Ace in the Hole - By George R. R. Martin Page 0,120
since." A long pause. "Yes, sir. We'll keep an eye on the room." She hung up the phone. "Asshole."
There was laughter from the hallway.
The woman walked back toward the door. "You know, if we're going to do this spy shit, I think we should get paid extra for it. Don't see why we should bust our asses to make Mr. Hot-Shot Hastings shine." She closed the door.
Spector could hear the woman carrying on outside the room. Even a New Yorker would have trouble getting a word in edgewise with her.
He was dead tired. His jaw felt like it had been stuck back on with ten-penny nails. Moving would take more effort than he was willing to make right now. He closed his eyes and listened to the maids' cart squeak its way down the hall.
Breakfast of steak and coffee hadn't quite done the job of making Jack ready to face the Reverend Barnett and a stable of killer aces, but a couple last-minute shots of vodka had. They'd steadied his hands for shaving-not that he could have cut himself if he tried, since even the wicked cutthroat he used couldn't match his protective wild card-but he hated to do a sloppy job.
While he dressed, he watched the news. The day's first ballot had Hartmann down by two hundred. About thirty of Jack's own delegates had defected, some to Dukakis, some to Jackson. Barnett was up about forty votes total.
A new sense of urgency poured through Jack.
He dressed in his summer power suit of navy blue cotton, handmade by an old man in New Jersey he'd been going to for forty years, a light-blue Arrow shirt, black Italian wingtips, red tie-he never understood why power ties were supposed to be yellow now, since yellow ties always made him think of someone who'd been careless with his breakfast eggs. He put on heavy Hollywood shades, partly to hide his hangover, partly in case Demise was waiting for him somewhere, and took another welcome shot of vodka before he left. He'd buy some cigarettes in the lobby.
Barnett's limousine met him at the door. The traffic was impossible, complicated by marching jokers and Catholics for Barnett and Mutants for Zippy the Pinhead and shuttle buses disgorging journalists from the outlying hotels where they'd been quartered.
Fleur met him at the door to the Omni Hotel. His nerves did a little dance at the sight of her, but he managed to repress his urge to flee, and instead smiled and shook her hand. " I have an elevator waiting," she said.
"Fine." They stepped across the polished lobby floor.
"I apologize for any difficulty Consuela gave you. She's used to fielding calls from cranks."
"No problem."
"She's a refugee from the anti-Ladino persecutions in Guatemala, a poor young widow with three children. The reverend made it possible for her to stay in this country."
Jack turned to Fleur and smiled. "That's remarkable, that a man as busy as the Reverend Barnett would take the time to help someone like that."
Fleur looked into his deep black shades. "The reverend's like that. He cares."
"Not just the reverend, I'm sure. You've been possessed by the spirit of charity yourself, I'm sure."
Fleur tried to look modest. "Well, I-"
"I mean, sacrificing your chastity just to cure old Tach of his problem."
She stared at him, goggle-eyed.
"By the way, just between us," Jack grinned, "did he ever manage to get it up?"
Jack, smiling, followed a white-lipped Fleur out of an elevator whose temperature seemed to have dropped about fifty degrees. Secret Service people, Lady Black among them, prowled the long corridor leading to Barnett's suite. Jack hoped she didn't recognize him.
He passed by a busy suite filled with tables and campaign workers. Most of them seemed to be women, many of them young and attractive.
They came to a door, and Fleur knocked. Leo Barnett, looking younger than his thirty-eight years, opened the door and stuck out his hand.
"Welcome, Mr. Braun," he said.
Jack stared at the hand, wondering if Barnett could take his mind by touching him; and then, summoning nerve from somewhere, he reached out and took the hand.
He was shaking again. Tachyon paused, the glass almost to his lips, and considered. How many drinks did this make for the morning? Two? Three? He set the glass aside with overly broad gestures. Patted it firmly as if to keep it in place, to keep it from flying back to his hand, crossed to the ravaged room service breakfast tray, and took a bite of cold toast.