Gregg sighed, and Hiram saw a deep weariness behind the senator's good-natured facade. "How's the convention going, Senator?" he asked. "What chance does the jokers' Rights plank have?"
"I'm fighting for it as hard as I can," Gregg answered, and he glanced back at the reporters; they watched the exchange with unfeigned interest. "We'll find out in a few days when we have the floor vote."
Hiram saw the resignation in Hartmann's eyes; that gave him all the information he needed-it would fail, like all the rest. "Senator," he said, "when this convention's over, I expect you to stop by here again. I'll prepare something special just for you; to let you know that your work's appreciated." Gregg clapped Hiram lightly on the back. "On one condition," he replied. "You have to make sure that I can get a corner booth. By myself. Alone." The senator chuckled. Hiram grinned in return.
"It's yours. Now, tonight, I'd recommend the beef in red wine its very delicate. The asparagus is extremely fresh and I made the sauce myself. As for dessert, you must taste the white chocolate mousse."
Elevator doors opened behind them. The secret service men glanced warily back as two women stepped out. Gregg nodded to them and shook Hiram's hand again. "You need to take care of your other guests, my friend. Give me a call when this madness is over."
"You'll be needing a White House chef, too."
Gregg laughed heartily at that. "You'll need to speak to Carter or Kennedy about that, Hiram. I'm just one of the dark horses in this one."
"Then they're passing by the best man," Hiram retorted. He strode off.
The Aces High occupied the observation tower of the Empire State Building. From the expansive windows, the diners could gaze out to a view of Manhattan Island. The sun touched the horizon beyond the city harbor; the golden dome of the Empire State Building tossed reflections into the dining room. In the gold-green sunset, Dr. Tachyon was not difficult to spot, seated at his customary table with a woman Gregg did not recognize. Hiram had been right, Gregg saw immediately-Tachyon wore a dinner jacket of blazing scarlet trimmed with a collar of emerald-green satin. Purple sequins traced bold patterns on the sleeves and shoulders; mercifully, his pants were hidden, though a band of iridescent orange could be glimpsed under the jacket. Gregg waved, Tachyon nodded. "John, please take our guests over to the table and make introductions for me. I'll be over in a second. Amy, would you come with me?" Gregg threaded his way through the tables.
Tachyon's shoulder-length hair was the same improbable red as his jacket. He ran a dainty hand through the tangled locks as he rose to greet Gregg. "Senator Hartmann," he said. "May I present Angela Fascetti? Angela, this is Senator Gregg Hartmann and his aide Amy Sorenson; the senator's the man responsible for much of the funding of my clinic."
After a few pleasantries, Amy excused herself. Gregg was pleased when Tachyon's companion took the hint without any prompting from Amy and left the table with her. Gregg waited until the two women were a few tables away and then turned to Tachyon. "I thought you'd like to know that we've confirmed the plant in your clinic, Doctor. Your suspicions were right."
Tachyon frowned, deep lines creasing his forehead. "KGB?"
"Probably," Gregg answered. "But as long as we know who he is, he's relatively harmless."
"I still want him out of there, Senator," Tachyon insisted politely. He steepled his hands before his face, and when he glanced at Gregg, his lilac eyes were full of an old hurt. "I've had enough difficulty with your government and their previous witch-hunts. I want nothing to do with another. I mean no offense by that, Senator; you've been a good man with whom to work and very helpful to me, but I'd rather keep the clinic entirely away from politics. My desire is to help the jokers, nothing more."
Gregg could only nod at that. He resisted an impulse to remind the doctor that the politics he claimed he wished to avoid also paid some of the clinic's bills. His voice was laden with sympathy. "That's my interest as well, Doctor. But if we simply fire the man, the KGB will have a new plant in place within a few months. There's a new ace working with us; I'll talk with him."
"Do whatever you wish, Senator. I'm not interested in your methods so long as the clinic remains unaffected."
"I'll see that it is."
Across the room, Gregg saw Amy and Angela making their way toward them.
"You're here to meet with Tom Miller?" Tachyon inred, one one eyebrow arching. He nodded his head slightly in the direction of Gregg's table, where John was still making introductions.
"The dwarf? Yes. He's-"
"I know him, Senator. I suspect he's responsible for quite a lot of death and violence in Jokertown in recent months. He's a bitter and dangerous man, Senator."
"That's exactly why I want to forestall him."
"I wish you luck," Tachyon commented dryly.
JJS PROMISES VIOLENCE IF PLANK DEFEATED
The New York Times, July 14, 1976
Sondra Falin felt mixed emotions as Gregg Hartmann approached the table. She'd known that she was going to face this difficulty tonight and perhaps had drunk more than she should have. The liquor burned in her stomach. Tom Miller "Gimli," as he preferred to be called in the JJS-fidgeted next to her, and she laid an unsteady hand on the thick muscles of his forearm.
"Keep your fucking paws off me," the dwarf growled. "You ain't my goddamn grandmother, Sondra."
The remark stung her more than it otherwise might have; she could only look down at her hand; at the dry, liverspotted skin hanging loose over thin bones; at the swollen and arthritic knuckles. He'll look at me and smile like a stranger and I can't tell him. Tears stung her eyes; she wiped at them savagely with the back of her hand, then drained the glass that sat before her. Glenlivet: it seared her throat all the way down.
The senator beamed at them. His grin was more than just the professional tool of a politician-Hartmann's face was natural and open, inviting confidence. "Excuse my rudeness in not coming right over," he said. "I'd like to say that I'm very glad that the two of you agreed to meet with me tonight. You're Tom Miller?" Gregg said, turning to the bearded visage of the dwarf, his hand extended.
"No, I'm Warren Beatty and this here's Cinderella," Miller replied sourly. His voice had the twang of the Midwest. "Show him your slipper, Sondra." The dwarf cocked his head belligerently at Hartmann, pointedly ignoring the hand.
Most people would have ignored the insult, Sondra knew. They would have drawn back their hand and pretended that it had never been offered. "I met Mr. Beatty last night at the Rolling Stone party," the senator said. He smiled, his hand the focus of attention around the table. "I even managed to shake his hand."
Hartmann waited. In the silence, Miller grumbled. At last the dwarf took Hartmann's fingers in his own ham-fisted grip. With the touch, Sondra seemed to see Hartmann's smile go cold for a moment, as if the contact had pained him slightly. He quickly let go of Miller's hand. Then his composure returned. "Good to meet you," Hartmann said. There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice, only a genuine warmth, a relief.