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, turning 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."