"I want the story on that test vote Monday night."

"Ancient history, Louis."

"The papers have been praising Danny Logan's masterful strategy, the way he put it together at the last minute. Even deVaughn didn't know what was happening-you shoulda seen his face when he realized. But I know Logan from way back, and it doesn't seem like his kinda move at all. I've talked to every delegate head I could find, and they all say their orders came from you, not Logan."

"Logan knew what I was doing." Jack tried to move left. Manxman moved to block.

"A source told me the old mick was passed out Monday night."

"He was celebrating." Moving right.

"Celebrating from breakfast on, from what I hear." Blocking.

Jack glared at him. "I'm a busy man, Louis. What the hell do you want, anyway?"

"Was it you or wasn't it?"

"I will not confirm or deny. Okay?"

"Why deny it? You're a Hollywood boy-you should relish the publicity. Don't be such a weenie."

Jack stopped for a moment and wondered if "weenie" was going to be the operative word for this convention.

The inevitable happened, and the man in the white tuxedo pounded out the opening bars of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." Jack felt his temper fraying.

"I'm late for lunch, Louis. I won't confirm or deny. That's for the record; that's my statement. Got that?"

The Santa Claus look was gone. "Forty years too late to take the Fifth, Jack."

Anger snarled in Jack. He fixed the reporter in a cold stare and stepped forward as if to walk right through him.

They were nearing the white piano on its pedestal. The man in the white tuxedo was still ringing through his paean to South American fascism. Anger began to roil in Jack in the wake of fear and humiliation. He said goodbye to Amy, then stepped up to the piano. The man in the white tuxedo gave him an automatic smile.

There was a big fishbowl on the piano with a green drift of tip money in the bottom. Jack reached for the rim of the glass, exerted just slightly, and cracked off a hand-sized piece. His golden force field fluttered slightly. The piano man stared. Jack pulverized the glass in his hand, then reached forward, opened the front pocket of the man's jacket, and poured the glass inside.

"Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" died away.

"Play that song again," Jack said, "and I'll kill you." Walking away, Jack felt he ought to be ashamed of this brand of cheap satisfaction.

Somehow he wasn't.

12:00 NooN

Troll was Chrysalis's only pallbearer. The massive security chief from the Jokertown clinic cradled the coffin in his arms as if it were a sleeping child, and led the procession into the churchyard. More prayers were said, and Father Squid blessed the grave with incense and holy water. Tachyon scooped up a handful of dirt, and dribbled it slowly onto the coin. It gave back a hollow, scrabbling sound like claws on glass, and Tachyon shuddered.

The sun looked bloated and somehow diseased as it floated in the pall of a smoggy New York summer day. Tach longed for the end. The dead had been buried. Now Atlanta was beckoning. But there was still the receiving line to be endured, and thirty minutes of human handshakes. Tach decided to spare himself some of the grossities. He pulled out a pair of red kid gloves, and worked them over his slim, white hands.

"Hello, Father," said a familiar voice to his left. "Good to see you again, Daniel."

Tachyon couldn't restrain himself. He flung himself into Brennan's arms, hugging the human with a fierce grip, and a show of naked emotion that he knew the man was only tolerating. With a sharply indrawn breath, Tach held Brennan at arm's length and eyed him critically.

"We must talk. Come."

They walked deeper into the graveyard until they were partly shielded by several intricate tombstones. Tachyon peered around a weeping angel at the woman who stared curiously after them.

"The beautiful blonde must be Jennifer."

"Yes," said Brennan.

"I'd say you're a lucky man, but that would seem less than apt when you're being framed for murder. Is that what brought you back?"

"Partly. Mostly I'm here to find who killed her."

"And bow are you progressing?"

"Not too well."

"Any theories?"

"I thought Kien might have done it."

Tachyon shook his head. "That makes no sense. We had a deal that took you out of the city and ended the war. Why would he risk restarting the whole killing cycle?"

"Who knows? I'm just going to keep poking until something jumps."

Dryly Tach said, "Just make sure it doesn't jump on you. I wish I could aid you, but I must return to Atlanta. You will keep in touch?"

"No. Once I finish this, Jennifer and I are leaving New York, and this time it will be for good."

"If you won't keep in touch, at least be careful."

"That I can agree to."

1:00 P.M.

Piedmont Park was packed. Spector shouldered his way through the crowd toward the podium. He felt like an idiot in the tight black-and-white outfit. His skin was suffocating under the greasepaint. He'd barely made it to the park on time. The costume shop had been wall-to-wall bodies, mostly jokers. Luckily, the gathering in the park had emptied the streets. He'd left his clothes and other belongings in a locker. The key was tucked under the wrist of his leotard.

He was still a good hundred yards from the podium. They'd done a mike test, but so far, no Hartmann. A shadow moved slowly over the crowd. Spector looked up, shading his eyes from the glare, and saw the Turtle gliding noiselessly over them toward the stage, which was being prepared for the senator's speech. There was applause and a small cheer. The crowd was mostly jokers, although there were a few groups of nats clustered at the edges.

"Look, Mommy, a funny man." A young joker girl pointed at Spector. She was sitting in a beat-up stroller, holding a flower. Her arms and legs were rail-thin and knobbed up and down. They looked like they'd been broken twenty times each.

Spector gave a weak smile, hoping the greasepaint around his lips made it seem bigger than it was.

The girl's mother smiled back. Patterns of blotchy red pigment crept across her skin. As Spector watched, one of the circles closed into a small dot and erupted blood. The woman wiped it away in a quick, embarrassed motion. She took the flower from her daughter's hand and held it out to Spector. Spector reached out and took it, being careful not to touch her flesh. Being a nat in a crowd of jokers, even dressed as a mime, gave him the creeps. He turned away.

"Do something funny," the little girl said. "Mommy, make him do something funny."

There was a murmur of approval from the crowd. Spector turned slowly and tried to think. Funny was something he'd never been accused of being. He tried balancing the flower on the tip of a finger. Amazingly, he was able to. There was dead silence. Sweat dripped over his painted brows and into his eyes. He was breathing hard. It was still very quiet.

A gloved hand flashed before Spector's face, snatching the flower. It placed the stem between painted lips and struck an affected pose. Laughter from the crowd. The other mime bowed low and raised up slowly.

Spector took a step back. The other mime quickly grabbed him by the elbow and shook his head. More giggles from the crowd. This was the last thing Spector needed. Not only was he the center of attention, but he was still a long way from where he needed to be. Hartmann might start up any second and Spector wouldn't be able to get through in time.

The other mime looked down, made a face, and pointed at Spector's feet. Spector glanced down instinctively and saw nothing there, just as the mime's hand came up under his chin and popped his head back. This got the biggest laugh of all. The mime clutched at his sides and laughed noiselessly. Spector rubbed his mouth; he'd bitten his tongue. He gritted his teeth under the painted-on smile.