Josh Davidson, Jack knew, was a secret ace.
As Jack ran for the doors, the bottle of overproof slipped out of his pocket and smashed on the concrete. He didn't slow down.
So far as anyone knew, Jack was the only one of the Four Aces left alive. No one knew for sure, because one of the four was missing.
After serving three years on the island of Alcatraz for contempt of Congress, David Harstein had walked off the boat in 1953. A year later Congress passed the Special Conscription Act, and Harstein had been drafted. He never reported. No one had seen him since. There were rumors that he'd died, been murdered, defected to Moscow, changed his name and moved to Israel.
There hadn't been a single rumor to the effect that he'd had some plastic surgery, done a little weightlifting, put on some weight, grown a beard, taken voice lessons, and become a Broadway actor.
Your old man's the nicest guy I've ever met. Naturally. No one could dislike David Harstein, not once his pheromones got to them. No one could disagree with him. No one could avoid doing what he wanted them to do.
Jack waved his ID at the man at the door, then plunged through. He ran through the crowd of people in the direction he'd last seen Davidson, ignoring the stares of the other delegates. Over the heads of others, he saw Davidson heading into one of the tunnels that led to the floor. He followed, caught Davidson's arm, said, "Hey."
Davidson spun around, threw off Jack's hand. His eyes were like chips of obsidian. "I would rather not talk to you, Mr. Braun. "
Jack started to retreat. He could feel the color draining out of his face. He took a grip on his nerves and stepped forward.
"I want to talk to you, Harstein," he said. "We've got almost forty years to catch up on."
Harstein took a step backward and clutched at his heart. Jack felt a surge of terror: maybe he'd just given the old geezer a heart attack. He reached out to hold Harstein upright, but the man coldly knocked Jack's hands away, then turned partly. away and leaned on the wall.
"If it be now," he murmured, "'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come."
"Readiness is all," said Jack, completing the quote. He'd played Laertes in high school.
Harstein looked sharply at Jack. "All these years, and you discover me. It's appropriate somehow."
"If you say so."
"Why are we having a conversation? Unless you mean to blow the whistle on me."
Jack took a long breath. "I'm not blowing the whistle on anybody, David," he said.
The actor's face was contemptuous. "An interesting step out of character."
"You're the expert on character."
"I'm the expert on prison, too. I spent three years there."
"I didn't send you to prison, David," Jack said. "They sent you away before I ever testified."
"Another interesting distinction." Davidson shrugged. "However, if it serves to salve your conscience…"
Tears stung Jack's eyes. He sagged against the wall. He couldn't use the defense he'd used on Hiram. Harstein had been there. He hadn't broken, and that's why they'd sent him to prison.
And what had happened to Blythe had been far worse. It was as if Harstein had picked the thought out of his head.
"I went to see Blythe right after I got out of prison."
"November 1953. I talked my way past the orderlies. I even went into her cell. I told her everything was going to be all right. I told her she was well. She wasn't. Three weeks later she was dead."
"I'm sorry," Jack said.
"Sorry." Harstein seemed to taste the word, rolling it about in his mouth. "So easy to say, yet having so little effect. We can make our lives sublime and, departing, leave behind us footprints in the sands of time." His eyes met Jack's. "A wind came up, Jack, and it blew away our footprints." He stared at Jack for a long time, an implacable look from which all emotions had been leached. "Leave me alone, Jack. I never want to see you again."
David Harstein turned and walked away. Jack slid slowly down the wall, terror and remorse shuddering through his body. It was at least five minutes before he got control of himself. When he stood up, he had huge sweat stains under his arms.
Delegates passing through the tunnel looked at him with pity or disgust, assuming he was drunk. They were wrong. He was sober, perfectly sober. He had been so terrified he'd burned every ounce of alcohol in his system.
Jack stepped back into the auditorium just asJim Wright announced the latest delegate totals. Hartmann's total was going into the sewer.
7:00 P.M.
The hotel concourses were nearly deserted. Most of the people were watching the main event over on the convention floor. Spector walked into the snack bar, a bottle of Jack Black tucked under his arm. He'd slept most of the day away, had to get something to eat. The Marriott restaurants were out of the question; after the fight with Golden Boy, there were sure to be people looking for him. But he was weak from hunger and had to get something.
He wandered around the aisles of junk food and souvenirs, picking out a couple of candy. bars, a can of cashews, some sausage sticks. A young black man was behind the register, staring at a small black-and-white television. Spector set his stuff on the counter and peeled off a bill.
"Be right with you, mister," said the clerk. "They're supposed to show Tachyon's hand exploding after these commercials. Missed it live. Damn, I bet that was something to see. Did you catch it?"
"Tachyon's hand blew up? What the hell are you talking about?"
"You been by the pool all day or what?" said the clerk, shaking his head. "Some ugly little dude shook the doctor's hand and blew it clean off. They say… Wait a second. Here we go." He turned the television around so Spector could see, too.
The video was in slow motion. Tachyon was working the crowd, shaking hands. "Who gets him?" Spector asked. "Some little hunchback. See, there he is."
Spector opened his mouth. Shut it. It was the same little twerp who'd been on the flight down with him. The hunchback took Tachyon's hand and blood went everywhere. The cameraman was jostled by the panicked crowd and the video ended.
"Is he still alive?" Spector had always wanted Tachyon dead, but found himself hoping for the best. After all, killing Tachyon was something he planned to do himself, someday.
"So far." The clerk turned the television off and rang Spector up. " I guess he's tougher than he looks." He sacked the junk food and handed it over with Spector's change. "You don't go shaking hands with the devil, mister."
It's a bit too late for that, Spector thought, smiling. He pocketed his change and headed back to the room.
"Hey. jack."
"What is it, ese?" "Orders from Devaughn."
"Yeah." Jack spoke without enthusiasm. He was hiding from interviews in the middle of what remained of his loyal delegates-the disloyal ones, a third of the total, were off caucusing with their new managers.
"After the recess," Rodriguez said, "the Jackson camp is gonna move to suspend the rules of the convention in order to let Jesse speak. We're supposed to vote in favor."
Jack looked at Rodriguez in surprise. "We can't let a candidate speak. Hell, they'll all wanna-"
"News is, Jackson's going to drop out." Rodriguez smiled and tapped his nose. "I smell something, jack. Betcha Jackson's cut a deal with the boss. Betcha he's gonna be veep." Jack's mind worked through the idea. He hadn't been in charge of his own delegation since he'd gone off the balcony on Thursday: it was Rodriguez who had been riding herd on California and voting jack's proxy for Hartmann. He had to respect Rodriguez's instincts here.
As for the Hartmann/Jackson ticket: why not? It was the same deal that Roosevelt and Garner had cut in '32, during the last stalled Democratic convention.
"Our totals and Jesse's," he said. "Are they-?"
"Not enough. Jesse's people are working on Dukakis now. "
"Barnett will have to smell something." Or Fleur, he thought. Fleur had the sharper nose.