Wild Cards Part 39

Dawn is coming up in Jokertown now. I can hear the rumble of the garbage trucks under my window at the South Street Inn, out here by the docks. This is the end of the line, for garbage and everything else, the a.s.shole of America, and I'm feeling close to the end of my line too, after a week of cruising the most vile and poisonous streets in New York . . . when I look up, a clawed hand heaves itself over the sill, and a minute later it's followed by a face. I'm six stories above the street and this speed-crazed s.h.i.+thead comes climbing in the window like it's nothing. Maybe he's right; this is Jokertown, and life runs fast & mean here. It's like wandering through a n.a.z.i death camp during a bad trip; you don't understand half of what you see, but it scares the p.i.s.s out of you just the same.

The thing coming in my window is seven f.u.c.king feet tall, with triple-jointed daddy-long-legs arms that dangle so low his claws cut gouges in the hardwood floor, a complexion like Count Dracula, and a snout on him like the Big Bad Wolf. When he grins, the whole d.a.m.n thing opens on a foot of pointed green teeth. The f.u.c.ker even spits venom, which is a good talent to have if you're going to wander around Jokertown at night. "Got any speed?" he asks as he climbs down from the window. He spies the bottle of tequila on the nightstand, snares it with one of those ridiculous arms of his, and helps himself to a big swallow.

"Do I look like the kind of man who'd do crank?" I say.

"Guess we'll have to do mine then," Croyd says, and pulls a fistful of blacks from his pocket. He takes four of them and washes them down with more of my Cuervo Gold . . .

. . . imagine if Hubert Humphrey had drawn a joker, picture the Hube with a trunk stuck in the middle of his face, like a flaccid pink worm where his nose ought to be, and you've got a good fix on Xavier Desmond. His hair is thin or gone, and his eyes are gray and baggy as his suit. He's been at it for ten years now, and you can tell it's wearing him out. The local columnists call him the mayor of Jokertown and the voice of the jokers; that's about as much as he's accomplished in ten years, him and his sorry hack Jockers' Anti-Defamation League-a couple of bogus t.i.tles, a certain status as Tammany's best-loved joker pet, invitations to a few nice Village parties when the hostess can't get an ace on such short notice.

He stands on the platform in his three-piece suit, holding his f.u.c.king hat in his trunk for Christ's sake, talking about joker solidarity, and voting drives, and joker cops for Jokertown, doing the old soft-shoe like it really meant something. Behind him, under a sagging JADL banner, is the sorriest lineup of pathetic losers you'd ever want to see. If they were blacks they'd be Uncle Toms, but the jokers haven't come up with a name for them yet . . . but they will, you can bet your mask on that. The JADL faithful are heavy into masks, like good jokers everywhere. Not just ski masks and dominoes either. Walk down the Bowery or Chrystie Street, or linger for a while in front of Tachyon's clinic, and you see facial wear out of some acidhead's nightmare: feathered birdmasks & deathsheads & leather ratfaces & monks cowls & s.h.i.+ny sequined individualized "fas.h.i.+on masks" that go for a hundred bucks a throw. The masks are part of the color of Jokertown, and the tourists from Boise and Duluth and Muskogee all make sure and buy a plastic mask or two to take home as souvenirs, and every half-blind-drunk hack reporter who decides to do another brainless write-up on the poor f.u.c.ked-up jokers notices the masks right off. They stare so hard at the masks that they don't notice the s.h.i.+ny-thin Salvation Army suits and faded-print housedresses the masked jokers are wearing, they don't notice how old old some of those masks are getting, and they sure as s.h.i.+t don't pick up on the younger jokers, the ones in leather & Levi's, who aren't wearing any masks at all. "This is what I look like," a girl with a face like a jar of smashed a.s.sholes told me that afternoon outside a rancid Jokertown p.o.r.n house. "I could give a s.h.i.+t if the nats like it or not. I'm supposed to wear a mask so some nat b.i.t.c.h from Queens won't get sick to her stomach when she looks at me? f.u.c.k that." some of those masks are getting, and they sure as s.h.i.+t don't pick up on the younger jokers, the ones in leather & Levi's, who aren't wearing any masks at all. "This is what I look like," a girl with a face like a jar of smashed a.s.sholes told me that afternoon outside a rancid Jokertown p.o.r.n house. "I could give a s.h.i.+t if the nats like it or not. I'm supposed to wear a mask so some nat b.i.t.c.h from Queens won't get sick to her stomach when she looks at me? f.u.c.k that."

Maybe a third of the crowd listening to Xavier Desmond are wearing masks. Maybe less. Whenever he stops for applause, the people in the masks slap their hands together, but you can tell it's an effort, even for them. The rest of them are just listening, waiting, and they've got eyes as ugly as their deformities. It's a mean young bunch out there, and a lot of them are wearing gang colors, with names like DEMON PRINCES & KILLER GEEKS & WEREWOLVES DEMON PRINCES & KILLER GEEKS & WEREWOLVES. I'm standing off to the side, wondering if the Tack is going to show up as advertised, and I don't see who starts it, but suddenly Desmond just shuts up, right in the middle of a boring declaration about how aces & jokers & nats is all G.o.d's chillums under the skin, and when I look back over they're booing him and throwing peanuts, they're pelting him with salted peanuts still in the sh.e.l.l, bouncing them right off his head and his chest and his f.u.c.king trunk, tossing them into his hat, and Desmond is just standing there gaping. He's supposed to be the voice of these people, he read it in the Daily News Daily News and the and the Jokertown Cry Jokertown Cry, and the sorry old f.u.c.ker doesn't have the least little t.u.r.d of an idea of what's going down . . .

. . . just past midnight when I walk outside of Freakers to p.i.s.s casually into the gutter, figuring it's a safer bet than the men's room, and the odds against a cop cruising through Jokertown at this time of night are so remote that they're laughable. The streetlight is busted, and for a moment I think it's Wilt Chamberlain standing there, but then he comes closer and I notice the arms & claws & snout. Skin like old ivory. I ask him what the f.u.c.k his problem is, and he asks me if I'm not the guy wrote the book about the Angels, and a half-hour later we're sitting in a booth in the back of an all-night place on Broome Street, while the waitress pours gallons of black coffee for him. She has long blond hair and nice legs, and on the breast of her pink uniform it says Sally Sally, and she's good to look at until you notice her face. I discover that I'm looking down at my plate whenever she comes near, which makes me sick & sad & p.i.s.sed off. The Snout is saying something about how he never learned algebra, and there's nothing wrong with me that about four fingers of king-h.e.l.l crank wouldn't cure, and after I mention that the Snout shows me his teeth and mentions that while there's a definite scarcity of real high-voltage crank around these days, it just so happens that he knows where he can put his hands on some . . .

. . . "We're talking wounds wounds here, we're talking real deep-bleeding poisonous here, we're talking real deep-bleeding poisonous wounds wounds, the kind that can't be treated with a f.u.c.king Band-Aid, and that's all Desmond's got up his trunk, just a f.u.c.king lot of Band-Aids," the dwarf told me, after he gave me his Revolutionary Drug Brothers handshake, or whatever the f.u.c.k the G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing is supposed to be. As jokers go, he got a pretty decent draw-there were dwarfs long before the wild card-but he's still d.a.m.ned p.i.s.sed-off about it.

"He's been holding that hat in his trunk for ten years now, and all that ever happens is the nats s.h.i.+t in it. Well, that's over over. We're not asking anymore, we're telling them, the JJS is telling telling them, and we'll stick it right in their pretty pearllike ears if we have to." The JJS is the Jokers for a Just Society, and it's got about as much in common with the JADL as a piranha has with one of those giant pop-eyed white goldfish you see waddling around in decorative pools outside of dentists' offices. The JJS doesn't have Captain Tacky or Jimmy Roosevelt or Rev. Ralph Abernathy helping out on its board of directors-in fact it doesn't have a board of directors, and it doesn't sell members.h.i.+ps to concerned citizens and sympathetic aces either. The Hube would feel d.a.m.ned uncomfortable at a JJS meeting, whether he had a trunk on his face or not . . . them, and we'll stick it right in their pretty pearllike ears if we have to." The JJS is the Jokers for a Just Society, and it's got about as much in common with the JADL as a piranha has with one of those giant pop-eyed white goldfish you see waddling around in decorative pools outside of dentists' offices. The JJS doesn't have Captain Tacky or Jimmy Roosevelt or Rev. Ralph Abernathy helping out on its board of directors-in fact it doesn't have a board of directors, and it doesn't sell members.h.i.+ps to concerned citizens and sympathetic aces either. The Hube would feel d.a.m.ned uncomfortable at a JJS meeting, whether he had a trunk on his face or not . . .

. . . even at four in the morning, the Village isn't Jokertown, and that's part of the problem, but mostly it's just that Croyd is hotwired & crazy on meana.s.s crank, and as far as I can tell he hasn't slept for a week. Somewhere in the Village is the guy we set out to find, a half-black all-ace pimp who's supposed to have the sweetest girls in the city, but we can't find him, and Croyd keeps insisting that the streets are all changing around, like they're alive & treacherous & out to get him. Cars slow down when they see Croyd swinging down the pavement with those long triple-jointed daddy-long-legs strides of his, and speed up fast again when he looks over at them and snarls. We're in front of a deli when he forgets all about the pimp we're supposed to find and decides he's thirsty instead. He wraps his claws around the steel shutters, gives a little grunt, and just yanks yanks the whole thing out of the brick storefront and uses it to smash in the window gla.s.s . . . halfway through the case of Mexican beer we hear the sirens. Croyd opens his snout and spits at the door, and the poison s.h.i.+t hits the gla.s.s and starts burning right through it. "They're after me again," he says in a voice full of doom & hate & speedfreak rage & paranoia. "They're all after me." And then he looks at me and that's all it takes, I know I'm in deep s.h.i.+t. "You led them here," he says, and I tell him no, I like him, some of my best f.u.c.king friends are jokers, and the red & blue flashers are out front as he jumps to his feet, grabs me, and the whole thing out of the brick storefront and uses it to smash in the window gla.s.s . . . halfway through the case of Mexican beer we hear the sirens. Croyd opens his snout and spits at the door, and the poison s.h.i.+t hits the gla.s.s and starts burning right through it. "They're after me again," he says in a voice full of doom & hate & speedfreak rage & paranoia. "They're all after me." And then he looks at me and that's all it takes, I know I'm in deep s.h.i.+t. "You led them here," he says, and I tell him no, I like him, some of my best f.u.c.king friends are jokers, and the red & blue flashers are out front as he jumps to his feet, grabs me, and screams screams, "I'm not a joker, you f.u.c.k f.u.c.k, I'm a G.o.dd.a.m.ned ace ace," and throws me right through the window, the other other window, the one where the plate gla.s.s was still intact. But not for long . . . while I'm lying in the gutter, bleeding, he makes his own exit, right out the front door with a six-pack of Dos Equis under his arm, and the cops pump a couple rounds into him, but he just laughs at them, and starts to climb . . . His claws leave deep holes in the brick. When he reaches the roof, he howls at the moon, unzips his pants, and p.i.s.ses down on all of us before he vanishes . . . window, the one where the plate gla.s.s was still intact. But not for long . . . while I'm lying in the gutter, bleeding, he makes his own exit, right out the front door with a six-pack of Dos Equis under his arm, and the cops pump a couple rounds into him, but he just laughs at them, and starts to climb . . . His claws leave deep holes in the brick. When he reaches the roof, he howls at the moon, unzips his pants, and p.i.s.ses down on all of us before he vanishes . . .

STRINGS.

by Stephen Leigh

The death of Andrea Whitman was entirely Puppetman's doing. Without his powers, the sullen l.u.s.t that a r.e.t.a.r.ded boy of fourteen felt for a younger neighbor girl would never have been fired into a molten white fury. By himself, Roger Pellman would never have lured Andrea into the woods behind Sacred Heart School in the suburbs of Cincinnati, and there ripped the clothing from the terrified girl. He would never have thrust that strange hardness into Andrea until he felt a sagging, powerful release. He would never have looked down at the child and the trickle of dark blood between her thighs and felt a compelling disgust that made him grasp the large flat rock alongside them. He would never have used that stone to bludgeon Andrea's blond head into an unrecognizable pulp of torn flesh and splintered bone. He would never have gone home with her gore splattered over his naked body.

Roger Pellman would have done none of that if Puppetman had not been hiding in the recesses of poor Roger's damaged mind, feeding on the emotions he found there, manipulating the boy and amplifying the adolescent fever that wracked the body. Roger's mind was weak and malleable and open; Puppetman's rape of it was no less brutal than what Roger did to Andrea.

Puppetman was eleven. He hated Andrea, hated her with the horrible anger of a spoiled child, hated her for having betrayed and humiliated him. Puppetman was the revenge fantasy of a boy infected with the wild card virus, a boy who'd made the mistake of confessing to Andrea his affection for her. Perhaps, he'd told the older girl, they might one day marry. Andrea's eyes had gone wide at that and she'd run away from him giggling. He'd begun to hear the mocking whispers the very next day at school, and he knew even as the flush burned in his cheeks that she'd told all her friends. Told everyone.

When Roger Pellman tore away Andrea's virginity, Puppetman had felt the faint stirring of that heat himself. He'd shuddered with Roger's o.r.g.a.s.m; when the boy slammed the rock into the girl's weeping face, when he'd heard the dull crack of bone, Puppetman had gasped. He staggered with the pleasure that coursed through him.

Safe in his own room, a quarter-mile away.

His overwhelming response to that first murder frightened him at the same time that it drew him. For months afterwards, he was slow to utilize that power, afraid to be so rapturously out of control again. But like all forbidden things, the urge coerced him. In the next five years, for various reasons, Puppetman would emerge and kill seven times more.

He thought of that power as an ent.i.ty apart from himself. Hidden, he was Puppetman-a lacing of strings dangling from his invisible fingers, his collection of grotesque dolls capering at the ends.

TEDDY, JIMMY STILL SCRAMBLING.

HARTMANN, JACKSON, UDALL WAIT FOR COMPROMISE.

New York Daily News, July 14, 1976

HARTMANN PROMISES FLOOR FIGHT.

JOKERS' RIGHTS ISSUE ON PLATFORM.

The New York Times, July 14, 1976

Senator Gregg Hartmann stepped from the elevator cage into the foyer of the Aces High. His entourage filed into the restaurant behind him: two secret service men; his aides John Werthen and Amy Sorenson; and four reporters whose names he'd managed to forget on the way up. It had been a crowded elevator ride. The two men in the dark gla.s.ses had grumbled when Gregg had insisted that they could all make the trip together.

Hiram Worchester was there to meet the group. Hiram was an impressive sight himself, a man of remarkable girth who moved with a surprising lightness and agility. He strode easily across the carpeted reception area, his hand extended and a smile lurking in his full beard. Light from the falling sun poured through the large windows of the restaurant and gleamed from his bald head. "Senator," he said jovially. "Good to see you again."

"And you, Hiram." Then Gregg smiled ruefully, nodding at the crowd behind him. "You know John and Amy, I think. The rest of this zoo will have to introduce themselves. They seem to be permanent retainers anymore." The reporters chuckled; the bodyguards allowed themselves thin, fleeting smiles.

Hiram grinned. "I'm afraid that's the price you pay for being a candidate, Senator. But you're looking well, as usual. The cut of that jacket is perfect." The huge man took a step back from Gregg and looked him up and down appraisingly. Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "You should give Tachyon a few hints concerning his attire. Really, what the good doctor wore here this evening . . ." Chestnut eyes rolled heavenward in mock horror, and then Hiram laughed. "But you don't need to hear me prattling on; your table's ready."

"I understand that my guests have already arrived."

That sent the corners of Hiram's mouth down in a frown. "Yes. The woman is fine, even though she drinks too much for my taste, but if the dwarf were not here under your aegis, I'd have him thrown out. It isn't so much that he's created a scene scene, but he's dreadfully rude to the help."

"I'll make sure that he behaves, Hiram." Gregg shook his head, running fingers through ash-blond hair. Gregg Hartmann was a man of plain and undistinguished appearance. He was neither one of the well-groomed and handsome politicians that seemed to be the new breed of the 70s, nor was he of the other type, the pudgy and self-satisfied Old Boys. Hiram knew Gregg as a friendly, natural person, one who genuinely cared for his const.i.tuents and their problems. As chairman of SCARE, Gregg had demonstrated a compa.s.sion for all those affected by the wild card virus. Under the senator's leaders.h.i.+p, various restrictive laws concerning those infected by the virus had been relaxed, stricken from the books, or judiciously ignored. The Exotic Powers Control Act and the Special Conscription were still legally in effect, but Senator Hartmann forbade any of his agents to enforce them. Hiram often marveled at Gregg's deft handling of sensitive relations between the public and the jokers. "Friend of Jokertown" was what Time Time had dubbed him in one article (accompanied by a photograph of Gregg shaking the hand of Randall, the doorman at the Funhouse-Randall's hand was an insect's claw, and at the center of the palm was a grouping of wet, ugly eyes). For Hiram, the senator was that rare Good Man, an anomaly among the politicians. had dubbed him in one article (accompanied by a photograph of Gregg shaking the hand of Randall, the doorman at the Funhouse-Randall's hand was an insect's claw, and at the center of the palm was a grouping of wet, ugly eyes). For Hiram, the senator was that rare Good Man, an anomaly among the politicians.

Gregg sighed, and Hiram saw a deep weariness behind the senator's good-natured facade. "How's the convention going, Senator?" he asked. "What chance does the Jokers' Rights plank have?"

"I'm fighting for it as hard as I can," Gregg answered, and he glanced back at the reporters; they watched the exchange with unfeigned interest. "We'll find out in a few days when we have the floor vote."

Hiram saw the resignation in Hartmann's eyes; that gave him all the information he needed-it would fail, like all the rest. "Senator," he said, "when this convention's over, I expect you to stop by here again. I'll prepare something special just for you; to let you know that your work's appreciated."

Gregg clapped Hiram lightly on the back. "On one condition," he replied. "You have to make sure that I can get a corner booth. By myself. Alone." The senator chuckled. Hiram grinned in return.

"It's yours. Now, tonight, I'd recommend the beef in red wine- it's very delicate. The asparagus is extremely fresh and I made the sauce myself. As for dessert, you must taste the white chocolate mousse."

Elevator doors opened behind them. The secret service men glanced warily back as two women stepped out. Gregg nodded to them and shook Hiram's hand again. "You need to take care of your other guests, my friend. Give me a call when this madness is over."

"You'll be needing a White House chef, too."

Gregg laughed heartily at that. "You'll need to speak to Carter or Kennedy about that, Hiram. I'm just one of the dark horses in this one."

"Then they're pa.s.sing by the best man," Hiram retorted. He strode off.

The Aces High occupied the observation tower of the Empire State Building. From the expansive windows, the diners could gaze out to a view of Manhattan Island. The sun touched the horizon beyond the city harbor; the golden dome of the Empire State Building tossed reflections into the dining room. In the gold-green sunset, Dr. Tachyon was not difficult to spot, seated at his customary table with a woman Gregg did not recognize. Hiram had been right, Gregg saw immediately-Tachyon wore a dinner jacket of blazing scarlet trimmed with a collar of emerald-green satin. Purple sequins traced bold patterns on the sleeves and shoulders; mercifully, his pants were hidden, though a band of iridescent orange could be glimpsed under the jacket. Gregg waved, Tachyon nodded. "John, please take our guests over to the table and make introductions for me. I'll be over in a second. Amy, would you come with me?" Gregg threaded his way through the tables.

Tachyon's shoulder-length hair was the same improbable red as his jacket. He ran a dainty hand through the tangled locks as he rose to greet Gregg. "Senator Hartmann," he said. "May I present Angela Fascetti? Angela, this is Senator Gregg Hartmann and his aide Amy Sorenson; the senator's the man responsible for much of the funding of my clinic."

After a few pleasantries, Amy excused herself. Gregg was pleased when Tachyon's companion took the hint without any prompting from Amy and left the table with her. Gregg waited until the two women were a few tables away and then turned to Tachyon. "I thought you'd like to know that we've confirmed the plant in your clinic, Doctor. Your suspicions were right."

Tachyon frowned, deep lines creasing his forehead. "KGB?"

"Probably," Gregg answered. "But as long as we know who he is, he's relatively harmless."

"I still want him out of there, Senator," Tachyon insisted politely. He steepled his hands before his face, and when he glanced at Gregg, his lilac eyes were full of an old hurt. "I've had enough difficulty with your government and their previous witch-hunts. I want nothing to do with another. I mean no offense by that, Senator; you've been a good man with whom to work and very helpful to me, but I'd rather keep the clinic entirely away from politics. My desire is to help the jokers, nothing more."

Gregg could only nod at that. He resisted an impulse to remind the doctor that the politics he claimed he wished to avoid also paid some of the clinic's bills. His voice was laden with sympathy. "That's my my interest as well, Doctor. But if we simply fire the man, the KGB will have a new plant in place within a few months. There's a new ace working with us; I'll talk with him." interest as well, Doctor. But if we simply fire the man, the KGB will have a new plant in place within a few months. There's a new ace working with us; I'll talk with him."

"Do whatever you wish, Senator. I'm not interested in your methods so long as the clinic remains unaffected."

"I'll see that it is." Across the room, Gregg saw Amy and Angela making their way toward them.

"You're here to meet with Tom Miller?" Tachyon inquired, one eyebrow arching. He nodded his head slightly in the direction of Gregg's table, where John was still making introductions.

"The dwarf? Yes. He's-"

"I know him, Senator. I suspect he's responsible for quite a lot of death and violence in Jokertown in recent months. He's a bitter and dangerous man, Senator."

"That's exactly why I want to forestall him."

"I wish you luck," Tachyon commented dryly.

JJS PROMISES VIOLENCE IF PLANK DEFEATED.

The New York Times, July 14, 1976

Sondra Falin felt mixed emotions as Gregg Hartmann approached the table. She'd known that she was going to face this difficulty tonight and perhaps had drunk more than she should have. The liquor burned in her stomach. Tom Miller-"Gimli," as he preferred to be called in the JJS-fidgeted next to her, and she laid an unsteady hand on the thick muscles of his forearm.

"Keep your f.u.c.king paws off me," the dwarf growled. "You ain't my G.o.dd.a.m.n grandmother, Sondra."

The remark stung her more than it otherwise might have; she could only look down at her hand; at the dry, liverspotted skin hanging loose over thin bones; at the swollen and arthritic knuckles. He'll look at me and smile like a stranger and I can't tell him He'll look at me and smile like a stranger and I can't tell him. Tears stung her eyes; she wiped at them savagely with the back of her hand, then drained the gla.s.s that sat before her. Glenlivet: it seared her throat all the way down.

The senator beamed at them. His grin was more than just the professional tool of a politician-Hartmann's face was natural and open, inviting confidence. "Excuse my rudeness in not coming right over," he said. "I'd like to say that I'm very glad that the two of you agreed to meet with me tonight. You're Tom Miller?" Gregg said, turning to the bearded visage of the dwarf, his hand extended.

"No, I'm Warren Beatty and this here's Cinderella," Miller replied sourly. His voice had the tw.a.n.g of the Midwest. "Show him your slipper, Sondra." The dwarf c.o.c.ked his head belligerently at Hartmann, pointedly ignoring the hand.

Most people would have ignored the insult, Sondra knew. They would have drawn back their hand and pretended that it had never been offered. "I met Mr. Beatty last night at the Rolling Stone Rolling Stone party," the senator said. He smiled, his hand the focus of attention around the table. "I even managed to shake party," the senator said. He smiled, his hand the focus of attention around the table. "I even managed to shake his his hand." hand."

Hartmann waited. In the silence, Miller grumbled. At last the dwarf took Hartmann's fingers in his own ham-fisted grip. With the touch, Sondra seemed to see Hartmann's smile go cold for a moment, as if the contact had pained him slightly. He quickly let go of Miller's hand. Then his composure returned. "Good to meet you," Hartmann said. There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice, only a genuine warmth, a relief.

Sondra understood how she had come to love this man. It's not you who loves him; it's only Succubus. She's the one Gregg knows. To him, you're just an old, shriveled woman whose politics are in question. He'll never know that Succubus is the same person, not if you want to keep him. All he'll ever see is the fantasy Succubus makes for him. That's what Miller said we have to do, and you'll obey him, won't you? It's not you who loves him; it's only Succubus. She's the one Gregg knows. To him, you're just an old, shriveled woman whose politics are in question. He'll never know that Succubus is the same person, not if you want to keep him. All he'll ever see is the fantasy Succubus makes for him. That's what Miller said we have to do, and you'll obey him, won't you?

No matter how much it hurts you.

Now it was her turn to shake Gregg's hand. She felt her fingers trembling as they touched; Gregg noticed it as well, for a faint sympathy seemed to tug at the corners of his mouth. Still, there was only curiosity and interest in his gray-blue eyes; no recognition beyond that. Sondra's mood darkened again. He's wondering what horrible things afflict this old woman. He wonders what ugliness is sitting inside me, what horrors I might reveal if he knew me He's wondering what horrible things afflict this old woman. He wonders what ugliness is sitting inside me, what horrors I might reveal if he knew me.

She reached for the gla.s.s of scotch.

Her mood continued to deepen throughout the meal. The pattern of conversation seemed set. Hartmann would introduce a topic, and Miller would respond with unjustified sarcasm and scorn, which in turn the senator smoothed over. Sondra listened to the interplay without joining in. The others around the table evidently felt the same tension, for the stage remained open for the two chief players, with the others inserting their lines as if on cue. The dinner, despite the hovering solicitude of Hiram, tasted like ashes in her mouth. Sondra drank more, watching Gregg. When the mousse was set aside and the conversation turned serious, Sondra was quite well drunk. She had to shake her head to clear the fog.

". . . need you to promise that there will be no public displays," Hartmann was saying.

"s.h.i.+t," Miller replied. For a moment, Sondra thought that he might actually spit. The sallow, pitted cheeks under Gimli's ruddy beard swelled and his maniacal eyes narrowed. Then he banged a fist on the table, rattling dishes. The bodyguards tensed in their seats, the others around the table jumped at the sound. "That's the same c.r.a.p all all you politicians hand out," the dwarf growled. "The JJS has heard it for years now. Be good and roll over like a good dog and we'll throw you a few table sc.r.a.ps. It's time we were let in on the feast, Hartmann. The jokers are you politicians hand out," the dwarf growled. "The JJS has heard it for years now. Be good and roll over like a good dog and we'll throw you a few table sc.r.a.ps. It's time we were let in on the feast, Hartmann. The jokers are tired tired of leftovers." of leftovers."

Hartmann's voice, in contrast to Miller's, was soft and reasonable. "That's something I agree with, Mr. Miller, Ms. Falin." Gregg nodded to Sondra, and she could only frown in return, feeling the drag of the wrinkles around her mouth. "That's exactly why I've proposed that the Democratic party add the Jokers' Rights plank to our presidential platform. That's why I've been out trying to collar every last vote I can get for it." Gregg spread his hands wide. In another person his speech might have had a hollow sound, a falseness. But Gregg's words were full of the long, tired hours he'd spent at the convention, and that lent them truth. "That's why I'm asking you to try to keep your organization calm. Demonstrations, especially anything of a violent nature, are going to prejudice the middle-of-the-road delegates against you. I'm asking you to give me a chance, to give yourselves yourselves a chance. Abandon your plan to march to Jetboy's Tomb. You don't have a permit; the police are already on edge from the crowds in the city, and they'll move in on you if you try." a chance. Abandon your plan to march to Jetboy's Tomb. You don't have a permit; the police are already on edge from the crowds in the city, and they'll move in on you if you try."

"Then, stop them," Sondra said. The scotch slurred her words, and she shook her head. "No one questions the fact that you care. So stop 'em."

Hartmann grimaced. "I can't. I've already advised the mayor against such actions, but he's adamant. March, and you invite confrontation. I can't condone your breaking the law."

"Roll over, doggie," Miller drawled, and then he howled loudly, throwing his head back. Around the dining room, patrons began to glance toward them. Tachyon peered at them with frank anger and Hiram's worried face emerged from the kitchen doors. One of the secret service men began to rise but Gregg waved him down. "Mr. Miller, please. I'm trying to talk realities with you. There's only so much money and help available, and if you persist in antagonizing those who control them, you'll only hurt yourselves."

"And I'm telling you you that f.u.c.king 'reality' is in the streets of Jokertown. C'mon down and rub your nose in the s.h.i.+t, Senator. Take a look at the poor creatures wandering the streets, the ones the virus wasn't kind enough to kill, the ones that drag themselves down the sidewalk on stumps, the blind ones, or the ones with two heads or four arms. The ones who drool as they talk, the ones who hide in darkness because the sun burns them, the ones for whom the slightest touch is agony." Miller's voice rose, the tone vibrant and deep. Around the table, jaws had dropped; the reporters scribbled notes. Sondra could feel it as well, the throbbing power in that voice, compelling. She'd seen Miller stand before a jeering crowd in Jokertown and in fifteen minutes have them listening quietly, nodding to his words. Even Gregg was leaning forward, caught. that f.u.c.king 'reality' is in the streets of Jokertown. C'mon down and rub your nose in the s.h.i.+t, Senator. Take a look at the poor creatures wandering the streets, the ones the virus wasn't kind enough to kill, the ones that drag themselves down the sidewalk on stumps, the blind ones, or the ones with two heads or four arms. The ones who drool as they talk, the ones who hide in darkness because the sun burns them, the ones for whom the slightest touch is agony." Miller's voice rose, the tone vibrant and deep. Around the table, jaws had dropped; the reporters scribbled notes. Sondra could feel it as well, the throbbing power in that voice, compelling. She'd seen Miller stand before a jeering crowd in Jokertown and in fifteen minutes have them listening quietly, nodding to his words. Even Gregg was leaning forward, caught.

Listen to him, but be careful. His voice is that of the snake, mesmerizing, and when he's snared you, he'll pounce.

"That's your 'reality,' " Miller purred. "Your G.o.dd.a.m.n convention's just an act. And I tell you now, Senator"-his voice was suddenly a shout-"the JJS will will take our protests into the streets." take our protests into the streets."

"Mr. Miller-" Gregg began.

"Gimli! " Miller shouted, and his voice went strident, all its power gone, as if Miller had used up some inner store. " " Miller shouted, and his voice went strident, all its power gone, as if Miller had used up some inner store. "My f.u.c.king name's Gimli! " He was on his feet, standing on his chair. In another, the posture would have seemed ludicrous, but none of them could laugh at him. "I'm a f.u.c.king " He was on his feet, standing on his chair. In another, the posture would have seemed ludicrous, but none of them could laugh at him. "I'm a f.u.c.king dwarf dwarf, not one of your 'misters'!"

Sondra tugged at Miller's arm; he shrugged her away. "Let me alone. I want them to see how much I hate hate them." them."

"Hate's useless," Gregg insisted. "None of us here hate you. If you knew the hours I've put in for the jokers, all the drudge work that Amy and John have gone through . . ."