Knight Life (33 page)

    
Moe leaned back and sighed. “Bernie, you're being too hard on yourself—”

    
“No, I'm being realistic. I'm going to suck in a televised debate.”

    
“Bernie,” laughed Moe, “don't be absurd! You're a lawyer, for Pete's sake.”

    
“Yeah, so was Nixon. Whatever else I may be, Moe, telegenic, I'm not. I'm telling you, under those studio lights, in that face-to-face situation, I'm gonna come across like the guy in grade school who always stole your milk money. And TV cameras love Penn's face. It'll be like JFK and Nixon. Nixon had more substance, but he looked like a criminal.”

    
“He was a criminal,” Moe reminded him.

    
“Yeah, but not until years after that.”

    
“You're going to win, Bernie,” Moe said with confidence. “If you hadn't asked me to stay, I would have hung back to talk with you anyway.”

    
There was something in Moe's voice that lent momentary wings to Bernard Keating's heart. “What is it?” His voice dropped to a confidential level. “You got something on Penn? Please, say you've got something on him.”

    
“Oh, I've got something on him, all right,” said Moe slowly. “But you're not going to like it.”

    
“How can I not like it?” He frowned. “Is he gay? Don't tell me he's gay. Not that I wouldn't use it,” he added quickly, “it's just that I find that whole thing so, I don't know ...
yuucchh
.”

    
“No. It's nothing like that.” Moe took a deep breath. “You're going to have to be prepared to do something a little unorthodox. At the debate this Friday I want you to ask Mr. Penn something—”

    
“But we're not supposed to be talking directly to each
other. Questions are being posed by moderators, and we're supposed to answer them.”

    
Moe laughed curtly. He leaned back in his chair and said, “You telling me you're reluctant to start breaking rules?”

    
“Only if it's going to net me something big.”

    
“It should.”

    
“Only should?”

    
“All right, will, then.” Moe took a deep breath and said, “I want you to ask Arthur Penn who he is.”

    
Bernie looked at him blankly. “What?”

    
Moe repeated it, and Bernie paused a moment, stroking his chin. “Moe, you know what the first rule is that a lawyer learns in the study of cross-examination? Never ask a question to which you do not already know the answer. So am I correct in assuming that the answer is going to be something other than the obvious?”

    
“Arthur Penn,” said Moe, “is not his real name. At least, so he believes.”

    
“What, he changed his name? I'm not following you, Moe.”

    
“Arthur Penn,” said Moe, “is short for Arthur Pen-dragon.”

    
“Pendragon?” He rolled it around in his mouth like marbles. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

    
“Medieval. Bernie, your opponent believes himself to be the original King Arthur.”

    
The portly man stared at Moe. “Moe, let's cut the crap, okay?”

    
“I'm not kidding, Bernie. The man believes that he is King Arthur, Lord of the Round Table, ruler of Camelot, King of all the Britons.”

    
Bernie heaved himself to his feet, knocking his chair back. “Moe, this is just too ridiculous! You're telling me that my main obstacle to being mayor of this city is bug-fuck crazy?”

    
“I'm saying that the man thinks he's the original Arthur, son of Uther, Lord of—”

    
Bernie put up a beefy hand. “Please, spare me the family tree, okay? You got any proof of this?”

    
‘I've got one Lance Benson. He's ready to swear that Arthur attacked him with a sword while ‘rescuing' Benson's girlfriend from the supposedly vile clutches of Benson himself.”

    
Keating's mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?” he whispered. “I want to meet this Benson guy.”

    
“He's tied up at the moment,” said Moe dryly. “But I'm sure he'd be happy to come forward when you need him.”

    
Bernie was silent for a long moment, trying to assimilate this new information. “He really, honest to God thinks he's King Arthur?”

    
“That's right.”

    
“This is too much. But wait—” He turned on Moe. “How do I know that, if I ask him point blank, he won't just lie about it?”

    
“Not Arthur,” said Moe with absolute certainty. “He prides himself on telling the truth. It would be totally against his dementia to lie about who he thinks he is.”

    
“Too much. Just too much.” He stabbed a finger at Moe. “You're asking for one hell of a leap of faith here, Moe. If I come out looking like an idiot on this ...”

    
“You can't possibly. You ask him point blank what his real name is. Even if he maintains that it's Arthur Penn—which he won't—then you just cover yourself by saying that you'd heard he'd changed it and you just wanted to make sure the record was straight. At worst it'll get you a raised eyebrow or two that will be quickly forgotten. At best,” and he smiled unpleasantly, “it will get you the election in your hip pocket.”

    
They talked for an hour more, Keating waffling over it. By the time Moe left he was only about seventy percent convinced that Keating would go along with it. Moe
stood on the curbside, lighting up a cigarette and taking a deep drag. He glanced up at the moon and pulled his coat tightly around him against the stiff breeze. You could tell that winter was on its way.

    
He started walking, scanning the streets for a passing cab, when he suddenly felt an arm around his throat in a chokehold. Moe tried to scream for help, but his wind had been effectively and precisely cut off. His assailant dragged him into a nearby alleyway, pulling Moe as if he weighed nothing. Moe clawed at the arm around him, pounded on it in futility. Once in the alley Moe was swung around and hurled against a wall. He slammed into it with bone-jarring impact, and with a moan sank to the ground. Distantly he heard the
shikt
of a bladed weapon being drawn from its sheath, and he tried to draw air into his lungs to shout for help.

    
The tip of a glowing sword hovered at his chest before he could make a sound.

    
“I wouldn't, Modred,” said Arthur quietly.

    
“You ...” He swallowed. “You wouldn't kill an unarmed man.”

    
“Perhaps,” said Arthur. “Perhaps not. Are you willing to bet your life on it?”

    
Arthur prodded Moe gently in the ribs with Excalibur. Moe shook his head frantically.

    
“Now then ... where is she?”

    
“Who?”

    
“Your mother, you traitorous little worm,” Arthur snapped at him. “All of this, all the ill that has befallen me, has her stamp on it.”

    
Moe rallied and said angrily, “You got an attitude problem, you know that? I mean, is this the way you treat the son you've seen twice in a thousand years?”

    
“A thousand years ago, you tried to kill me.”

    
Modred shrugged. “So I'm not the Son of the Year. It's not my fault that I come from a broken home, is it?”

    
“You'll have a broken back to go with the broken
home. Where is she? Because wherever she is, it's certain that's where Merlin is. So all you have to do is tell me where I can find them, and I'll be on my way. And you'll have your skin intact, which I know in the end is what matters to you most.”

    
“I don't know,” Modred said bluntly. “That's the God's honest truth. Whenever she brought me there, she'd magically transport me. She didn't want me to know where she was, because she figured I would tell you. And that's all, and if you want to kill me, go ahead.”

    
Arthur shook his head. “Ah, Morgan. Always the judge of character.”

    
“She always knew you, Arthur, better than you know yourself,” Modred sneered, feeling a degree of confidence that Arthur wouldn't really gut him in cold blood. “My mother is a very imaginative woman, and all you have is a really big sword ... which, so I understand, some knights used to wield in order to make up for other less impressive attributes. Is that right?”

    
Never shifting his gaze from Modred, Arthur said coldly, “If she's really so imaginative ... do tell her to imagine what I will do to her with my really big sword when I catch up with her. When next we meet, Modred ... no mercy.”

    
“Yeah. Swell,” Modred said, looking at the unwavering sword point. “And hey, let's do this again real soon.”

    
Arthur stepped back and loudly sheathed Excalibur. The sword and scabbard vanished from Arthur's hip, and he stood there nattily attired in a gray Brooks Brothers suit and overcoat. He backed out of the alley, a sardonic look on his face, and Moe realized that Arthur wasn't turning his back on him for a moment. He took a degree of satisfaction from that.

C
HAPTRE

THE
E
IGHTEENTH

A
RTHUR KNEW THE
day was getting off to a lousy start because, the moment he walked into his campaign headquarters, Ronnie Cordoba was all over him. “Arthur, where the hell have you been? We had a strategy meeting at—”

    
“In a moment,” Arthur said, forcing a smile. “Percival, a minute of your time.”

    
He and Percival immediately stepped into a private room, while an annoyed Cordoba watched them go. As soon as they were alone, Arthur said, “Have you found him?” just as he had every day for the past month and a half.

    
“No, Mr. Penn,” Percival said formally, “I have not as yet—”

    
“Damnit, Percival! You found the Grail in a fraction of the time, and that was a cup! Merlin, even Merlin as a child, is bigger than a damned cup!” Percival, his face neutral, did not reply. Arthur sighed. “The rest of the staff still believes that Merlin simply has elected to go off to a private boarding school?”

    
“Those who don't know him for who and what he is, such as Cordoba, yes. Miss Basil is most angry, however. She serves Merlin, not you or me. If he does not return soon, it is difficult to say if she will remain in service.”

    
“We'll deal with it when and if the problem presents itself.”

    
“And Gwen called.”

    
That stopped Arthur in his tracks. His face darkened. “I haven't heard from her since the night of the fire. What does she want?”

    
“She ... simply said she wished to hear your voice.”

    
“I see.”

    
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, and then Percival said, “Highness, it is none of my business, but Morganna is practically kin to Satan, a true princess of lies. If she was able to trick Gwen, certainly Gwen should not be faulted for—”

    
“You're right,” Arthur informed him. “It's none of your business.” And with that he walked out of the room and straight to Ronnie Cordoba, who was pointedly checking his wristwatch. “I want to discuss the debate this Friday,” Arthur said bluntly. “It's important that I have all the facts at my fingertips. I'm quite concerned about the entire affair, and the more prepared I am, the better I'll feel.”

    
He stalked through the headquarters toward his office in the back. Workers greeted him and were surprised when he did not do much more than grunt, if that. Percival shook his head. “It's nerves. That's the problem.”

    
“Well, it wasn't a problem when Merlin was here,” said Ronnie. “I never understood the relation between those two. You sure there was nothing ... ?”