Ace In The Hole

12:00 NOON

"You call the press conference," Jack told him. "The press hasn't seen you for days. If I call them, they might not show up. "

Barnett had agreed.

Jack watched the convention while the plans went forward. Hartmann had clearly lost all momentum. Totals changed on every ballot. The only steady factor was Barnett's slow advance, gaining with every step as the opposition began to disintegrate. Rodriguez looked poleaxed every time he announced California's changing delegate count. Jack's heart went out to him.

The press conference was arranged in one of the hotel's function spaces, the place Barnett used as a press office. Jack managed to down two more Bloody Marys before the business began.

Fleur spoke first, standing behind a podium crowned with a forest of network microphones. Jack and Barnett stood off to one side as Fleur went through a long round of mike tests.

She kept casting Jack sidelong glances throughout. Obviously she didn't trust him an inch.

Even hidden behind his Hollywood shades, Jack felt naked.

"Before the Reverend Barnett's announcement," Fleur said, "there will be another brief announcement from someone who may be a surprise to you. I'm referring to Mr. Jack Braun, the head of Senator Hartmann's California delegation, also known as Golden Boy."

Jack didn't smile or wave as he stepped to the podium. Microphones jabbed at him like a forest of spears. He took off his shades, folded them, smiled into the blinding camera light.

He hoped the booze and sleeplessness hadn't made his eves too red.' "I've just finished a two-hour interview with the Reverend Leo Barnett," Jack began. He could hear automatic cameras making zipping noises as they fired at him. He gripped the podium and tried not to feel the earthquake that rocked his nerves.

"This convention has seen a lot of strange events, a lot of violence," he said. "Some people have been killed. Two attempts have been made on Senator Hartmann's life, both by wild card aces, and I have fought both those aces personally. The Reverend Barnett has claimed all along that wild cards have been responsible for much of the chaos that has plagued this campaign. After the meeting today, I can only agree with him."

Jack's forty-year-old media reflexes told him that the TV cameras' long lenses were zooming in. Except for the sound of automatic cameras and snapping shutters, the room was absolutely quiet. Jack screwed his face into an expression of deep sincerity and gazed steadily out into the audience, just like when, years ago, he'd played Eddie Rickenbacker telling General Pershing he wanted to fly.

"There are secret aces at this convention," Jack said. "There is one in particular who has a very influential role. He's responsible for a lot of the chaos here, for at least some of the deaths. I believe he can influence people at a distance to cause them to act in ways contrary to the law and their own interests. Other aces, murderous aces, work for him. They have tried to destroy his opponents by violence."

Jack could sense Barnett and Fleur standing to one side, their heads together as they tried to figure out where he was taking this. Jack gave the cameras a grim Clint Eastwood smile.

"After my interview this morning, I've concluded that that secret ace.." Insert dramatic pause here, he thought. "Is the Reverend Leo Barnett."

Cameras began swinging crazily, trying to get Barnett's reaction. Jack raised his voice and shouted into the mike stand. "Barnett's behind the assassination attempts!" he said. Triumph sang in his veins. " I defy Leo Barnett to prove he isn't an ace!"

Barnett gaped at him. Fleur van Renssaeler's face was dead white, her mouth moving in furious, silent anger. Barnett shook his head slowly as if shaking off a punch, then stepped forward. Though he never intended to, Jack found himself backpedaling, surrendering the podium.

The preacher leaned over the microphones, hands in his pockets, and gave a shaky grin. " I don't know what Jack's up to, here," he said. " I came down for another reason entirely. But if it's what Jack wants, I'm willing to stand right here for however many hours it takes to assemble a team of doctors to give me the blood test." His grin widened. "I know I don't have the wild card, and anyone who says I do is a liar or…" He cast a sidelong glance at Jack. "Deeply misguided."

Jack stared back into the preacher's blue eyes and felt his triumph drain into his black Italian wingtips.

Somehow, he thought, he'd fucked up again.

Spector turned on the tap over the bathroom sink and took a mouthful of water. He swished it around for a few moments and spat it out. The water was stained brown from the dried blood. Spector took another mouthful and swallowed it. He was as thirsty as he was tired. It was always this way when he had to heal up after a major injury.

He tested his jaw. It moved up and down without too much trouble, but side to side hurt like hell. He could feel the bone popping in its socket. After a few months it might not be so bad. All in all, things could be much worse.

He heard a sound at the door. Spector knew he didn't have time to get back under the bed. He looked around the bathroom. The only place big enough was the shower. He stepped inside just as the door to his room shut. Somebody was talking softly to himself in the bedroom, and Spector had an idea who it was. When the noises approached the bathroom, Spector held his breath. Again. Much more of this and he'd turn blue permanently.

He focused the death-pain. It was always there, always ready. He saw pudgy fingers on the edge of the shower curtain.

The man tore the plastic curtain back, and opened his mouth to scream.

Spector locked eyes before the desk clerk could get anything out. He pushed him to the point of death, then stopped. Spector caught him by the collar as he slumped over.

He leaned the man against the bathroom wall and emptied his victim's pockets. He took the keys and wallet, and ignored the rest. This guy probably knew just about everything there was to know about the hotel. If Spector could get him to tell the truth, he might find out a few things.

Spector bent down. He steadied the man with one hand and slapped him with the other. When he started to come around, when Spector was sure he could feel it, he popped the guy really hard a few times.

The man opened his eyes. Spector put a hand over the pudgy mouth. "Quiet. If you call for help. If you answer my questions in anything but a whisper. If you don't answer my questions. I'll kill you. You understand?"

The man nodded. Spector slowly took his hand away. "Who are you?",

"My name's." He took a breath. "Hastings."

Spector checked the wallet. "So far, so good. What are you doing in here?"

Hastings stared wide-eyed around the room, he seemed to be looking through Spector for a way out. "Uh, the government people told us to be on the lookout for anyone we thought was suspicious. I just had a feeling about you."

"I don't much appreciate that," he checked the first name on the driver's license, "Maurice."

Hastings wiped his mouth. "You're not who you say you are. Not Baird. You're an ace."

Spector nodded. "You know, with your deductive skills and your gift for hunches you'd make a damn good P. I."

The man gave a half-smile, trying to acknowledge the compliment in spite of his fear. "Thanks."

Spector waited a few moments, then added. "I hate P.I. s." He was enjoying the hell out of this. He'd almost forgotten about this jerkoff, and now he had the fat bastard on a horn.

"Oh, god, please, don't kill me. I'll do anything." Hastings was shaking. He wiped his mouth again.

"Oh, I'm not going to kill you. Not if you give me what I want," Spector lied, trying to think of the best place to hide the body. "We'll start with an easy question. Where's the nearest unoccupied room on this floor?"

"We're full up. I swear."

Spector clucked his tongue. "Don't bullshit me. I know there's always a few left vacant for contingencies. You know what I'm going to do if you keep lying to me? I can make you do an airwalk from the tenth floor down to the lobby. The fall will only take a few seconds. Make quite a mess, though. Maybe I should just put you in the shower and liquefy you. Down the drain you go. No muss, no fuss."

"No, please." Hastings clasped his hands together. "I think 1019 is open. Just don't kill me. I'm sorry I bothered you. I can do whatever you need. Give the Secret Service some bad leads. Really."

Spector pulled a card out of Hastings' wallet. "This is your passkey?"

He chewed his lip for a second before replying. "Yes." Spector leaned in close to Hastings and stared into his eyes. "You're not lying to me now?"

"No. May God strike me… It's the truth, I swear."

"Right. Get into the shower." Spector pulled back the curtain. "Do it now."

Hastings hustled his overweight body inside. "But why?" Spector locked eyes again, and made it count this time. Hastings collapsed onto the tile. His body twitched and then was still. "That's why." He slowly closed the curtain. "Nobody fucks with me and gets away with it." It wasn't the best place to put a corpse, but as usual he'd had to improvise.

Spector checked himself in the mirror one more time. Now he had a crooked jaw to match his crooked smile. Maybe, when it was all over, he could buy a crooked house in the Bahamas. But not until Hartmann was done with. Then, he could worry about vacation time.