Wild Cards [06] Ace in the Hole by George R.R. Martin Page A

telepathically is not admissible evidence. Also, given the current climate in this country, what would they do if they discovered I had been using alien mind powers on potential presidential candidates?"
    "Hang your skinny alien ass out to dry."
    "Precisely." Tach shrugged. "Well, never mind. I just thought I'd mention it ... get your opinion ..." His voice trailed away into silence.
    "Forget it, Tachy." Jack gave him a shake. "Okay?"
    "Okay. "
    "Now I'm going to get that drink."
    "Don't be too long," Tach yelled after him. "Oh, go to hell."
    "American whiskey. Straight up. A double. Two doubles."
    "Hard day, sir?"
    "Hard liquor for a hard day," Jack said. He lowered his briefcase to the ground and noticed for the first time-what was wrong with him anyway?-that the petite blonde waitress here in the atrium lounge was really quite attractive. He gave her the Hollywood smile that he'd practiced in countless mirrors throughout the late forties. "They've probably got you working overtime, too," he said. "Call me Jack, by the way."
    "Overtime sucks, Jack," she said, and waggled away with a swing to her hips that hadn't been in evidence for any of her other customers. Jack began to feel slightly better.
    After the Secret Service had testified to his bona fides and let him go, Jack spent most of the morning telling his delegates thev were about to have their votes taken away if they didn't look out. Then Tachyon had harassed him for not doing his job, handed him the jive about a secret ace; and the campaign parliamentarian Logan, who was supposed to meet him here in the Marriott lounge, was already late.
    The cheerful waggle of a waitress's butt, he thought, is enough to give a man heart for the struggle. Flying Ace gliders swooped overhead in dancing accompaniment to his thoughts.
    The waitress brought his drinks. He chatted with herher name was Jolynn-and tossed down the first drink. Logan still hadn't showed. Jolynn had to leave to see to another customer, and Jack tipped her ten dollars, reflecting that all in all he enjoyed being rich, even at the cost of having to pretend intelligent conversation with a chimpanzee on TV for four years. He watched as a young man in a white dinner jacket crossed the atrium lounge to the white piano, then sat down and banged out the opening chords to "Piano Man." Jack felt his head try to retreat, like that of a turtle, between his shoulders.
    Moss Hart, Jack thought desperately. Kurt Weill. George and Ira Gershwin. Richard Rodgers-Jack could still remember the opening night of South Pacific.
    Maybe he could just tip the guy a hundred bucks and tell him not to play anything.
    "Honky Tonk Women" was next, followed by "New York, New York." Where, Jack thought, was Morrie Ryskind when you needed him?
    Logan still hadn't showed up. Jack sipped his second drink and stared fixedly at Jolynn's heart-shaped ass as it perambulated about the other end of the lounge.
    Then another female form drew his attention. Sluts on the right, he thought, an expression he'd acquired decades ago in Camp Shenango.
    The woman was walking right for him.
    Then he saw she was wearing a Barnett button. A slut for the Lord, he concluded.
    Then he recognized her. She was Leo Barnett's campaign manager-that was bad enough-but there was an old score between them that made everything far worse.
    Oh, god.
    The piano struck up the opening bars of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." Another whole set of memories invaded him, including being spat on the year before in Buenos Aires by a female Peronista.
    Jack rose, his heart sinking like a lead plummet, and prepared his face for more spittle.
    "Jack Braun? You have no idea how long I've looked forward to meeting you again."
    IT just bet, Jack thought.
    The voice, he realized, was different. Blythe had had a New York patroon accent of the kind that didn't exist anymore, that had died with Franklin and Eleanor. And Blythe would have worn red lipstick like all the women did in the forties, a