Ace In The Hole

11:00 A.M.

Five television sets were blaring in the living room of the suite the Hartmann contingent had taken as staff headquarters, all tuned to different stations. On the screen nearest Gregg,

Dan Rather was holding forth with a patriarchal Walter Cronkite, back on the air for special convention coverage. Cronkite, as always, sounded the way you'd expect God would sound.

"… perception is that despite the majority recommendation, Hartmann simply isn't strong enough to guarantee passage of the joker's Rights plank. Does this indicate that Hartmann isn't strong enough to win once the delegates are released from their first-vote obligations; that Barnett, Dukakis, Jackson, or a dark horse like Cuomo may eventually emerge as the nominee?"

"Walter, no one has a lock on this convention. The closeness of the primary results showed that. Hartmann is seen as a Northern liberal who can't win in the South, and frankly, his long involvement with joker causes is a liability outside the coasts and metropolitan areas. Barnett has Southern appeal and could woo voters from Bush, especially among the fundamentalist factions. Still, he's too conservative and strongly religious for the Democratic constituency. Dukakis is Mr. Bland, with nothing particularly against him, but nothing particularly for him. Jackson has charisma, but the question remains whether he can win outside cities with large black populations. Gore, Simon, Cuomo or any dark horse's only hope is a deadlock convention that turns to a compromise candidate. All this is reflected in the bitter platform fight. Of course-"

Gregg twisted the knob, turning off the sound in midsentence. The other sets babbled on. "Rather has his head up his ass," John Werthen commented. "The right vice-presidential candidate and-boom-there goes any regional weakness."

"C'mon, they all know that," Tony Calderone threw in from across the room. "They're just going for drama. Blame their writers."

Gregg nodded tiredly to no one in particular. Puppetman was quiet, Gimli seemed to be gone for the moment, and Mackie would be on his way soon, if not already in flight. He felt drained, lethargic.

The staff meeting had been going for an hour. Plastic cups of cold coffee sprawled everywhere, floating old cigarette butts; stacks of paper spilled from table to floor, Danishes were petrifying in cardboard boxes stacked on the floor. Gregg's staff bustled through the blue-tinged air, a half dozen conversations competing with the TV sets.

Amy came through the hall door in a rush. "Barnett's made it official," she announced as everyone turned to her. "The minority report's not only against any joker's Rights plank, Barnett's personally calling for a return to the Exotic Laws."

The room was loud with disbelief. With the surging emotions, Gregg felt Puppetman for the first time that day. "That's crazy," Tony said. "He can't be serious."

"Too damn stupid. It doesn't have a chance of being adopted," John agreed.

Amy shrugged. "It's done. You should see the convention floor-goddamn chaos. Devaughn's going nuts trying to keep things calm with our delegates."

"Barnett's not worried about the floor. It's the outside convention he wants to influence," Gregg told them.

"Sir?"

"The jokers outside the Omni, in Piedmont Park. When they hear the news, they're going to explode." More fodder for his anti-joker rhetoric. Puppetman stirred below at the thought, rising. Gregg pushed him back.

"He'll lose the delegates on the fence. They'll think he's too militant." John again.

Gregg waved a hand. "He's a one-issue candidate: the jokers. He's obsessed."

"The man's not rational." "That only gets said here."

A quick laugh skittered around the room. Gregg swung to his feet and tugged his tie into place, running fingers through gray-flecked hair. "Okay. You folks know where to start," he said. "If Barnett's going to start pushing, we have to push right back. Get on the phones. Start using all the influence we have. What we need to do is get all the neutrals out of their corners. We're all agreed that Barnett's course will lead to greater violence out on the streets, to say nothing of the lack of compassion it shows. Tell 'em, pressure 'em, convince 'em. Get all our people doing the same. Amy, you might see if you can set up a meeting with Barnett for me; maybe what he's really after is a compromise. In the meantime, I need to touch base with Ellen and see how she's doing."

"Then I'm going to see if I can do any good outside." The last words held a strange sense of anticipation, a feeling he hadn't expected. Gregg began to wonder if Puppetman was buried as deeply as he thought.

12:00 NooN

Spector followed the reporter into the men's room. The concourses were crammed with people, and he was sure that the man hadn't noticed he was being tailed. Spector didn't know the reporter's name. He preferred it that way when he was going to kill someone.

The reporter went to the far end of the busy bathroom and took the last stall. Spector walked calmly over to the one that adjoined it and closed the door. He felt sort of bad about this.

But the guy had shot off his mouth about how tight security was going to be at the hotel, and how he'd greased a lot of palms to get his room there. These were things Spector hadn't taken into account. He hadn't had time to make any plans. He usually played things by ear anyway.

Spector heard the pages of a magazine being turned in the next stall, but no sounds of progress. He leaned down to make sure no one was close enough to see what he was up to. All the pairs of feet were facing toward the mirrors or moving toward the exit. He took a deep breath and slid off the toilet onto his back. He could feel the cold, damp tiles through his suit. Spector grabbed the metal wall between the stalls and hauled himself under.

The reporter folded up his magazine and looked down. He managed to blink a few times before Spector locked in. His death experience rushed unchallenged into the reporter's mind. The man dropped the magazine and keeled over to one side, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth. The man's pants were crumpled around his ankles. Spector fished into the pockets and pulled out his wallet, then slid back into his own stall, and up onto the toilet seat. He waited several moments for some sound indicating he'd been seen. There was only the incessant noise of shoes on tile and running water, punctuated by an occasional flush.

Spector flipped open the wallet. Everything he figured he'd need was there-driver's license, a non-photo press card, Social Security card. The lack of ID would make it hard for the cops to identify the corpse. They'd probably figure that some opportunist lifted the wallet before calling them in. Things were going better than usual. He stood and flushed the toilet, then opened the door and walked to the mirror. He lifted his chin and turned his head side to side. Sharp and cool, he thought. He winked at the mirror and smiled crookedly. If everything worked out, he'd be on a plane back to Jersey tomorrow. And the Democrats would have one less hat in the ring.

It was as if New York's Jokertown had been turned upside down and dumped on the Atlanta streets.

Every large city has its small version of a jokertown, but Atlanta had never witnessed this kind of display. A blinding sun burned from cloudless blue onto a sea of signs, masks, and strangely distorted bodies. The crowd-estimated by the authorities at 15,000-had marched from Piedmont Park and besieged the Coliseum. Ranks of police and National Guardsmen watched, waiting.

Mid-morning, when it was apparent that the majority report was not going to be quickly adopted, a bonfire had been started just down from the Omni. Before the encouraging cameras, shouting and chanting jokers burned their masks in the flames. A Flying Ace Glider sailed from the crowd a little too close to the flames. The styrofoam melted, the wings turned brown, shrunken and deformed. A joker picked up the smouldering mess. "Hey, a Fucking Flying joker!" he shouted. The rest of the jokers picked up the bitter humor. Gliders all over the area sailed into the bonfire or were altered by holding them over Bic lighters.

The Atlanta police unwisely chose that moment to clear the area. A double line of helmeted officers hit the ranks of demonstrators. The jokers predictably shoved back: rocks were thrown, someone's minor ace sent a few police sprawling, and suddenly it was a full-fledged melee. Jokers, reporters, and bystanders were clubbed indiscriminately.

The Turtle appeared late in the fray and bellowed for order. His telekinetic power forcibly pushed apart the remaining jokers and police. Some sixty people were arrested, and though the injuries were largely minor, the shots of bloodied heads were spectacular.

The mood of the demonstrators, already fragile, turned ugly.

A few blocks from the convention site, the jokers reformed. Fire hydrants were opened by the jokers to abate the day's heat; each time, the police moved in to shut them off again but avoided direct confrontations. Taunts were exchanged across the lines.

A counter demonstration by the KKK arrived downtown in the late morning, producing scattered skirmishes between clansmen and jokers in the streets. If anything, the Klan was more brutal than the police: shots were reported, and jokers were treated for gunshot wounds at the local hospitals. Wildfire rumors spread through the crowd that two jokers had died, that the police were not arresting KKK members and had in fact let them through the barricades.

At noon, word arrived that Leo Barnett was calling for a return to the Exotic Laws. Barnett was crucified in effigy in front of the Omni. The Turtle's shell hovered overhead as if herding the demonstrators, keeping a clear space between jokers and police.

"I don't like it, Senator," Billy Ray told Gregg as they stepped from the limo near the barricades; other secret service men in three-piece suits flanked them. The joker crowd bristled with shouts and curses. "I don't think this is a good idea."

Gregg grimaced, irritated. He gestured harshly at the ace. "And I'm getting tired of people telling me what I should do." Ray's mouth tightened into a hard line with the rebuke. Before Ray could answer, a shadow fell over them and a voice boomed from loudspeakers. "Senator! Hey, you come out to help?"

The noise brought the cameras around. Gregg waved up at the Turtle's shell-the Turtle had a squadron of Turtleshaped Flying Ace Glider frisbees hovering around him like electrons around a nucleus; a few melted Fucking Flying jokers were mixed in with the group. "I was hoping we might keep things calm, at least. I know you're doing what you can."

"Yeah. Frisbee tricks. Latest in crowd control." The frisbees began whirling faster, looping in intricate patterns. "Think you can get me into the crowd?"

"No problem." Frisbees rained on the pavement. The shell dipped gracefully, banking behind the barricades and swiveling so that it faced into the crowd. The loudspeakers hissed as the volume was nudged higher. "OKAY, MOVE THE BARRICADES ASIDE. MAKE A PATH FOR THE SENATOR