would you?"
Strange, Jack thought. He'd never felt uncomfortable in the presence of Gregg Hartmann before. Yet here he was, face to face with the man he hoped would be the next president, the man who had talked him into coming out of his public isolation and joining his crusade for office, and something was missing..
I'm tired, thought Jack. So is Gregg. No one can be charismatic every minute.
He poured himself coffee. The cup rattled in the saucerhangover, maybe, or nerves. If it hadn't been Gregg asking for this meeting, he wouldn't have come. "I saw a car full of Nazis outside," he said. "Nazis in uniforms."
"The Klan are here, too." Hartmann shook his head. "There's potential for a serious confrontation. The crackpot right likes that kind of thing-it gives them publicity."
"Lucky thing the Turtle is here."
"Yes." Hartmann gave him a look. "You've never met the Turtle, have you?"
Jack held up a hand. "Please." He smiled to cover his nervousness. "Let's keep it down to one reconciliation a day, okay?"
Hartmann knit his brows. "Is there a problem between you?"
Jack shrugged. "Not that I know of. I just ... sort of assume there would be."
Hartmann stepped toward Jack, put a hand on his shoulder. There was concern in his eyes.
"You assume too much, Jack. You think everyone's got a chip on his shoulder about your past, and it's just not true. You've got to let down the defenses, let people get to know you."
Jack stared at the coffee swirling in his cup and thought about Earl Sanderson spiraling to a crash landing at his feet. "Okay, Gregg," he said, "I'll try."
"You're important to this campaign, Jack. You're head of the California delegation. I wouldn't have chosen you if you weren't suited for the job."
"You could get some heat on account of me. I've told you that. "
"You're important, Jack. You're a symbol of something bad that happened a long time ago, something we're trying to prevent from happening again. The other Four Aces were victims, but so were you. They paid with prison or exile or their lives, but you ..." Hartmann gave his boyish, halfapologetic smile. "Maybe you paid with your self-respect. Who's to say that isn't worth more in the long run? Their agony ended, but yours hasn't. I think it all balanced long ago, that everyone's paid too much." He squeezed Jack's shoulder. "We need you. You're important to us. I'm glad you're aboard."
Jack stared at Hartmann, cynicism ringing in his mind like funeral bells. Was Gregg serious-lives and sanity and prison terms balanced against his own worthless loss of dignity?
Hartmann had to be laughing behind that sincere expression, making fun of him.
Jack shook his head. From the time he'd met him aboard the Stacked Deck, Hartmann had been a man who could make Jack feel good about himself. What he was saying now wasn't substantially different from what he'd said to Jack before. But now the message seemed the reflex posturing of a politician, not the message of a concerned friend.
"Is something wrong, Gregg?" Jack blurted.
Hartmann dropped his hand, turned partly away. "Sorry," he said. "Things have been a little strained."
"You need some rest."
"Guess we all do." Hartmann cleared his throat. "Charles said you did some good work for us last night."
"I got some congressmen drunk and laid, is all." Hartmann gave a laugh. "Charles has given me their names and room numbers. I'll be phoning them as soon as we've finished breakfast. Perhaps-"
The door opened. Jack jumped, spilling coffee. He turned and saw, not Hiram Worchester, but Amy. Embarrassed at his nervousness, Jack reached for a napkin.
"Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. I just got a phone call from Furs in Jokertown. It's a potential problem. Chrysalis has just been found dead in New York. Ace abilities were involved."
Surprise stumbled into Jack's mind. He'd spent months with Chrysalis aboard the Stacked Deck, and although he'd never been comfortable around her-the organs and muscle visible through the transparent flesh reminded Jack of too many things he'd seen in World War II and Korea he'd developed an abstract admiration for the way Chrysalis handled her deformity, the cultured accent, cigarette holder, antique playing cards, and dry style.
Hartmann's face went rigid. When the candidate spoke, his voice was strained. "Any more details?"
"Beaten to death, looks like." Amy pursed her lips. "Barnett can make some propaganda out of this-it's more `wild card violence' that will have to be restrained."
"I knew her well," Hartmann said tightly. The mask-like face seemed unusual in a man