Sondra understood how she had come to love this man. It's not you who loves him; it's only Succubus. She's the one Gregg knows. To him, you're just an old, shriveled woman whose politics are in question. He'll never know that Succubus is the same person, not if you want to keep him. All he'll ever see is the fantasy Succubus makes for him. That's what Miller said we have to do, and you'll obey him, won't you?
No matter how much it hurts you.
Now it was her turn to shake Gregg's hand. She felt her fingers trembling as they touched; Gregg noticed it as well, for a faint sympathy seemed to tug at the corners of his mouth. Still, there was only curiosity and interest in his gray-blue eyes; no recognition beyond that. Sondra's mood darkened again. He's wondering what horrible things afflict this old woman. He wonders what ugliness is sitting inside me, what horrors I might reveal if he knew me.
She reached for the glass of scotch.
Her mood continued to deepen throughout the meal. The pattern of conversation seemed set. Hartmann would introduce a topic, and Miller would respond with unjustified sarcasm and scorn, which in turn the senator smoothed over. Sondra listened to the interplay without joining in. The others around the table evidently felt the same tension, for the stage remained open for the two chief players, with the others inserting their lines as if on cue. The dinner, despite the hovering solicitude of Hiram, tasted like ashes in her mouth.
Sondra drank more, watching Gregg. When the mousse was set aside and the conversation turned serious, Sondra was quite well drunk. She had to shake her head to clear the fog. .".. need you to promise that there will be no public displays," Hartmann was saying.
"Shit," Miller replied. For a moment, Sondra thought that he might actually spit. The sallow, pitted cheeks under Gimli's ruddy beard swelled and his maniacal eyes narrowed.
Then he banged a fist on the table, rattling dishes. The bodyguards tensed in their seats, the others around the table jumped at the sound. "That's the same crap all you politicians hand out," the dwarf growled. "The JJS has heard it for years now. Be good and roll over like a good dog and we'll throw you a few table scraps. It's time we were let in on the feast, Hartmann. The jokers are tired of leftovers."
Hartmann's voice, in contrast to Miller's, was soft and reasonable. "That's something I agree with, Mr. Miller, Ms. Falin." Gregg nodded to Sondra, and she could only frown in return, feeling the drag of the wrinkles around her mouth. "That's exactly why I've proposed that the Democratic party add the jokers' Rights plank to our presidential platform. That's why I've been out trying to collar every last vote I can get for it." Gregg spread his hands wide. In another person his speech might have had a hollow sound, a falseness. But Gregg's words were full of the long, tired hours he'd spent at the convention, and that lent them truth. "That's why I'm asking you to try to keep your organization calm. Demonstrations, especially anything of a violent nature, are going to prejudice the middle-of-the-road delegates against you. I'm asking you to give me a chance, to give yourselves a chance. Abandon your plan to march to Jetboys Tomb. You don't have a permit; the police are already on edge from the crowds in the city, and they'll move in on you if you try. "
"Then, stop them," Sondra said. The scotch slurred her words, and she shook her head. "No one questions the fact that you care. So stop 'em."
Hartmann grimaced. "I can't. I've already advised the mayor against such actions, but he's adamant. March, and you invite confrontation. I can't condone your breaking the law"
"Roll over, doggie," Miller drawled, and then he howled loudly, throwing his head back. Around the dining room, patrons began to glance toward them. Tachyon peered at them with frank anger and Hiram's worried face emerged from the kitchen doors. One of the secret service men began to rise but Gregg waved him down. "Mr. Miller, please. I'm trying to talk realities with you. There's only so much money and help available, and if you persist in antagonizing those who control them, you'll only hurt yourselves. And I'm telling you that fucking `reality' is in the streets of Jokertown. C'mon down and rub your nose in the shit, Senator. Take a look at the poor creatures wandering the streets, the ones the virus wasn't kind enough to kill, the ones that drag themselves down the sidewalk on stumps, the blind ones, or the ones with two heads or four arms. The ones who drool as they talk, the ones who hide in darkness because the sun burns them, the ones for whom the slightest touch is agony." Miller's voice rose, the tone vibrant and deep. Around the table, jaws had dropped; the reporters scribbled notes. Sondra could feel it as well, the throbbing power in that voice, compelling. She'd seen Miller stand before a jeering crowd in Jokertown and in fifteen minutes have them listening quietly, nodding to his words. Even Gregg was leaning forward, caught.
Listen to him, but be careful. His voice is that of the snake, mesmerizing, and when he's snared you, he'll pounce. "That's your reality,'" Miller purred. "Your goddamn convention's just an act. And I tell you now, Senator"-his voice was suddenly a shout "the JJS will take our protests into the streets."
"Mr. Miller-" Gregg began.
"Gimli!" Miller shouted, and his voice went strident all wer gone, as if Miller had used up some inner store. "My fucking name's Gimli!" He was on his feet, standing on his E In another, the posture would have seemed ludicrous, but none of them could laugh at him. "I'm a fucking dwarf, not one of your 'misters'!"
Sondra tugged at Miller's arm; he shrugged her away. "Let me alone. I want them to see how much I hate them."
"Hate's useless," Gregg insisted. "None of us here hate you. If you knew the hours I've put in for the jokers, all the drudge work that Amy and John have gone through…" "You don't fucking live it!" Miller screamed it. Spittle flew from his mouth, dappling the front of Gregg's jacket. Everyone in the room stared now, and the bodyguards lurched from their seats. Only Gregg's hand held them back.
"Can't you see that we're your allies, not enemies?"
"No ally of mine would have a face like yours, Senator. You're too damn normal. You want to feel like one of the jokers? Then let me help you learn what it's like to be pitied." Before any of them could react, Miller crouched. His thick, powerful legs hurled him toward the senator. His fingers curled like claws as he reached for Gregg's face. Gregg recoiled, his hands coming up. Sondra's mouth was open in the beginning of a useless protest.
And the dwarf suddenly collapsed onto the table as if a gigantic hand had struck him out of the air. The table bowed and splintered under him, glasses and china cascading to the floor. Miller gave a high, pitiful squeal like a wounded animal as Hiram, a molten fury on his red face, half-ran across the dining room toward them, as the secret service men vainly tugged at Miller's arms to get him off the floor. "Damn, the little shit's heavy," one of them muttered.
"Out of my restaurant!" Hiram thundered. He bulled his way between the bodyguards and bent over the dwarf. He plucked up the man as if he were a feather-Gimli seemed to bob in the air, buoyant, his mouth working soundlessly, his face bleeding from several small scratches. "You are never to set foot in here again!" Hiram roared, a plump finger wagging before the dwarf's startled eyes. Hiram began to march toward the exit, towing the dwarf as if pulling a balloon and scolding him the entire time. "You insult my people, you behave abominably, you even threaten the senator, who's only trying to help…" Hiram's voice trailed off as the foyer doors swung shut behind him, as Hartmann brushed china shards from his suit and shook his head to the bodyguards. "Let him go. The man has a right to be upset-you'd be too if you had to live in Jokertown."