Jackson nodded. An aide brought a tray over to the coffee table between them. "Iced tea? No? Very well." Jackson took a sip from his own glass and set it down again. Gregg could see the man thinking, gauging, wondering.
And with me you could truly know. You could control those feelings…
Be quiet.
You need me, Greggie. You do.
Intent on keeping Puppetman down, he missed the next few words. "… rumor is that you've been pushing your people very hard, Senator. You have even angered some of them. I've heard tales about instability, about a repeat of '76." Gregg flushed, started to retort heatedly, and then realized he was being goaded. This was exactly the reaction Jackson was trying to provoke. He forced himself to smile. "We're all used to a certain amount of mudslinging, Reverend. And yes, I've been pushing hard. I always push when I believe in something strongly."
"And the accusation makes you angry." Jackson smiled and waved a hand. "Oh, I know the feeling, Senator. In fact, I have the very same reaction when people question my work for civil rights. I'd expect it." He steepled his hands under his chin and leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Just what is it you want, Senator?"
"A Joker's Rights plank. Nothing more."
"And how do you propose to buy my support?"
"I had hoped you would agree purely for the sake of the jokers. On humanitarian grounds."
"I feel deeply for the jokers, believe me, Senator. But I also know that a plank in a platform is just so many words. A platform commits no one to anything. I will fight for the rights of all oppressed people, with or without planks. I did not promise my people planks. I promised them I would do my best to win at this convention, and I am doing just that. I do not need a plank; you do."
Jackson reached for the glass again. He sipped, waiting and watching.
"All right," Gregg said at last. "I've talked with deVaughn and Logan on this. If you keep your delegates in line, we'll release our Alabama delegates after the first vote with the strong recommendation they go to you."
"Alabama isn't important to you. You took, what, 10% of the delegates there?"
"That 10% could be yours. You were second to Barnett in Alabama. More importantly, it might indicate that momentum in the South was moving away from Barnett, which would benefit you."
"And you, as well," Jackson pointed out. He shrugged. "I was also second in Mississippi."
Son of a bitch. "I'll have to confirm this, but I can probably release my delegates there as well."
Jackson paused. He looked over at his sons, then back to Gregg. "I need to think about this," he said.
You're letting it slip away, damn it! He's only going to ask for more. I could have made him agree without any concessions. You're a fool, Greggie.
"We don't have time," Gregg said sharply. He regretted the words instantly. Jackson's eyes narrowed, and Gregg hurried to smooth over the gaffe. "I'm sorry, Reverend. It's just… it's just that to the jokers out there, the platform isn't words. The plank will be a symbol for them, a symbol that their voices have been heard. We all stand to gain, all of us who support them."
"Senator, you have a fine humanitarian record. But…"
Let me have him…! "Reverend, sometimes my passion gets out of hand. Again, I apologize."
Jackson still frowned, but the anger was gone from his eyes.
You almost blew it.
Shut up. It was your interference. Let me handle it. You have to let me out. Soon.
Soon. I promise. Just be quiet.
"All right," the Reverend was saying. "I think I can arrange things with my people. Senator, you have my support."
Jackson held out his hand. Gregg could feel his fingers trembling as he took it. Mine! Mine! The power shuddered inside, screaming and clawing and throwing itself at the bars.
It took all Gregg's effort to hold Puppetman back as he shook hands with Jackson, and he broke the contact quickly. "Senator, are you all right?"
Gregg smiled wanly at Jackson. "I'm fine," he said. "Thank you, Reverend. Just a little bit hungry, that's all."
6:00 P.M.
"Where I was raised, a person does not seat themselves uninvited at another person's table."
Tachyon shuffled through the seven pink message slipsall from Hiram-and thrust them into a pocket. "Where you were raised, a person also does not fail to acknowledge and thank another person for a gift. I know, I was there when you first learned to lisp out tank-oo when I would bring you candy."
The fury flaming in Fleur's brown eyes was so intense that Tachyon flinched, and half raised a hand in defense.
"Leave me alone!" "I cannot."
"Why?" She wrung her hands, the fingers twisting desperately through one another. "Why are you torturing me? Wasn't killing my mother enough?"
"In all fairness, I think your father and I must share the blame. I broke her mind, but he allowed her to be tortured in that sanatorium. If he had left her with me, I might have found a way to repair the broken shards."
"If that was the choice, then I'm glad she died. Better that than being your whore."
"Your mother was never a whore. You dishonor her and yourself by that remark. You can't really feel that way."
"Well, I do, and why should I feel any differently? I never knew her. You saw to that."
"I didn't throw her out of the house."
"She could have gone to her parents."
"She loved me."
"I can't imagine why."
"Give me a chance, I could show you."
And as soon as the glib, flirtatious comment passed his lips Tachyon knew he had done a very stupid thing. As if to hold back the words, he pressed his fingers to his lips, but it was too late. Far, far too late.
Forty years too late?
Fleur rose from her chair like a wrathful goddess, and dealt him a ringing slap. Her nail caught on his lower lip, splitting it, and he tasted the sharp, coppery taste of blood. All conversation ceased in Pompano's. The silence made his skin crawl, and Tachyon chewed down the humiliation that filled his mouth like a foul taste. The tick of her high heels, as she stormed from the restaurant, beat into his ringing head.
Carefully, he held up two fingers before his face. Counted them. Dabbed at the cup with her discarded napkin. It smelled faintly of her perfume. His jaw tightened into a stubborn line.
8:00 P.M.
"Muscular dystrophy. Is it up or down on MS, Charles?"
"Christ!" Devaughn s voice, roaring through Jack's cellular phone, seemed more surly than ever. "I guess we can't be against Jerry's Kids, can we?"
The convention band staggered into the last bars of "Mame." Louis Armstrong could have played it better in his sleep. Jack was on the convention floor, standing on a scarred, gray folding chair, surrounded by his throng of Californians.
"Up or down, Charles?" Jack demanded.
"Up. Shit. Up." Jack could clearly hear deVaughn's fist banging on a desktop. "Shit-shit-shit. Shit-fuck-cunt. That bitch. That fucking WASP slut."
"I want to wring Fleur van Renssaeler's neck."
"You'll have to stand in line behind me, buddy."
"They're calling the vote." Emil Rodriguez tugged on Jack's sleeve. Jack hung up his portable phone and gave the thumbs-up sign to his horde of delegates. He tried to picture thousands of Americans in wheelchairs and leg braces cheering and reshuffling their political alignment, but his imagination failed.