Ace In The Hole

6:00›P. M.

Night was coming. She was sure of it. Sitting beneath a potted plant's notched ear in the Marriott lobby she could feel it slouching rough-beast-like toward downtown Atlanta.

When it came, it would thin the crowd. Remove, one by one, the forest of walking, talking trees in which she hid. Until there was no cover. It was simple mathematics: if safety was numbers, subtraction equaled death.

Night was the natural environment of Hartmann's hunchbacked puppet. She knew that. As she knew night would soon or late be born.

She had to find an indivisible one to protect her. Or the creature that clung to the fur of night's black belly would have her.

Tachyon had failed her. So had Ricky-though his failure had been of the noble variety, and had bought her twenty-four hours of air time. She had to find someone with the strength to shield her, someone who would accept the only coin she had to pay with. Before day's placenta burst.

She knew just the man.

The band was playing "Stars Fell on Alabama," which Jack hoped to hell wasn't some kind of political signal. After eleven futile ballots, almost anything could be taken for an omen by weary and desperate delegates. Jack hoped the song was only a crowd soother after the day's seventh fistfight on the floor, this last between a Jackson delegate defecting to Hartmann and a floor manager who was trying to change his mind. There was a motion on the floor to give up and go home for the day, something that was perfectly in tune with the delegates' premature weariness. Jack moved through his crowd to find Rodriguez.

"Listen, ese. We've stayed solid for Hartmann so far. "Right.

"Everybody's going to come after us tonight. One crack in the facade of solid California and people are going to figure it's open season."

Sweat was pouring down Jack's face. There were sopping stains under the arms of his tailored shirt. At some point that afternoon the air-conditioners had given up.

"Call a meeting after dinner. Nine o'clock. Everyone attends. "

Rodriguez looked at him. "What's the meeting about?" "Who gives a damn? We'll figure out something. We just need to count heads, make sure none of the other guys' people are talking to ours. If we keep our delegates busy, we can keep them out of other people's camp."

Rodriguez gave a grin. "What you gonna do after that, man? Bed checks?"

"Something like that." Rodriguez's grin faded. Jack spoke quickly. "We're all blocked together at the Marriott. I want you to put someone you trust on each floor, check people in and out, make a list, get IDs. We can't stop the wrong people from visiting ours, but we can make sure they're seen when they do. "

Rodriguez looked dubious. "You've seen all the hookers outside. We're supposed to get their names?"

"Just do it," Jack snapped.

Damn. His temper was unraveling along with everyone else's.

"Barnett's people are trying to compromise us," he said, lowering his voice. "One of their bimbos for Christ is fucking Tachyon even as we speak."

Rodriguez looked horrified. "Okay," he said. "I'll see to it."

Jim Wright looked relieved as he gaveled the convention to an early close, leaving the networks frantically trying to schedule hours of prime-time reruns.

Jack's temper growled in his mind as he crowded out the door. The whole thing had gone on too long, two days of balloting following two days of procedural fights, and all in the middle of a sweltering Georgia summer. Fleur van Renssaeler was off fucking Tachyon, hoping to accomplish god-knew-what, and Tach had left Jack to face the media unprepared.

Not only that, Connie Chung was clearly prepared to stay faithful to her husband.

At least he had his table waiting at the Bello Mondo, and a whole night before him. It had been a week since he'd last got laid. He had nothing better to do tonight than rectify that oversight.

There was another message from Bobbie waiting for him at the desk, but there was no answer when he returned her call. He showered, changed, endured the horrors of the glass elevator as he descended from his room to the Bello Mondo. The waiter, recognizing him, brought his double whiskey without being asked. And then Sara Morgenstern, looking like someone had recently connected her to a car battery, sat opposite him. She was clutching a shoulder bag to her chest as if it were all she owned.

"Mind if I join you?"

He looked at her. She wore clothes well, even the rumpled blue-and-white prom dress she had on at the moment, but her white-blonde hair was disordered and there was an unsteady look in her sunken eyes.

"I don't want to hear about it, Sara," Jack said.

"Can I borrow one of your cigarettes? I'm feeling a little-out of sorts. I saw a murder last night."

"The one in the mall?"

Sara's hands trembled as they extracted a Camel. "It was an ace," she said. "A weird twisted teenage kid. He cut Ricky to pieces. Right in front of me."

Jack decided he didn't want this woman's company for even a second. "Sara," he said.

She looked up at him. There was too much makeup around her eyes, he noticed, trying to hide the effects of a sleepless night.

"The point is," she said, trying to smile, "I don't want to be alone tonight."

Which maybe changes matters, Jack thought. He reached into his jacket for his lighter and lit her cigarette. She inhaled and began coughing uncontrollably. Tears sprang to her eyes. "Jesus," she said. "What are these?"

"The kind I learned to smoke in the Army."

"I used to smoke Carltons in college. I really shouldn't start again. Oh, hell." She stubbed the cigarette out as if driving a dagger into her worst enemy.

"Have a drink. It lasts longer." Jack signalled the waiter. At least, he thought nobly, he'd be taking this loose cannon out of play for a few hours, maybe a whole night. All this and get laid, too.

He looked at Sara and an idea came to him.

Maybe he could take her out of play for a lot longer than he first thought.

The North Expressway was jammed, but Tony jockeyed the black Regal through it effortlessly. Spector was glad they weren't eating at the Marriott. There was considerably less chance of someone recognizing him away from the hotel. Tonv had on a tailored, dark-blue suit and matching tie. Spector was in gray. His suit still smelled like the store.

"Where are we headed?" Spector asked.

"LaGrotta." Tony whipped across two lanes of traffic to take the Peachtree exit. "If I get us there alive. You'll love this place. Some of the best Italian food in town. Not New York, of course, but you go with what's available."

"Yeah, well, thanks for taking time out. I know you're real busy right now."

"I haven't seen you in ages, man. You get priority." Tony smiled. That smile had been turning women's hearts to goo and winning over men for as long as Spector had known Tony. He was a hard guy not to like.

"How did you wind up with Hartmann?" Spector wanted to keep Tony talking about himself. That way he wouldn't be asking many questions.

Tony shrugged. "One improbability leading to another. I got a loan and managed to talk my way into law school. Did some work in local politics. Just happened to be on the winning side a few times. Somebody in Gregg's camp noticed me and, well, I'm ethnic. That doesn't hurt."

"Plus, you're good. Always were. Good jump shot, good line for the girls." Spector smiled. "Hell, you could talk a good Catholic girl out of her clothes in less time than it took the rest of us to comb our hair."

"It's a sin to waste a God-given talent." Tony wagged his finger at Spector. "And you know how I avoid sin at all costs."

"Right." Spector glanced out the window. There were dark clouds gathering above the treetops with patches of gray below where the rain was already falling. "Looks like we might get wet."

"My friend, for a meal like this you'd swim the Hudson over to Teaneck." Tony made a contented sound. He looked over at Spector and kissed the tips of his fingers. "Trust me."

Thunder rumbled overhead. "I trust you, old buddy." Spector wished he could say it was a two-way street.