"The Klan are here, too." Hartmann shook his head. "There's potential for a serious confrontation. The crackpot right likes that kind of thing-it gives them publicity."
"Lucky thing the Turtle is here."
"Yes." Hartmann gave him a look. "You've never met the Turtle, have you?"
Jack held up a hand. "Please." He smiled to cover his nervousness. "Let's keep it down to one reconciliation a day, okay?"
Hartmann knit his brows. "Is there a problem between you?"
Jack shrugged. "Not that I know of. I just… sort of assume there would be."
Hartmann stepped toward Jack, put a hand on his shoulder. There was concern in his eyes.
"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…" Hartmann gave his boyish, halfapologetic smile. "Maybe you paid with your self-respect. Who's to say that isn't worth more in the long run? Their agony ended, but yours hasn't. I think it all balanced long ago, that everyone's paid too much." He squeezed Jack's shoulder. "We need you. You're important to us. I'm glad you're aboard."
Jack stared at Hartmann, cynicism ringing in his mind like funeral bells. Was Gregg serious-lives and sanity and prison terms balanced against his own worthless loss of dignity?
Hartmann had to be laughing behind that sincere expression, making fun of him.
Jack shook his head. From the time he'd met him aboard the Stacked Deck, Hartmann had been a man who could make Jack feel good about himself. What he was saying now wasn't substantially different from what he'd said to Jack before. But now the message seemed the reflex posturing of a politician, not the message of a concerned friend.
"Is something wrong, Gregg?" Jack blurted.
Hartmann dropped his hand, turned partly away. "Sorry," he said. "Things have been a little strained."
"You need some rest."
"Guess we all do." Hartmann cleared his throat. "Charles said you did some good work for us last night."
"I got some congressmen drunk and laid, is all." Hartmann gave a laugh. "Charles has given me their names and room numbers. I'll be phoning them as soon as we've finished breakfast. Perhaps-"
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.
Hartmann's face went rigid. When the candidate spoke, his voice was strained. "Any more details?"
"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," Hartmann said tightly. The mask-like face seemed unusual in a man who was so open around his friends. Jack wondered if there were aspects to this death he hadn't known about.
"Tony Calderone checked in late last night," Amy said. "Maybe you should get him preparing a statement in case Barnett tries to use this."
Hartmann gave a sigh. "Yes. I'll have to do that." He turned to Jack. "Jack, I'm afraid I'm going to have to abandon you."
"Should I leave?"
Concern entered Hartmann's eyes again as he looked at Jack. "I would appreciate it very much if you'd stay. You and Hiram Worchester are two of my most visible supporters-if you could settle your differences, it would mean a lot to me." Jack thought for a moment, wondering if Judas and St. Paul ever settled their differences.
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."
Hartmann smiled. "Good," he said. He raised a hand and squeezed Jack's shoulder again.
The room seemed very empty after Hartmann and Amy left. Jack watched breakfast turn cold on the buffet.
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 Hartmann thing. It's making you crazy. You're acting obsessive/compulsive."
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 granny glasses. "It's getting a lot of competition from AIDS," he said. "But seriously, you're a long way off your usual Jokertown beat; your Washington desk is handling everything that comes out of Atlanta this week, and they won't be as indulgent of your little foibles as the New York bureau is. Senator Gregg's the Post's special pet. It's as if Katie Graham invented him. They're not going to be happy with you throwing rocks at him."
"We're journalists, Ricky," she said, leaning forward, reaching as if to touch the hand resting beside his plate. The white fingers stopped millimeters short of the milk-chocolate ones. Ricky didn't react. He was an old friend, who'd taken a journalism seminar from her at Columbia a few years back, and knew her reticence had nothing to do with his race. "We have to report the truth."
Ricky shook his long and neatly groomed head. "Sara, Sara. You're not that naive. We report what the owners want or what our peers want. If the truth happens to fall inconveniently in between, it doesn't have much constituency. Besides, what is truth, as the man who washed his hands asked?"
"The truth is that Gregg Hartmann is a murderer and a monster. And I'm going to expose him."
When Hiram Worchester shambled into the room, Jack gave a start and reflexively began to rise from his chair before deciding not to. He settled back into the chair with his coffee and cigarette. He and Hiram had been on the Stacked Deck together; even if they hadn't been friends, there was no need for formality.
Hiram looked as if he hadn't slept. He headed wordlessly for the buffet, took a plate, began to fill it.