"The guy's fucking good," said Spector. "But it won't make any difference."

The camera cut back to the studio. A black woman reporter turned to her co-anchor. "Thanks to Howard for that interesting interview. Dan, what have the police discovered so far about the perpetrators of the disturbance?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. Several of them are in custody, captured by the Turtle, but the police are getting very little cooperation." The reporter tapped his thumbs together. "There are rumors that most of them are members of the Ku Klux Klan, but that's been unsubstantiated. Although the disturbance was obviously well-planned, none of the individuals involved claims to be the leader of the group. And so far, no clue as to where the authentic Confederate uniforms and muskets came from." The reporter frowned and turned back to the black woman.

"Well, I'm sure the authorities will keep us posted if any new information comes to light in this bizarre incident." The black woman shook her head. "Although dummy ammunition was used, several individuals were hurt in the panic that ensued." The video cut to earlier footage of the panic in the park, the cameraman was running with the rest during the panic, bouncing the picture all over. "At least one person, a street performer, was allegedly trampled to death. Ironically, he was believed to be playing dead at the time. His name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin."

"Fucking A," said Spector, punching the TV off. He was off the hook for that one, anyway. But that didn't get him any closer to Hartmann. He'd almost felt something holding him off for the instant that thev locked eyes. No. Just imagination. To do that he'd have to have powers like the Astronomer or Tachyon. "Astronomer for president," he giggled. "That'd make even Reagan look good by comparison. "

He popped up off the bed and walked slowly around the carpeted floor, considering his options. Killing Hartmann might be more than he was up to. He could take the money and go someplace else, another country maybe.: Maybe work for a casino in Cuba. Nope. He'd always done what he was paid to do. Fucking middle-class ethics again. Didn't stop him from killing people, but made him live up to a contract.

He sighed and walked to the phone. Tony was his only shot, he'd known that ever since they met in the lobby. It was kismet, or something. Didn't stop him from feeling like shit, though. He punched in the number and waited. An unfamiliar female voice answered the phone.

"Could I speak to Tony Calderone, please?"

"He's not available right now. Could I take a message?" The woman sounded tired.

"Yes, tell him James called. He'll know who you mean. Tell him I'd like to firm up that dinner invitation he extended."

Spector was almost surprised at how cool and polite he sounded.

"Yes, James, uh, what was your last name?"

"Just James. He'll know who you mean."

"I'll give him the message."

"Thanks." Spector hung up the phone and sighed. Maybe he'd order a steak from room service and hope the Peaches were on TV again tonight. If they're America's team, he thought, we're all in a shitload of trouble.

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.

– -Peachtree, tiled and echoic. They walked arm in arm. Sara had drunk two glasses of wine. It was the first alcohol she had had for over a year. She had never drunk much liquorexcept for the weeks after the tour.

Ricky was regaling her with the latest candidate jokes going the rounds. "How about this one: if Dukakis, Hartmann, and Brother Leo went boating together on Lake Lanier, and the boat's engine blew up and it sank, who'd be saved?"

"The nation," Sara said. "Last time I heard it, it was Reagan, Carter, and Anderson. But then, you're too young to remember."

"What goes around comes around, Rosie. But I was old enough to vote in '80, if barely."

"You probably think I'm a wicked old lady robbing the cradle." She frowned; where was that coming from? Steady, she told herself.

Ricky patted her hand. "I certainly hope so, Rosie." He laughed then, to show it was a joke. She felt the tension come into her, just the same.

A thin current of sound was running down the corridor, between the rocks of their laughter. "What's that song?" she asked.

He raised a brow at her. "Don't you know it?" She did, but she'd needed something to say. "It's `Mack the Knife.' Standby of every low-rent lounge singer in the northern hemisphere."

"The Muzak's broken in here, see, so they hired this white dude to walk around and whistle."

She laughed and squeezed his arm briefly. Damn. What am I doing? She looked around, almost as if seeking some external cause for her behavior.

Movement behind. Her tongue pushed out between suddenly dry lips; she made her face turn to the side, as if she was admiring the brash fashions draped on the headless silver-and-black-and-olive-green mannequins posing in a boutique window.