she reached into her purse and pulled out her keys.
It didn't occur to her until that moment that Lance might have changed the lock. Fortunately he hadn't. She opened the door and stepped into the apartment.
A woman was lying on the couch, waiting for her.
Gwen's breath caught in surprise, and she glanced at the door to make sure that she had the right apartment.
"Oh, yes," said the woman. "You have the right place. Come in, Gwen, come in."
Gwen walked in slowly, cautiously, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. The apartment was dark, illuminated only by the hazy glow of the television set which faced the couch. "Do I, urn, know you?"
The glare from the television played odd light images off the woman's angular face,-flickering, giving her a look of non-substance. She was wearing a long black gown with a low-cut front which displayed a generous amount of cleavage. Again Gwen said slowly, "I don't know you ... do I?"