Ace in the Hole

  The hiss of silk brought his head up. Fleur’s skirt puddled on the floor about her feet. She studied the far wall with frowning abstraction as she swiftly unbuttoned her blouse, unsnapped her bra. The heavy breasts swung free. She was larger bosomed than her mother had been. Tachyon couldn’t decide if he liked it. His mouth was dry from nerves. He watched her buttocks dimple as she climbed into the bed.

  “Wait,” he forced out.

  “Let’s do this.” As a come-on line it lacked something.

  He jammed his hands into his pockets. Took a quick turn about the room. He noted his erection was back.

  “I’m scared.”

  Propping her elbows on her knees, hands hanging loosely between her legs in front of her dark snatch, Fleur said dryly, “That’s my line.”

  “Help me a little.”

  “How?”

  “Undress me. Be loving with me.”

  She swung off the bed, and took hold of the lace cravat at his throat. Unbuttoned his shirt, and pushed it off his shoulders. Tach, standing with closed eyes, could feel her hair brushing at his skin. The scent of vanilla and spice washed across him—Shalimar. Blythe’s scent. It brought it all back so strongly. That hot summer day in ’48, the crackle of petticoats as he embraced Blythe, the smell and taste of Shalimar as his lips explored her neck.

  Fleur slithered down the length of him like a worshiper at some ancient altar. Her lips were pressed to his belly as she opened his pants, and pulled them down over his hips. His erection throbbed in time to his beating heart. In a frenzy he kicked off his shoes, and struggled to free himself from the confining material of his pants. Fleur laughed, husky and low, as he lost his balance and sprawled on the floor. Kissing, clutching, panting, punctuating the desperate flow of endearments with deep groans, they lurched toward the bed. A single bead of sperm squeezed from the head of his cock. Terrified that he would lose it Tachyon spread her legs, murmuring Takisian obscenities like a pagan litany. The lips of her labia closed about him.

  The touch of her mind. Roulette. Poison, death, terror, madness.

  He began to lose it. The iron leaching from his penis. Suddenly other hands tangled in his long hair. A sweet husky voice encouraging him.

  The muted click of the beaded curtains blowing gently in a hot breeze. The scratchy recording of “La Traviata” throwing sound, like shards of light, throughout the apartment. Blythe in his arms.

  He drove deep within her. Gave a shrill cry of triumph.

  Blythe. Blythe. Blythe.

  6:00 P.M.

  Night was coming. She was sure of it. Sitting beneath a potted plant’s notched ear in the Marriott lobby she could feel it slouching rough-beast-like toward downtown Atlanta.

  When it came, it would thin the crowd. Remove, one by one, the forest of walking, talking trees in which she hid. Until there was no cover. It was simple mathematics: if safety was numbers, subtraction equaled death.

  Night was the natural environment of Hartmann’s hunchbacked puppet. She knew that. As she knew night would soon or late be born.

  She had to find an indivisible one to protect her. Or the creature that clung to the fur of night’s black belly would have her.

  Tachyon had failed her. So had Ricky—though his failure had been of the noble variety, and had bought her twenty-four hours of air time. She had to find someone with the strength to shield her, someone who would accept the only coin she had to pay with. Before day’s placenta burst.

  She knew just the man.

  The band was playing “Stars Fell on Alabama,” which Jack hoped to hell wasn’t some kind of political signal. After eleven futile ballots, almost anything could be taken for an omen by weary and desperate delegates. Jack hoped the song was only a crowd soother after the day’s seventh fistfight on the floor, this last between a Jackson delegate defecting to Hartmann and a floor manager who was trying to change his mind. There was a motion on the floor to give up and go home for the day, something that was perfectly in tune with the delegates’ premature weariness. Jack moved through his crowd to find Rodriguez.

  “Listen, ese. We’ve stayed solid for Hartmann so far.”

  “Right.”

  “Everybody’s going to come after us tonight. One crack in the façade of solid California and people are going to figure it’s open season.”

  Sweat was pouring down Jack’s face. There were sopping stains under the arms of his tailored shirt. At some point that afternoon the air conditioners had given up.

  “Call a meeting after dinner. Nine o’clock. Everyone attends.”

  Rodriguez looked at him. “What’s the meeting about?”

  “Who gives a damn? We’ll figure out something. We just need to count heads, make sure none of the other guys’ people are talking to ours. If we keep our delegates busy, we can keep them out of other people’s camp.”

  Rodriguez gave a grin. “What you gonna do after that, man? Bed checks?”

  “Something like that.” Rodriguez’s grin faded. Jack spoke quickly. “We’re all blocked together at the Marriott. I want you to put someone you trust on each floor, check people in and out, make a list, get IDs. We can’t stop the wrong people from visiting ours, but we can make sure they’re seen when they do.”

  Rodriguez looked dubious. “You’ve seen all the hookers outside. We’re supposed to get their names?”

  “Just do it,” Jack snapped.

  Damn. His temper was unraveling along with everyone else’s.

  “Barnett’s people are trying to compromise us,” he said, lowering his voice. “One of their bimbos for Christ is fucking Tachyon even as we speak.”

  Rodriguez looked horrified. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see to it.”

  Jim Wright looked relieved as he gaveled the convention to an early close, leaving the networks frantically trying to schedule hours of prime-time reruns.

  Jack’s temper growled in his mind as he crowded out the door. The whole thing had gone on too long, two days of balloting following two days of procedural fights, and all in the middle of a sweltering Georgia summer. Fleur van Renssaeler was off fucking Tachyon, hoping to accomplish god-knew-what, and Tach had left Jack to face the media unprepared.

  Not only that, Connie Chung was clearly prepared to stay faithful to her husband.

  At least he had his table waiting at the Bello Mondo, and a whole night before him. It had been a week since he’d last got laid. He had nothing better to do tonight than rectify that oversight.

  There was another message from Bobbie waiting for him at the desk, but there was no answer when he returned her call. He showered, changed, endured the horrors of the glass elevator as he descended from his room to the Bello Mondo.

  The waiter, recognizing him, brought his double whiskey without being asked. And then Sara Morgenstern, looking like someone had recently connected her to a car battery, sat opposite him. She was clutching a shoulder bag to her chest as if it were all she owned.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  He looked at her. She wore clothes well, even the rumpled blue-and-white prom dress she had on at the moment, but her white-blond hair was disordered and there was an unsteady look in her sunken eyes.

  “I don’t want to hear about it, Sara,” Jack said.

  “Can I borrow one of your cigarettes? I’m feeling a little—out of sorts. I saw a murder last night.”

  “The one in the mall?”

  Sara’s hands trembled as they extracted a Camel. “It was an ace,” she said. “A weird, twisted teenage kid. He cut Ricky to pieces. Right in front of me.”

  Jack decided he didn’t want this woman’s company for even a second. “Sara,” he said.

  She looked up at him. There was too much makeup around her eyes, he noticed, trying to hide the effects of a sleepless night.

  “The point is,” she said, trying to smile, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  Which maybe changes matters, Jack thought. He reached into his jacket for his lighter and lit her
cigarette. She inhaled and began coughing uncontrollably. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Jesus,” she said. “What are these?”

  “The kind I learned to smoke in the Army.”

  “I used to smoke Carltons in college. I really shouldn’t start again. Oh, hell.” She stubbed the cigarette out as if driving a dagger into her worst enemy.

  “Have a drink. It lasts longer.” Jack signaled the waiter.

  At least, he thought nobly, he’d be taking this loose cannon out of play for a few hours, maybe a whole night.

  All this and get laid, too.

  He looked at Sara and an idea came to him.

  Maybe he could take her out of play for a lot longer than he first thought.

  The North Expressway was jammed, but Tony jockeyed the black Regal through it effortlessly. Spector was glad they weren’t eating at the Marriott. There was considerably less chance of someone recognizing him away from the hotel. Tony had on a tailored, dark-blue suit and matching tie. Spector was in gray. His suit still smelled like the store.

  “Where are we headed?” Spector asked.

  “LaGrotta.” Tony whipped across two lanes of traffic to take the Peachtree exit. “If I get us there alive. You’ll love this place. Some of the best Italian food in town. Not New York, of course, but you go with what’s available.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks for taking time out. I know you’re real busy right now.”

  “I haven’t seen you in ages, man. You get priority.” Tony smiled. That smile had been turning women’s hearts to goo and winning over men for as long as Spector had known Tony. He was a hard guy not to like.

  “How did you wind up with Hartmann?” Spector wanted to keep Tony talking about himself. That way he wouldn’t be asking many questions.

  Tony shrugged. “One improbability leading to another. I got a loan and managed to talk my way into law school. Did some work in local politics. Just happened to be on the winning side a few times. Somebody in Gregg’s camp noticed me and, well, I’m ethnic. That doesn’t hurt.”

  “Plus, you’re good. Always were. Good jump shot, good line for the girls.” Spector smiled. “Hell, you could talk a good Catholic girl out of her clothes in less time than it took the rest of us to comb our hair.”

  “It’s a sin to waste a God-given talent.” Tony wagged his finger at Spector. “And you know how I avoid sin at all costs.”

  “Right.” Spector glanced out the window. There were dark clouds gathering above the treetops with patches of gray below where the rain was already falling. “Looks like we might get wet.”

  “My friend, for a meal like this you’d swim the Hudson over to Teaneck.” Tony made a contented sound. He looked over at Spector and kissed the tips of his fingers. “Trust me.”

  Thunder rumbled overhead. “I trust you, old buddy.” Spector wished he could say it was a two-way street.

  7:00 P.M.

  He woke suddenly. Filled with a sense of total well-being. Or perhaps filled was not the proper description. Empty, floating, freed at last from two years of pressure and anxiety. Tach kicked free of the tangled sheets. The scent of sweat and sex hung heavy in the room. Realized with a thrill of disapoinment that the bed was empty. Sat up, then relaxed back against the pillows at the flush of the toilet.

  Fleur padded in, breasts swinging. She realized he was awake, and her arms crossed over her chest.

  “Don’t, I like to look at you.”

  “You’re a heathen.”

  “Yes. You’re a courtesan.”

  She lifted the drapes, and looked out. “That’s not very nice.”

  “It was meant to be a compliment. Why haven’t you married?”

  “How do you know I haven’t?” She leaned back against the window, one buttock cocked up on the narrow sill.

  “I don’t read married off you.”

  She stiffened. “Are you reading my mind?”

  “No.”

  “You tried, the second time we did it.”

  “I would have tried the first time, but I was too busy trying to make certain that I stayed … er … firm.”

  “Don’t read my mind!”

  “All right. It makes sex better for me, but all right.”

  “I think it’s horrible that you can violate people that way.”

  “Fleur, may I remind you that I didn’t read your mind. I sensed your opposition, and I withdrew. I’m a very well-mannered person, not to mention charming and handsome and witty.…” There was no lightening of her somber expression, and he trailed away into embarrassed silence. He fumbled his flask off the bedside table, and took a swig. “Your mother wanted so much for you. Husband, children, home, happiness.”

  “I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s old history.” She slid into the bed, her hand reaching for his cock. “I want you in bed with me, not with her.”

  Spector loosened his belt a notch. He’d had a salad and lamb stew. Spezzatino de Montone Tony had called it, sampling a bite to make sure it was up to par. Tony had eaten a chicken-and-almond dish with buttered rice on the side. They’d split a strudel with custard for dessert, and that had done it for Spector. He wasn’t used to eating this much and could practically feel the food piling up at the back of his throat.

  Tony sighed. “Did I tell you?”

  “Just as good as advertised.” Spector drained what was left of the wine in his glass.

  “We’ve been so busy eating that I haven’t had a chance to ask you who you’re lobbying for.”

  Spector tensed. So far, they’d talked about the old neighborhood, girls, basketball, what had happened to people. Tony had been his only good friend during his school years. It wasn’t that people hated Spector, they just didn’t notice him. Tony was Mr. Charisma. They were unlikely friends, but close all the same. Tony’s question reminded him that he was here to kill Hartmann. It was an unavoidable fact. “Well, let’s just say my employers don’t share all the same views as your senator.” Spector didn’t want to lie, but he sure as hell didn’t want to tell the truth either. Better to compromise.

  Tony nodded and rounded up a few stray crumbs of strudel with his fork. “You don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. You got any feelings about the wild card victims, I mean personally?”

  “It’s a tough break.” Spector knew that as well as anyone, having drawn the black queen himself. Only Tachyon had been stupid enough to bring him back. “But there’s lots of tough breaks. Some people just get a few more than others.”

  “Don’t you think jokers are getting kicked around, though?” Tony was looking hard at Spector. He had a stake in this, somehow. Something that went beyond political attitudes.

  “Sure. But what are you going to do about it.” Spector picked up the bottle of Pinot Nero and poured himself another glass.

  “Make sure their rights are protected, just like any other American citizen. That’s what I want. That’s why I’m working for Hartmann.” Tony sat silently for a moment. “Don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you?”

  Spector shook his head. “No. I’ve been around a lot of jokers. But it’s different with them. Blacks, Italians, whoever else, they all still look like people. It’s not their own fault, but plenty of jokers look like they should be in a zoo. Most people react with their guts, not their brains.” Spector knew, he’d always gone with his instincts. If he hadn’t gotten the virus himself, he’d probably hate the jokers like the rest.

  Tony tossed his napkin on the table and signaled the waiter to bring the bill. “You got time to take a little ride with me?”

  “Sure,” Spector said, downing his wine. “What have you got in mind?”

  “Just going to visit some friends of mine. Good friends. I’d like you to meet them.” Tony smiled again. Spector couldn’t say no.

  “Maybe after we’re done, you can introduce me to your boss. I’d like to meet him.” Spector was uncomfortable, and it wasn’t entirely due to his bloated stomach. br />
  “We might just be able to do that,” Tony said. “But first things first.”

  Right, Spector thought, first things first.

  All his old skills had returned. His aspect was truly upon him. Tachyon grinned down at his penis thrusting aggressively from the copper hairs of his brush. Laughing, he dove between her legs, nipping at her thighs, licking, teasing. Only one thing remained. To join completely with her. To join with her mind. He would do it when they climaxed, he decided. That would forever put the terror of Roulette behind him. Wriggling up her body, he sucked in one dusky nipple. Penetrated her.

  Her thoughts were sharp, as jagged as glass. “You look just like your mother, and she was a slut … slut … SLUT.”

  A hateful voice. He hadn’t heard it in thirty-eight years. Even filtered through the layers of Fleur’s memories, Henry van Renssaeler still had the power to disgust.

  “You better prove how much you love me.”

  “I love you, Daddy. I love you.”

  The soft cadences of Leo Barnett.

  “Open your heart to Jesus, and all your sins will be forgiven you.”

  The rest followed in swift, hurtful images. Fleur’s realization of how he was using his power on the uncommitted delegates. The faked fall. The pretended passion. The disgust and dislocation as she tried to come to grips with the fact that she was in bed with her mother’s lover. Even as she clutched at his sweat-slick body, she was pretending that he was Leo Barnett.

  Fury took him, and Tachyon was closer to striking a woman than he had ever been in his life. He took his revenge by finishing the act with her, slaking his body’s desires with hired meat. When it was over, he rolled out of the bed, and gathering up her clothes, tossed them on top of her. She stared at him, alarm shadowing the brown eyes.

  “Get out.”

  “You read my mind—”

  “Yes.”

  “You violated me.”

  “Yes.”

  She was scrabbling into her clothes, wadding up her hose, and cramming them into her purse, smoothing the tangled hair. Pausing at the door, she flung at him, “I accomplished what I set out to do. I kept you away from the convention.”