“What’s the point?” said Masterson. “This is a broken record. Why knife each other in front of the good Governor of California?”
Greene smiled as Morris sat there silently with amused contempt on his broad face. Which is cool, Greene thought.
“Okay, in words of one syllable,” Greene said. “The three of us want different things. If we play ball with each other, we all get ’em. Deke, with Woody in control of the Village SJC instead of Deacon, the New York SJC’d be your baby ’cause he’s off in Strip City running that show, and with a blackstate SJC that cuts the floor right out from under Malcolm Shabazz and his back-to-Africa phonies been bugging you in the bargain. You can afford Woody as hippy-faction leader ’cause he’s three thousand miles away and he’s got no eyes to run New York, better him than Deacon, right? And Woody, it’s no skin off your teeth to have Deke run New York so long as there’s only one Grand High Poobah of the Hippies. And me, well, you know how thick I am with Jack, he wins, I’m the black power behind the Shade house throne. (Morris smirked. That’s cool, Greene thought, let him.) So those are the stakes. Now, ask yourself, fellas, guess who’s a bigger magic name in the Village than Russell Deacon?”
“Jack Barron…” Kaplan said slowly. “In his own half-assed way…”
“Yeah, but you’re looking at the other half of his ass,” Greene said, smiling smugly. “Jack couldn’t care less about party politics, in the infighting I’d just work his head. And our friend Governor Morris couldn’t care less about what goes on inside the SJC. So it’d be no sweat to use Jack to squeeze out Deacon, once he’s the titular head of a coalition. Dig?”
Masterson smiled. “You got a point,” he said. “Okay, let’s say I’m with you, provided Barron convinces me he’ll play ball.”
“That’s where I’m at too,” Kaplan said. “Hey… you don’t think Jack could actually win?”
Watch it! Greene thought. This is the kicker. They know who’d be running the SJC if Jack actually won; play dumb, let ’em think you’re just a kamikaze schmuck they’re getting the best of. “Who knows?” he said. “I think it’s worth a try, with the Republicans on our team… Sure, it’s still a long shot, but it’s the best chance us chilluns will ever have. We gotta try it, way I see it, isn’t that right, Morris?”
“You know what I think of you and your kind, Greene,” Morris said, “and you know how fond I am of Barron. But it’s either Barron or some Democratic stooge Benedict Howards picks. With the Foundation against him, Teddy the Pretender hasn’t got a real chance. Call it a truce, gentlemen, till we kick the Democrats out. After that, I’m sure the… best party will win.”
“That’s the nitty-gritty,” Greene said. “That’s why we need Barron, just his running would shake things up, win or lose, bust up that Democratic-Foundation cabal if nothing else. But for chrissakes, remember Jack’s playing Reluctant Dragon, and where his head’s at it just could be real. Play it cool when he gets here—and remember, we’ve got to sell him.”
Well that’s it, Greene thought, all set up and waiting; waiting for fucking Jack who started it all in that attic, and now the chicken’s come home to roost.
Greene tasted twin pangs in the heavy waiting silence: bitterness and hope. Whatever happened now, it would be the climax of his whole career, the moment of truth; he had ridden the SJC as far as he could go.
Far as any nigger can go, he thought. Handpick your own shade front-man, your own bosom-buddy, shade buddy, of course. Jack wins, you’re President by proxy; Jack’s lost the taste for nitty-gritty politics. A nice clean shade candidate-image to front for me, is all. Not like you’re using him, man, you don’t have to, he doesn’t want to get his… lily white hands dirty and anyway, he is on our side; Founding Father and all that bullshit. He wins, he’ll only be too glad to suck up the glory and let me do the dirty work.
President-by-proxy, black power behind the lily-white throne—face it, you nigger you, that’s precisely as far as any black man can go. And wouldn’t you know it’d all depend on convincing some cat like Jack Barron’s got it all for the taking he oughta take it? Way the world is, number one nigger in the country still gotta make it riding the back of some shade. Even a “Black Shade.” (Ain’t that one a bitch!) All riding on what crazy Jack does in the next few minutes.
And don’t put yourself on, man, even you could never tell which way Jack Barron’s head would go.
So we’re gonna do that schtick again, Jack Barron thought as he entered the conference room and recognized the three men seated around the table with Luke, recognized who they were, what they were, where they were at, and what they wanted from him. Bugged at Luke though he was, some instinct told him to cool it, play with their minds, now that the whole crazy Presidential schtick was a potential component in the electric circuit of power-confrontation, along with bought children immortality-power of life against death, power of Brackett Count estimated hundred million people, that he was beginning to wire around Benedict Howards. And the easiest cats to use are cats think they’re using you.
Before Luke could go into his spiel, Barron crossed the room in three long strides, sticking an Acapulco Gold in his mouth as he moved, lit it as he sat down on the edge of the table beside Luke’s chair, smiled his best number one brat-smile, blew a cloud of sweet uptighting potsmoke in the general direction of Gregory Morris, and with heavy knowing cynicism said: “Gee, fellas, a surprise party just for little old me? I forgot it was my birthday. On the other hand, who knows, maybe I threw this little… Electoral College smoker for you?” And he shot a quick knowing look at Luke for the benefit of the others.
Luke’s face went totally blank for a second, Masterson went tense, and that psychopathic prick Woody Kaplan almost laughed as he clocked his late arch-enemy Gregory Morris half-rolling his eyes as if to say “Fucking smart-ass Jack Barron,” and Barron knew that he had pulled the rug out from under Luke, from under whatever this grotesque cabal had been hatching, that he was now in the good old upper-right screen quadrant catbird-seat, was now his show all the way, strictly show biz all the way, and these cats got no more on the ball in the flesh than on the vidphone.
“Shall we skip the traditional bullshit, gentlemen, and get right down to the nitty-gritty?” Barron said. “You’re here to sell me on running for President on an SJC-Republican coalition ticket; I know it, and now you know I know, so just make your pitch without waltzing me around the block, ’cause it’s been a hard day’s night.”
Poor fucking Luke! Barron thought as he sensed Greene’s head trying to catch up to his. And he clocked Governor Gregory Morris of California, Mayor Sherwood Kaplan of Strip City, US Representative Deke Masterson, so-called movers and shapers, all completely off-balance, not knowing what was coming off next, and it came to him in a laughing flash just what a total shuck the whole Great Man bag was.
Dig: four cats in a smoke-filled room with star of television and groin-kneeing Jack Barron got the power to run me for President they say the word and Bennie Howards can buy the whole lot of ’em out of petty cash, and Bennie’s nothing but a prick with fifty billion dollars I can think immelmanns around with my head tied behind my back. Thing is, it’s all show biz, is all, politics is nothing more than show biz with no class, and these high-powered vips are men just like me, only a little dumber. All a game of Bug Jack Barron and even without a promptboard, they don’t have a chance ’cause they’re dead serious and I’m playing it strictly for show.