"All right, all right," sighed Arthur. "Gwen, let's go."
"He's going to have a roommate!" yelled Merlin. "That's just ruddy wonderful!"
Arthur's tone was warning. "Merlin..."
But a gentle touch rested on his arm. "No, Arthur, Merlin's right," said Gwen reasonably.
"Your style is going to be somewhat... unorthodox for a number of voters. Perhaps we shouldn't try to drop too much on them right away. I'll find someplace."
"Merlin, could you find her someplace inexpensive? In Manhattan?"
"What?" Merlin laughed in disbelief. "Arthur, I'm a magician, not a god. Do you know what your place is running you?"
"She could bunk in with us," offered Chico.
Gwen looked at them. "Oh. How .. . nice," she said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
"Yeah! You could have Harpo's piece of dirt. Who knows when he's coming back?"
"/ certainly don't." She smiled. "Thanks all for your concern, but I have a friend I can stay with out in Queens until I find a place of my own." She shook her head in wonderment. "You know, I've never had that. When I went into college I went from living with my parents to living in a dorm. And from there I went to living with Lance."
"Lance?" Percy Vale looked up.
Arthur shook his head. "No relation."
"So I'll finally be out on my own. It's scary." She looked thoughtful. "Poor Lance."
"Why poor Lance?" asked Percy. Arthur leaned forward, curious to hear her response.
"Why, because the more I've thought about it, the more I've come to realize that he needed me a hell of a lot more than I needed him. He was just determined that I not know that. I think my being on my own is going to be a lot harder on Lance than it will be on me."
Arthur's mouth twitched. "My heart bleeds for him." He lifted his glass.
Lance leaned against the wall of the building to keep himself 98
from toppling over. He felt the solid brick wall waver under his fingertips for a moment before righting itself, then he breathed a sigh of relief that it had sorted itself out before falling.
It was night, starless. The full moon was blood red-it would have tinted the clouds, had there been any clouds. Up on Eighth Avenue this late at night there were only a few cars heading uptown. Most people drove through that area with their car doors locked tight. Drivers would glance disdainfully at the human refuse that lined the streets. Lance was one of those receiving the disdainful glances.
He sank slowly to the ground and smiled, incredibly happy. Lance had certain images of himself that he felt constrained to live up to. Once that image had been of Suffering Writer.
To that end he'd spent long hours churning out reams of garbage, comprehensible only to himself (oh, Gwen had pretended to like them, but he knew better). He had starved himself, refused to go out in the daylight if he could help it. When he did feel the need for sexual release, he'd found hookers with hearts of gold to whom he could vent his creative spleen, not to mention his pent-up urges. For naturally, as with any good tortured writer, he had a woman who did not understand him and wanted him to get a regular nine-to-five job.
(Whether Lance's reality bore any resemblance to reality, is utterly irrelevant.) When Gwen had walked out on him, it had permitted him to shift over to a new persona-Utterly Dejected Writer at the End of his Rope. He looked at his distorted reflection in a puddle of water and was overjoyed at what he saw. He was strung out. Dead-ended.
Down and out. Ruined by the complete collapse of his one true love's confidence in him, he had now attained that point where he could die alone, unloved and misunderstood in the gutter of New York. Then some students or somesuch, cleaning out his papers, would discover the heretofore undiscovered brilliance of Lance Benson and make it public. He'd be published by some university press somewhere and become a runaway hit. He smirked.
And he'd be dead. They'd want more of his brilliance, and he'd be dead as a doornail. That would sure show them!
The clack-clack of the heels had been sounding along the street for some time, but Lance had taken no notice of them. Now, though, he could not help it. The heels had stopped right in front of him. Stiletto heels supporting thigh-high black leather boots which were laced up the front.
Slowly Lance looked up. The woman before him was dressed entirely in black leather. Her clothes looked as if they'd been spray painted on. The only part of her body that was not covered were the fingers, projecting through five holes cut in each glove. She wore a black beret on her head, which blended perfectly with her black hair. (Once the hair had had streaks of gray in it. Now there was not the slightest trace.) Her lipstick and mascara were black as well. They floated against the alabaster of her skin.
"Hi," she said. Her voice was low and sultry. "Nice night."
"If you like the night," he said indifferently, and looked down.
"Oh, yes. Yes indeed, I love the night." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What's your name?"
"Lance."
"Lance." She rolled the name around on her tongue, making it sound like a three-syllable name. "Lance, you look very lonely. Would you like to have a good time?"
He laughed hoarsely. "Yeah, sure. But my idea of a good time and your idea of a good time probably don't jibe."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah, really. My idea of a good time is sitting here and watching my life pass before my eyes as I prepare to die."
"Oh, you're right," said the woman. "You're very right." She shook her head. "That's not my idea of a good time at all. Tell you what-why don't I show you my idea of a good time? If that doesn't do it for you, then we'll bring you back here and you can continue your little headlong drive to self-destruction. How does that strike you?"
Lance shrugged. "Whatever makes you happy. I don't much care." He got to his feet, and the woman took his hand. He hobbled at first, since his right leg had fallen asleep. "So where are we going?"
"My place," she said. She wrapped her fingers in between his, and he shuddered. Her hand was cold, and he told her so. She nodded her head slightly in acknowledgment. "Yes, I know. My body temperature is perpetually ninety-one degrees. But don't worry," and she licked her lips slowly, "I can warm up quite nicely."
Abruptly Lance dug into his pocket. "I don't have any money, really," he said.
She waved a hand airily. "Don't worry about it. Think of it as a freebie, Lance. I'm sure you'll be able to do something for me.
His spirit brightened for the first time since Gwen had left him some time ago. "Gee, thanks.
You know, I don't even have your name."
"Morgan," he was told.
He nodded. "Morgan? Isn't that a man's name?"
She smiled. "Only if you're a man. But I happen to be a woman, my dear Lance. More woman, I would suspect, than you would even believe you could possibly handle."
"Oh," said Lance uncertainly, and then smiled with grim determination. "Well, I guess I'll just have to do my best."
"Oh, yes, Lance," said Morgan. "I know you will, I just know it."
Chaptre the Thirteenth
It was well into spring when the first of the commercial spots was aired.
Percy Vale, hunched over his ledgers in the offices of Arthur Penn, the checkbook and bank balances spread out nearby, had the television set on in the background. Campaign workers sat around stuffing envelopes and sealing them, or canvassing telephone books and comparing names to lists provided by the League of Women Voters, to see if they could encourage those not already registered to do so.
The portable color Sony had Kermit the Frog on the screen, and that charming amphibian disappeared to be replaced by the smiling visage of Arthur Penn.
Someone called out, "Here it is! Here it is again."