Majesty, richness, spectacle: all this and more. The divine right of kings, self-appointed and otherwise. Champagne dreams and caviar fantasies, as someone used to puff, and it was tempting to surrender to all this, even if for only one night. Yet, even as I watched the Veiled Prophet and his court walk through the ballroom, I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the sick child I had seen only four nights ago at almost exactly this same hour, cradled in his mother’s arms as a bitter cold rain washed them in the Muny.
Did he eat well tonight? Did he eat at all? Was his mother in a holding pen beneath the stadium? And, knowing what I did about the man behind the Veiled Prophet’s mask, did a poor child’s fate matter to him?
Veiled Prophet, what do you prophesy?
As McLaughlin clapped his hands, his eyes kept wandering toward me. At first it was as if he vaguely recognized me but couldn’t quite place my face, but then his expression changed to one of ill-concealed alarm as he suddenly remembered when and where we had met. I waited until that moment came, then I leaned toward him.
“Is this what rich people do for fun?” I whispered.
McLaughlin looked directly at me now. “Mr. Rosen,” he said with stiff formality. “What an unexpected surprise.”
“I’m sure it is,” I replied. “If things had been different this morning, I’d be dead by now.”
He didn’t say anything. He tried to return his attention to the stage, where the Veiled Prophet and his queen were assuming their places on their thrones. I waited until sore hands all around us took a momentary respite, then I leaned toward him again.
“Y’know,” I said, “I think Steve Estes is getting accustomed to his new role.”
“I wouldn’t know what you mean,” he said.
“Oh, look at him.” I nodded toward the stage. “Sitting on a throne, hiding his face behind a mask, having everyone bow and scrape to him.” I shrugged. “Nice work if you can get it.”
McLaughlin’s expression turned to shock. He opened his mouth, about to ask the obvious question, when the Captain of the Guard stamped on leaden feet to the microphone again.
“His mysterious majesty! … the Veiled Prophet! … commands me to introduce his maids of honor! … of his court of love! … and beauty!”
Again the sounding of trumpets, again the parting of curtains. The orchestra struck up “Pomp and Circumstance” as the first of many beaming debutantes floated out onto the stage, escorted by her smiling yet mildly embarrassed father. Hands clapped in well-mannered enthusiasm as her name was announced and they began to walk down the runway toward the stage.
McLaughlin’s curiosity finally got the better of him. He leaned toward me, his palms automatically slapping against one another. “How did you-”
“Find out who the Veiled Prophet is?” I grinned, not bothering to applaud. “Why, Ruby Fulcrum told me.”
His face turned pale as his hands faltered. I waited a beat, savoring his discomfiture, before I went on. “Ruby’s told me a lot of secrets,” I said. “In fact, they’re going to be in all the newspapers tomorrow.”
McLaughlin’s eyes shifted back toward the runway; he kept clapping as another debutante enjoyed her moment in the limelight. His wife glanced at him, then at me, her expression gradually changing from polite greeting to mild bewilderment as she noticed her husband’s confusion. His face had become as rigid as the knees of the young women who strode down the runway, and with good reason. He was about to have his own coming-out party.
“Is there some reason why you want to see me?” he whispered, his voice almost a hiss.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” I replied. “It’ll take just a minute.”
He nodded, then turned around to murmur something to his wife. She kept applauding as yet another deb was introduced, while he rose from his chair. I stood up and allowed him to brush past me, then I followed him down the aisle.
The ushers shut the doors behind us as we walked out into the vacant mezzanine. We could hear faint orchestra music and sporadic handclapping through the doors; except for a few hotel bartenders restocking their tables, though, we were alone.
McLaughlin strode to a window overlooking the street, then turned around and stared straight at me. “All right,” he said as he shot back his shirtcuff to check his Rolex, “you’ve got a minute. What do you want?”
I pulled Joker out of my trouser pocket, switching it into Audio Record mode. “My name’s Gerry Rosen. I’m a reporter for the Big Muddy-”
“I know who you are,” he said. “What’s the point?”
The point was that he was talking to a reporter now. I wanted to let him know that, even if he didn’t get it. “I’m working on a story about the Tiptree Corporation’s involvement in a conspiracy to overthrow the elected government of the United States-”
“Never heard of it,” he said automatically.
“The United States or the conspiracy?”
He stared at me, standing a little straighter in his starched shirt and collar. Now he got the point.
“I don’t know anything about any conspiracies,” he replied.
“Then you deny that the purpose of the Sentinel program was to stop civil insurrections in the United States, even if that meant using the satellite against American citizens?”
McLaughlin’s mouth dropped open. “What …? How did you …?” He stiffened again, regathering his wits. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then you claim you don’t know that Sentinel was going to be fired at Cascadian armed forces?”
I heard the ballroom door open and close behind me. Someone started striding across the room toward us. McLaughlin’s eyes darted in that direction, but I didn’t look around. I already knew who it was.
“I’m not aware of anything of the sort,” he said, his voice tight. “Furthermore, this all sounds like a … some sort of wild fantasy. Are you sure of your facts, Mr. Rosen?”
“I’m quite sure, Mr. McLaughlin,” I said, “and they’re not just my facts, either. All this comes from government documents that were released to my paper by Ruby Fulcrum.”
“And who’s going to believe a computer, Gerry?” Paul Huygens asked as he walked up behind me.
I wasn’t surprised to see him here; his name had been on the guest list, so it would only figure that he would have trailed his boss when he left the ballroom. I turned around to look at him; he was as smug as usual, his thumbs cocked in the pockets of his white vest, smiling like the cat who had eaten the proverbial canary.
“That’s a good question, Paul,” I replied. “We’ll have to see, once you start getting calls from all the other papers that now have those documents.”
The smile faded from his face. “What other papers?” he asked, his hands dropping to his side. “Who are you talking about?”
I shrugged. “The New York Times, the Washington Post, Newsday, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, the Chicago Tribune, the Boston Globe-Herald, and of course the Post-Dispatch. That’s just for starters … I’m sure the wire services will pick up on the story. Plus the TV networks, Time and Newsweek, Rolling Stone, the New Yorker, and whoever else received copies of those documents today.”
Huygens looked as if he had just glanced up from the sidewalk to see a ten-ton safe falling toward him. McLaughlin seemed to shudder; his face turned bright red, his mouth opening, then closing, then opening again. I cursed myself for not getting Jah into the ball with me; I would have framed the photo he could have taken of their expressions, and every time I began to curse fate for making me a journalist, I would only have to study this picture to remind myself why I wanted this crummy, thankless job.