Ace In The Hole

8:00 P.M.

Spotlights dazzled Jack's eyes. The long lenses of television cameras were trained on him like shotguns. An eddy of stage fright turned his knees to liquid. He hadn't done this sort of thing in years.

He looked up into the lights, gave the world a crooked grin-reflexes coming back, good-and said his line:

"The thirty-first state, the Golden State, is proud to cast its three hundred fourteen votes for the cause of joker's Rights and the next president, Senator Gregg Hartmann!"

A roar. Applause. Silly hats and flying ace gliders took to the air. Jack tried to look noble, cheerful, and triumphant till the spotlights moved off to the state chairman of Colorado.

Take that, Ronald Reagan, he thought. I'll show you how to work a camera.

He climbed down from the little red-white-and-blue podium that had been brought in for just this purpose. The guy from Colorado, not sure of his totals, was fumbling his line. Fortunately Colorado had gone for Dukakis and Jackson. The first ballot gave Hartmann 1,622 votes; Barnett 998, with Jackson, Dukakis, and Gore splitting the rest. Nobody was close to winning.

Chaos descended on the floor while media commentators made wise judgments and hedged predictions about what would happen next. Rule 9(c) went out the window once the first ballot was cast and floor managers were promising uncommitted delegates the moon.

The second ballot was called early, thirty minutes after the first, just so campaign managers could have enough numbers to see how things were going. Hartmann gained about fifty votes, mainly at the expense of Dukakis and Gore.

The convention burst into a series of sweaty huddles while media commentators tried to make up their minds whether fifty votes signified a "trend" toward Hartmann, or just a "lean." Floor managers went into fits at the thought of delegates slipping through their fingers.

The pandemonium went on four hours. By the time a sleepy-eyed Jim Wright called for the third ballot just before midnight, the three commercial networks had died of inertia and gone back to their standard summer fare of reruns and Johnny Carson, and only PBS was covering the action for an audience of a few thousand hardcore political junkies.

Hartmann hit an even eighteen hundred. The trend was solidifying. Hats and gliders zoomed ceilingward. Jack picked up his podium and threw it about a hundred feet into the air, a tumbling star-spangled sign of triumph, then reached out and carefully caught it before it could brain somebody.

The celebrations in Jack's suite went on for hours. He was stumbling off to bed before he realized that he really should have called Bobbie. Even if she turned out to be the starlet with the cellulite obsession, Jack figured he could have given her enough healthful exercise to make her happy.