Jerry blinked. This was better than he could have expected. His mind racing, he said, "I've heard a little about that meeting, Max, some of it disquieting. I want in."
Max Finklestein said, "Why?" puzzlement in his voice.
"As muscle. Among others, Roy Cos is going to be there and so is Nils Ostrander."
"I know about Cos, but who's Nils Ostrander?"
"The Nihilist who engineered the kidnap killing of that multimillionaire, Harold Dunninger. There's an off chance that the IABI might try to pick him up at the meeting."
Max said suspiciously, "How in the name of Christ do you know?"
"Sticking my ears out. Ever since this Roy Cos character has been sounding off, everybody and his cousin have been talking about the different radical organizations. Not just the Wobblies, but all radicals. The idea of fundamental change is in the air."
Max considered it. He finally nodded and said, "All right. I'll check it out with the Executive Committee but they'll undoubtedly okay it. Each organization is allowed two delegates. You might as well be my partner. Suppose we meet there."
"Wizard," Jerry said. "See you, Max."
He cut the screen, then flicked on the video again and the switch for his harassed aide. Ted Meer's face came on.
Jerry said, "One more thing, Ted. Plant a news story, and I mean really plant it, so that nobody who listens to the news at all could possibly miss it. The story is that Horace Hampton, an alleged suspect in the recent attack on Governor Teeter, will be present representing the Anti-Racist League at the Synthesis meeting to be held by radical groups in Chicago."
His aide said, "Yes, Mr. Auburn. That name again?"
"Horace Hampton, damn it. Take some pep pills!"
He flicked off, then immediately back on again. He dialed and almost immediately his own face was there on the screen. He said, "Hi, Jim. What spins?"
His double grinned at him. "I still think I've got the best goddamn job in the world."
Jerry laughed. "You probably have at that, you chronic hedonist. I do all the work, you have all the fun, and between us we're Jeremiah Auburn. Okay, Jim. You're to surface again, immediately. This time, drop the recluse bit. Go to one of the gambling resorts—Monte Carlo or Nice. Drop a hundred thousand or so at roulette, or whatever. Enough so that it'll be picked up by the news people and have society commentators asking whether Jerry Auburn is coming out of seclusion to rejoin the Rocket Set."
"Got it," Jim said. "Great. Back to the high life. Do I need to know what it's all about?"
"No. Not necessary." Jerry's face broke into another fond grin. "Just be sure to remember the names of people you meet and what you did with them, especially the mopsies you might lay, you damned screwing machine. We'll have to get together again one of these days, Jim, and bend a few elbows. It's been a long time since we've sat across a table from each other and tossed back a few. There's something weird about getting drenched and sitting across from you… yourself.''
"Tell me about it," Jim said. "The last time I didn't recover for days. And it wasn't just because I was looking at my own face."
Jerry laughed and flicked the screen off, touched another switch. This time, Barry Wimple's face came on.
Jerry said, "I'll be leaving town again, Barry. Dismiss the staff. You and Ted and Lester check into Central, of course. I don't know how long it'll be before I'm back this time."
His senior executive was aghast. "But, Mr. Auburn, I've got a dozen top-priority matters…"
"That's what I pay you for, Barry," Jerry said, brushing aside the other's complaint. "The decisions are up to you and the rest of your boys. When you start making bad ones, it's your ass. Meanwhile, I want the staff cleared out of here before noon."
"Yes, sir," the old man said unhappily.
Jerry turned him off, then slumped in his chair for a moment and took a deep breath before heading for the master bedroom. He passed through it into the dressing room, went into the bath, and to the medical cabinet, which he opened with a small key to bring forth a hypodermic needle. Minutes later he returned to the dressing room. He sat down before the mirror, pulled out a drawer, and took up the small box containing his colored contact lenses.
"Doc Jekyll, meet Comrade Hyde," he muttered.
Chapter Twenty-One: Horace Hampton
Horace Hampton looked up at the lanky, stoop-shouldered man who hovered over his table in the automated bar, grinning down at him.
"Thought I'd find you here," Max Finklestein said. "It's the nearest bar to Assembly Halls."
"Hi, Max," Hamp said. "Have some of this syntho-beer. How did Shakespeare put it? 'Weaker than woman's tears,' or something. They ought to stick it back in the horse."
"Not up to your usual standards, eh?" the older man said, even as he slid into a chair opposite the black. He put his credit card in the table's payment slot and dialed for a mug of the brew.
Hamp looked at him. "What's that supposed to mean, old chum-pal?"
The center of the table sank down to return with the beer. Max took a drink of it, then wiped the coarse foam from his lips. "It means that usually you drink more expensive stuff than the proles have to put up with."
The other's look turned quizzical. "How do you know?"
"I've been checking up on you."
"Wizard, and what've you found?"
"That you're not exactly a down-and-out nigger subsisting on GAS." Max grinned at him in deprecation.
"That's the trouble with you kikes," Hamp said. "Nosy."
Max Finklestein said, "I was sitting around one day, minding my own business, when the thought came to me that the Anti-Racist League was in better funds than it should be. Most of the membership consists of minority elements who'd contribute a lot to the cause if they could, but they can't— they're largely on GAS. Somehow the organization never seems to lack sufficient funds, though. So purely out of curiosity, I began checking on the source of the larger donations that come through. And guess what I found?"
"I know what you found," Hamp said. He finished his beer and dialed another.
Max said, "Why all the secrecy? Why not just openly donate it, in one lump sum, instead of here and there in dribbles?"
Hamp sighed and said, "Because I'm of the opinion that a race, a nationality, or a social class should finance its own emancipation. You mustn't hand somebody freedom on a platter. Suppose I came out and gave a million pseudo-dollars to the Anti-Racist League in a flat sum. Then the membership as a whole would stop their pathetically small donations, as meaningless. But it's not meaningless for a man to give up his guzzle, his sometime extravagance, or his occasional splurge, for a cause he believes in. It's not meaningless for him to sacrifice. It's part of his fight for freedom."
"Quite a speech," Max said. "Where'd you get all this money, Hamp? Or is it a secret? Are you a big-time crook? That's all the organization needs in the way of publicity—one of its most active members turning out to be a crook."
Hamp sighed. "Come off it, Max. It's according to what you mean by crook, I suppose. Yesterday, I tuned in on this Deathwish Wobbly, who we're supposed to get together with tonight. According to him, the whole upper class is composed of crooks. Their wealth has been stolen from the useful workers."
"So you're upper class."
"I suppose so. It's a long story, Max."
The other looked at his wrist chronometer. "We've got time."
Hamp sighed again. "It starts with a slave down in South Carolina—Pod Hampton. I haven't a violin to play so I'll skip the details of the hard time he had. When he finally lit out, he took old massa's silver with him. In fact, the kind old massa was on the rich side and some of the so-called silver was gold. Pod managed to get it, and himself, up to Boston. And there he swore a great oath, understand? He wasn't going to spend any of his, ah, ill-gotten gains on himself. Instead, he was going to invest it and use the proceeds to fight for freeing his people.