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Jack gave Gregg a lopsided, bitter smile. "He's never served you a plate of thirty silver dimes, either."
"Amy…"Gregg began.
"Already gone, sir," his aide said. "I'll find him or starve trying. Save me a roll, okay?"
As she left the room, Gregg turned to Braun. "Okay, we'll go ahead and eat. If Hiram shows, he shows." The words snapped out more sharply than Gregg intended. He was in no mood for games, not with Puppetman slamming against his restraints. Braun was looking at him strangely again, but before the ace could say anything, Gregg shook his head and waved the anger away. "God, that sounded horrible, Jack. I'm sorry. I'm just not myself this morning. Point me in the direction of the coffeepot, would you?"
Strange, Jack thought. He'd never felt uncomfortable in the presence of Gregg Hartma
I'm tired, thought Jack. So is Gregg. No one can be charismatic every minute.
He poured himself coffee. The cup rattled in the saucerhangover, maybe, or nerves. If it hadn't been Gregg asking for this meeting, he wouldn't have come. "I saw a car full of Nazis outside," he said. "Nazis in uniforms."
"The Klan are here, too." Hartma
"Lucky thing the Turtle is here."
"Yes." Hartma
Jack held up a hand. "Please." He smiled to cover his nervousness. "Let's keep it down to one reconciliation a day, okay?"
Hartma
Jack shrugged. "Not that I know of. I just… sort of assume there would be."
Hartma
"You assume too much, Jack. You think everyone's got a chip on his shoulder about your past, and it's just not true. You've got to let down the defenses, let people get to know you."
Jack stared at the coffee swirling in his cup and thought about Earl Sanderson spiraling to a crash landing at his feet. "Okay, Gregg," he said, "I'll try."
"You're important to this campaign, Jack. You're head of the California delegation. I wouldn't have chosen you if you weren't suited for the job."
"You could get some heat on account of me. I've told you that. "
"You're important, Jack. You're a symbol of something bad that happened a long time ago, something we're trying to prevent from happening again. The other Four Aces were victims, but so were you. They paid with prison or exile or their lives, but you…" Hartma
Jack stared at Hartma
Hartma
Jack shook his head. From the time he'd met him aboard the Stacked Deck, Hartma
"Is something wrong, Gregg?" Jack blurted.
Hartma
"You need some rest."
"Guess we all do." Hartma
"I got some congressmen drunk and laid, is all." Hartma
The door opened. Jack jumped, spilling coffee. He turned and saw, not Hiram Worchester, but Amy. Embarrassed at his nervousness, Jack reached for a napkin.
"Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. I just got a phone call from Furs in Jokertown. It's a potential problem. Chrysalis has just been found dead in New York. Ace abilities were involved."
Surprise stumbled into Jack's mind. He'd spent months with Chrysalis aboard the Stacked Deck, and although he'd never been comfortable around her-the organs and muscle visible through the transparent flesh reminded Jack of too many things he'd seen in World War II and Korea he'd developed an abstract admiration for the way Chrysalis handled her deformity, the cultured accent, cigarette holder, antique playing cards, and dry style.
Hartma
"Beaten to death, looks like." Amy pursed her lips. "Barnett can make some propaganda out of this-it's more `wild card violence' that will have to be restrained."
"I knew her well," Hartma
"Tony Calderone checked in late last night," Amy said. "Maybe you should get him preparing a statement in case Barnett tries to use this."
Hartma
"Should I leave?"
Concern entered Hartma
He sighed. It had to happen sooner or later. "I don't have a problem with Worchester, Gregg. He's just got one with me."
Hartma
The room seemed very empty after Hartma
Earl's glider crashed again and again in his mind.
9:00 A.M.
"Sara," Ricky Barnes said, "you've got to get off this Hartma
They sat at a round table covered in green-checked oilcloth near Le Peep's front window. Outside, a clot of farm-state delegates in loud ties floated down the tiled rectilinear intestine of Peachtree Center, headed for the Hyatt lobby. More delegates vied with ferns for elbow room around them, trying to fortify themselves on lightweight New Egg Cuisine. It was that, fast food, or hotel restaurants, which had waiting lists past the turn of the century.
"Rolling Stone says that's the disease of the Eighties," Sara Morgenstern said, dissecting her omelet with her fork. Her winter-pale hair was swept from the left side of her head to the right today. She wore a simple pink dress that came to the tops of her crossed knees. Her stockings were sheer black, her shoes wedge-soled and white.
Barnes took a bite of his own tofu and spinach omelet. The coat of his severe black two-piece was draped over his hooped chairback. With his suspenders and white shirt he might have passed for an Inherit the Wind epoch Southern Methodist minister, except for his gold-wire yuppie gra