Knight Life (26 page)

    
Gwen looked at them. “Oh. How ... nice,” she said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

    
“Yeah! We got a brand new refrigerator box.”

    
She smiled, trying to look genuinely thankful. “I appreciate your concern, but I have a friend I can stay with out in Queens until I find a place of my own.” She shook her head in wonderment. “You know, I've never had that. When I went into college I went from living with my parents to living in a dorm. And from there I went to living with Lance.”

    
“Lance?” Percival looked up.

    
Arthur shook his head. “No relation.”

    
“So I'll finally be out on my own. It's scary.” She looked thoughtful. “Poor Lance.”

    
“Why poor Lance?” asked Percival. Arthur leaned forward, curious to hear her response.

    
“Why, because the more I've thought about it, the more I've come to realize that he needed me a hell of a lot more than I needed him. He was just determined that I not know that. I think my being on my own is going to be a lot harder on Lance than it will be on me.”

    
Arthur's mouth twitched. “My heart bleeds for him.”

L
ANCE LEANED AGAINST
the wall of the building to keep himself from toppling over. He felt the solid brick waver under his fingertips for a moment before righting itself, then he breathed a sigh of relief that it had sorted itself out before falling.

    
It was a starless night. The full moon was blood red—it would have tinted the clouds, had there been any clouds.
There were only a few cars heading uptown on Eighth Avenue this late at night. Most people drove through that area with their car doors locked tight. Drivers would glance disdainfully at the human refuse that lined the streets. Lance was one of those receiving the disdainful glances.

    
He sank slowly to the ground and smiled, incredibly happy. Lance had certain images of himself that he felt constrained to live up to. Once that image had been of Suffering Writer. To that end he'd spent long hours churning out reams of garbage, comprehensible only to himself (oh, Gwen had pretended to like them, but he knew better). He had starved himself, refused to go out in the daylight if he could help it. When he did feel the need for sexual release, he'd found hookers with hearts of gold to whom he could vent his creative spleen, not to mention his pent-up urges. For naturally, as with any good tortured writer, he had a woman who did not understand him and wanted him to get a regular nine-to-five job. At least, that was the way he saw it, and how he saw it was really all that mattered.

    
When Gwen had walked out, it had permitted him to shift over to a new persona—Utterly Dejected Writer at the End of his Rope. He looked at his distorted reflection in a puddle of water and was overjoyed at what he saw. He was strung out. Dead-ended. Down and out. Ruined by the complete collapse of his one true love's confidence in him, he had now attained that point where he could die alone, unloved and misunderstood in a gutter in New York. Then some students or some such, cleaning out his papers, would discover the heretofore undiscovered brilliance of Lance Benson and make it public. He'd be published by some university press somewhere and become a runaway hit. He smirked. And he'd be dead. They'd want more of his brilliance, and he'd be dead as a doornail. That would sure show them!

    
The clack-clack of the heels had been sounding along
the street for some time, but Lance had taken no notice of them. Now, though, he could not help it. The heels had stopped right in front of him—stiletto heels supporting thigh-high black leather boots, which were laced up the front.

    
Slowly Lance looked up. The woman before him was dressed entirely in black leather. Her clothes looked as if they'd been spray painted on. The only part of her body that was not covered were the fingers, projecting through five holes cut in each glove. She wore a black beret on her head, which blended perfectly with her black hair. Her lipstick and mascara were black as well, floating against the alabaster of her skin.

    
“Hi,” she said. Her voice was low and sultry. “Nice night.”

    
“If you like the night,” he said indifferently, and looked down.

    
“Oh, yes. Yes indeed, I love the night.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What's your name?”

    
“Lance.”

    
“Lance.” She rolled the name around on her tongue, making it sound like a three-syllable name. “Lance, you look very lonely. Would you like to have a good time?”

    
He laughed hoarsely. “Yeah, sure. But my idea of a good time and your idea of a good time probably don't jibe.”

    
“Oh, really?”

    
“Yeah, really.” He felt even colder, as if the temperature around him had just dropped by a few degrees with no warning and no reason. “My idea of a good time is sitting here and watching my life pass before my eyes as I prepare to die.”

    
“You're right,” said the woman. “You're very right.” She shook her head. “That's not my idea of a good time at all. Tell you what—why don't I show you my idea of a good time? If that doesn't do it for you, then we'll bring you back here and you can continue your little headlong
drive to self-destruction. How does that strike you?”

    
Lance shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy. I don't much care.” He got to his feet, and the woman took his hand. He hobbled at first, since his right leg had fallen asleep. “So where are we going?”

    
“My place,” she said. She wrapped her fingers in between his, and he shuddered. Her hand was cold, and he told her so. She nodded her head slightly in acknowledgment. “Yes, I know. But don't worry,” she said, licking her lips slowly, “I can warm up quite nicely.”

    
Abruptly Lance dug into his pocket. “I don't have any money, really,” he said.

    
That prompted a laugh. “You charming boy! You think I'm a prostitute! How sweet!”

    
“You're ... you're not?”

    
“No, I'm not.”

    
“Then, why are you interested in me?”

    
“Because, Lance my love ... I think you have potential. Enormous potential.”

    
“Really?”

    
“Yes, really. And I'm going to help you fulfill it.”

    
His spirit brightened for the first time since Gwen had left him. “That's ... that's incredible. I mean, really incredible of you. What's your name?”

    
“Morgan.”

    
He nodded. “Morgan? Isn't that a man's name?”

    
She smiled. “Only if you're a man. But I happen to be a woman, my dear Lance. More woman, I would suspect, than you would ever believe you could possibly handle.”

    
“Oh,” said Lance uncertainly, and then he smiled with grim determination. “Well, I guess I'll just have to do my best.”

    
“Oh, yes, Lance,” said Morgan. “I know you will, I just know it. As will I. Although my best, as it so happens, is also my worst.”

Y
E
O
EDE
S
OUND
B
ITE

“Hello. I'm Arthur Penn. I want to be the next mayor of New York City. Vote for me. Thank you.”

“P
AID FOR BY THE
A
RTHUR
P
ENN FOR
M
AYOR
C
OMMITTEE
.”

C
HAPTRE

T
HE
F
OURTEENTH

“
I
T WAS JUST
on!”

    
“Damn! I blinked and missed it again!”

    
Percival, hunched over his ledgers in the offices of Arthur Penn, the check book and bank balances spread out nearby, shook his head in grim amusement. The television set was on in the background. Campaign workers sat around stuffing envelopes and sealing them, or canvassing telephone books and comparing names to lists provided by the League of Women Voters, to see if they could encourage those not already registered to do so.

    
On the portable color Sony, Arthur's commercial had just aired. It had been shot in an empty studio, the only prop on the set being a stool. Arthur was leaning against it, gazing out at the viewer with that easy familiarity of his.

    
“Hello,” he said pleasantly. “I'm Arthur Penn. I want to be the next mayor of New York City. Vote for me. Thank you.”

    
The screen then went to black, and Gwen's voice,
sounding very sultry, said “Paid for by the Arthur Penn for Mayor Committee.”

    
Percival, laughing softly, returned to his work. He remembered when Arthur had first presented the script for the commercial to all and sundry. There had been a long moment of skeptical silence, but Arthur had remained firm, despite the swell of subsequent protest and disbelief. As the primaries approached, Arthur had studied the commercials of other candidates very carefully. His decision was to try and find a different angle. Once he had eliminated the Meet-the-People Approach, the Photographed - in - Front - of- a - Recognizable - Monument approach, the Meet-My-Family-Aren't-We-Wholesome approach, the Hard-Hitting-Tough-Talker approach, and the My-Opponent-Is-a-Cheating-Son-of-a-Bitch approach, that had left him with exactly one option.

    
“But h—Arthur,” Percival said, still working hard to break himself of the habit of calling his liege “highness” no matter how instinctively right it seemed. “All that's going to happen is that people will see your commercial and wonder, ‘Yeah, but why should I vote for him?'”

    
“Precisely!” Arthur had said delightedly. “The beauty of this commercial is that it's only ten seconds long. So we can afford—what is it called, Gwen?”

    
“Saturation,” she said.

    
“Yes, exactly.”

    
“But Arthur,” Gwen cut in, “when I mentioned that as an option, it was just that, an option. I didn't mean you should base the whole of your TV campaign around ...”

    
“Whatever you meant or didn't mean, Gwen, I've decided it's the best way to go. This way, we'll get people curious. People like to be tested, to be challenged. Every politician sounds like every other politician. As far as I'm concerned, people are no different now than they were centuries ago. Before you can accomplish anything, you have to get their attention. And frequently the best way to get their attention is to hit them on the nose with a
rolled-up newspaper.” He grinned. “My entire campaign is directed toward hitting them with that newspaper. To a large extent what I say is irrelevant, as long as it's making people—” he tapped his temple with his forefinger, “—think! No one thinks anymore. Well, my friends, this campaign is not going to lay things out in nice easy packages.”

    
That's for sure
, Percival thought. He shook his head. This whole campaign was hardly an easy package. As the treasurer of the Arthur Penn for Mayor Committee, he had his work cut out for him.

    
Merlin had certainly done his groundwork, paving the way for Arthur's return. That much was certain. The creation of an entire fictional history of Arthur being silent partner in a number of extremely successful businesses, as well as selling the public on the notion that he was an independent thinker (and therefore, likely, a canny investor) had given credence to Arthur's personal fortune. The actual origin of the fortune was unknown to Percival, although he had a suspicion that if someone happened to stumble over the pot at the end of the rainbow, they might now find it empty. Merlin had a knack for making things happen. That same fictional history had supported Arthur's bid for the mayoralty. Coming from outside of politics, he could claim no prior party obligations. Coming (ostensibly) from a background in business, he could claim that he had a businessman's sense of running things, and that was what New York City needed. Someone who knew how to eliminate waste, to maximize profits. In short, to run New York City like the profit-making center it should and could be.