Knight Life (32 page)

I
T WAS LATE
at night in Central Park. Clouds obscured the moon, and there were no sounds other than a young woman pounding on the uncaring stones of Belvedere Castle.

    
The sides of her hands were abraded from the stone as she continued to smash her hands against the wall in supplication. “Arthur, please let me in,” sobbed Gwen. “You've got to let me explain!”

    
There was a tap on her shoulder and she whirled around. “Oh, Arthur, I—”

    
“No, my sweet,” said Morgan quietly. “It's not Arthur.”
When the moonlight hit her, she seemed to drain the brightness from it.

    
“
You! You ... bitch!”
She leaped at Morgan, fingernails bared like claws. Morgan caught her flailing wrists and tossed her roughly to the ground. She stood over Gwen and laughed harshly. “What a pathetic little fool you are.” She nodded toward the castle. “Arthur's not in there.”

    
“How do you—”

    
“I know a great deal about a great deal. Arthur's wandering the streets right now,” said Morgan easily. “Angry. Confused. Hurt. I could attack him now and probably defeat him utterly. But I think we'll let him stew. You, on the other hand, little queen,” she said, smiling menacingly, “you have served your purpose.”

    
In a pure, white-hot fury, Gwen hiked up the hem of her evening dress and swept out with her legs. She knocked Morgan's legs out from under her, sending the sorceress toppling to the ground. Within moments she was upon Morgan, tearing at her hair, her eyes, her face. Morgan shrieked in anger and indignation.

    
Gwen felt herself abruptly being hauled off of Morgan's writhing body. She flailed at the men who stood on either side of them.

    
“Whoa! Hey! C'mon, slugger,” said Buddy, struggling to hold on to the infuriated Gwen. “This is, whattaya call, undignified.”

    
Gwen stopped, looking from Buddy to Elvis and back again. “What are you guys doing here?” she demanded.

    
“We live here,” said Buddy simply. “Here in the park. That's how we first met the king. And now we see you and this nice lady who you were tryin' to kill. I tell ya, y'meet the best people around here.”

    
Morgan staggered to her feet. “You'll regret that,” she said, gingerly touching the scratches where Gwen had raked her face. “You'll regret that most dearly.”

    
“What are you going to do?” demanded Gwen. “Kill me? I feel dead already. You couldn't hurt me any more
than I've already hurt myself. Damn you! I should have gone straight to Arthur—”

    
“Yes. You should have,” said Morgan with a twisted smile. “Are you wondering where your precious Lance is? I still have him. And you know why? Because he doesn't want to leave. It seems he's developed a fondness for bondage. Isn't that interesting?”

    
Buddy raised an eyebrow. “Well, it's certainly got my interest.”

    
“You're lying,” snarled Gwen. “You lie about everything.”

    
“Not about this,” said Morgan. “I don't need to lie about this. It's too delicious to be otherwise. It was all for nothing, little queen. That's all it ever was. That's all it ever will be.”

    
Elvis took a step forward. There was a switchblade in his hand and a distracted tone in his voice. “You know, I don't like you.”

    
Morgan stared at him for a time, stared at the switchblade, and then she turned in an abrupt swirl of her long black cape. She strode off into the darkness and merged with the shadows.

    
Buddy shook his head. “She must be zero fun at parties.” He turned to Gwen and shook his shaggy head. “You look so sad.”

    
“She's telling the truth,” Gwen said slowly. “About Lance. I can feel it. I know it. And I ... I had it,” said Gwen. “I had it all. And I lost it. And I can try to blame Morgan, or Lance, or anybody I want.”

    
Elvis stepped forward. “You can blame me if you'd like.”

    
She smiled unevenly and patted his thick beard, then unconsciously wiped her hand on her dress as she said, “That's sweet. But what I'm trying to say is that there's really nobody to blame but myself. That's the part that's tough to take.”

    
Buddy nodded, not understanding in the least, but determined
to be helpful. “Gwen, if you'd like, you can stay with us tonight.”

    
“What, under a tree? Gee, that's nice, but”—she wiped her nose—“I don't think that would be, well, right.”

    
“Oh. You wanna, y'know, get married first?”

    
Gwen stared at him, and then she frowned. “She walked away. From the knife. And you. That's ... that's interesting.” She was speaking in a distant voice, as if she was in shock. Or as if there was something going through her mind. “Thank you,” she said to Elvis abruptly, and then she rose and walked away, leaving the two of them looking extremely puzzled. Then again, since that was the way they usually looked, had anyone else been there, no one would have been inclined to notice.

Y
E
O
EDE
S
OUND
B
ITE

“Caller, you're on with Marv in the morning.”

    
“Marv, hi, this is Tricia, first time caller from Long Island. And I just want to say that, with the primaries over, we should be happier than ever that someone like Arthur Penn's come along. I mean, the primaries were so predictable. Keating was predictable, Taylor was predictable. Democrats and GOPs with money behind them, and their attack ads and everything. And here's Arthur Penn, and he's not out there trying to beat up on other candidates. It's like he doesn't even notice them, y'know? He's just out there, laying everything on the line, and saving people and (bleep). Oh, jeez, I'm sorry, I can't say (bleep) on radio
—
aw, (bleep!)”

C
HAPTRE

THE
S
EVENTEENTH

B
ERNIE KEATING SHOULD
have been happy. He was, in fact, anything but.

    
It was past midnight as he huddled with his staff in a classic smoke-filled room. Bernie sat forward, rubbing his eyes, his vest open to allow for his considerable girth. Moe Dreskin sat to his immediate right. The various officials who ran his campaign were also there, in varying degrees of wakefulness.

    
Bernie looked around and slammed his open hand on the table, effectively rousing everyone. “What the hell are we going to do about this Arthur Penn character?” he demanded.

    
Effecting a gangland tone, his treasurer said, “You want we should have him whacked, boss? I'll go round up Rico and the boys and—”

    
“Shut up, Charlie,” said Bernie tiredly. “Now damnit, I'm serious. You know my philosophy about political opponents.” He paused expectantly.

    
Moe filled the void, reluctantly. “Stick it to 'em.”

    
“Stick it to 'em. That's right. Except what the hell are
we supposed to do about this Perm guy?” He got up and started to circle the room. Moving through the smoke as he was, he looked like a steamship penetrating the fog. “He's got no political record to speak of. For most people that would be a detriment, but he makes it work to his advantage. The voters see him as a fresh face in a jaded political arena, and it gives us absolutely zilch to work with. His business practices? Squeaky-clean. Hell, the man's never been investigated. All of his investments are sound and aboveboard. He's hardly been involved in running anything day-to-day, so although there's virtually no one to vouch for him, there's no one to say anything bad against him either. And if that's not enough for you,” said Bernie with genuine indignation, “the guy has to go and save kids from a flaming building. Kids! Isn't that just friggin' fabulous! With TV news crews there to tape him.” A sudden thought struck him. “Hey, maybe he started it. Stan, you're the press liaison. You have the contacts. Anyone checking out that possibility?”

    
Stan shook his head. “Police looked into it for weeks and still aren't sure what caused it. It seems like some sort of spontaneous combustion. Either way, certainly no sign of any incendiary device.”

    
Marcia, the head of clerical, put in, “That whole thing gets bigger with every retelling. The children were telling reporters that our Mr. Penn, before the fire started, was fighting a man with a sword, and the man supposedly turned into some sort of creature and then crumbled away once Penn defeated him.”

    
Bernie moaned. “Just what we need. Urban legends about this clown. So where does this leave us?”

    
Moe shook his head. “In a couple of days there's the televised debate. It's going to be you, Kent Taylor, and Penn. Now—”

    
Bernie hauled his carcass to his feet. “Penn's in the debate? Since when?”

    
“Since the local TV stations became interested in ratings,”
said Moe sourly. “Since Perm won that citation from the Fire Department for gallantry. Since
New York
magazine put him on their Most Eligible Bachelor Politician List. Since he did
‘Letterman
.' Penn was getting himself a following before, but that whole fire business made him really hot, so to speak. They decided that a debate would not really reflect the voters' interest in the candidates unless Penn was present. Frankly I can't blame them.”

    
“Well, that's just wonderful, Moe,” retorted Bernie. “Look, what it boils down to is this—I don't want to lose this race. I really don't. And the key to winning is, I suspect, bringing down Arthur Penn.”

    
“For what it's worth,” said Marcia, “I think Penn's worst enemy right now is himself.”

    
“Come again?”

    
“He was on a local morning show the other day. He was snappish, irritable. Short with the interviewer. It's as if his mind is a million miles away.”

    
“You know,” said Stan, “come to think of it, he's been like that ever since the whole fire thing. Maybe it shook him more than he lets on. He could hurt his image if he keeps it up. Because it's starting to look as if he can't stand pressure.”

    
“Yeah, well, it's looking that way to us, but not to the general public. Not yet at any rate. So we're going to have to bring it to their attention.” Bernie looked around the table. “We're going to have to start playing hardball, ladies and gentlemen. I hope that we have a clear understanding of this. Because if we don't win ...” his voice rose dramatically, and then he paused.

    
“Then we lose?” suggested Marcia helpfully.

    
Bernie covered his face and said quietly, “Meeting adjourned. Go home. Get some sleep. See you all tomorrow.” He glanced at his watch. “Sorry, make that later this morning. Hey, Moe,” he said far more half heartedly than he usually did. “Stay a minute. Rest of you, just remember one thing: We're going to kick Penn's ass.”

    
Moe sat down again opposite Bernie and waited until the room cleared. He looked worn out.

    
“Penn's going to kick my ass,” he said quietly.