wall it almost touched while he unlocked the door.
He was inside, and breathing hard. He carefully stripped off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, then walked into the bathroom. The mirrored wall told him what he had feared. He stared at it, and what stared back at him was a thin, nondescript man in his early thirties who looked as if he’d walked away from an airplane crash. The right side of his face was already beginning to blacken and swell, and a thin trickle of blood was beginning to snake down from his temple. He watched it saturate the sideburn and then quickly curve down the cheek to the chin. As he leaned closer to search the face, the drop reached the point of his chin and fell, making a bright blotch in the sink. He carefully washed his face, then ran the water in the bathtub.
He sat on the edge of the tub and stared at his knee while he waited. A scrape, a cut with a little dirt in it maybe. He flexed the leg, studying the pain as though he were finetuning it. No cracks or chips, he thought. Just a scratch is all. But the face—he wasn’t ready to think about that yet. He padded out into the other room and turned on the television. The news was just coming on. He caught sight of himself in the other mirror, sitting naked on the bed. A small, whitish animal with a few tufts of hair. And hurt, too. As he watched, the injured face in the mirror contracted a little, seemed to clench and compress itself into a mask of despair. A sigh like a strangled squeak escaped from its throat. He said aloud to the face, “You sorry little bastard.” And then the moment was gone. The people on the television screen seemed to be dancing around, celebrating something having to do with a little car parked behind them. He wished them all dead.
Then the newsman came on. He padded back into the bathroom to check the water. It was beginning to get deep enough now, so he turned the tap off and tested the temperature. Too hot: time enough to watch the news.
When he got back to the bed, Claremont and his aide were descending the ladder of the plane. It was pretty much what he’d pictured—a white-haired, stiff-necked old coot in a three-piece banker’s suit of the sort you could hardly buy in a store anymore, followed closely by a neat, short-haired, milk-complexioned young man who appeared to be the prototype of a new doll.
He studied their moves as they approached the terminal. The Senator looked old and frail and a little tired. Then there was a different scene, at a podium bristling with microphones. He was saying, “We’re going to fight it through this time to the end. We’ve got key people from both parties working very hard in Washington and in their home districts.”
Claremont looked old and vulnerable all right. Too old to run or fight, probably too old to even make much noise. He had that sharp-eyed hawkface look that old people got sometimes, and his temples were marbled with blue veins. The picture changed and the newsman was talking about something having to do with some dark, intense little men in olive-drab fatigues. He switched off the television, went into the bathroom, and slowly settled himself into the hot tub. He studied the knee again, watching the tiny pink cloud swirl away from the cut like liquid smoke. Then he settled back, relaxing every muscle in his body. In a minute he would submerge his head and try to clean those wounds too. That would hurt but it had to be done. No sense getting an infection.
He tried to think the situation through. He couldn’t travel with a face like that. People remembered things like black eyes and bruised faces. And in the morning they’d find the two bodies, and start looking for somebody who’d been in a fight. The first place they’d look would be in the hotels and motels around here, starting with the cheapest first. It would look like a gang fight, but not enough like one to keep them from checking out transients right away while they could still put their hands on them. He’d paid in cash for the room, three days in advance, like always. And then there was the charter flight for Las Vegas—paid in advance too. But that didn’t leave until Thursday night. Too soon for the face to get back to normal, and too long to wait while the police looked for a man who’d been in a fight. So it had to be tonight. There was no other way. He had to be somewhere else before they knew what they were looking for. And then his mind stopped dead. There was still the Senator. How could he do the Senator and get out of Denver in one night with a face like that? He thought again about the two men in the alley. If only they hadn’t picked him out, or picked that alley, or had thought of it another night. But there wasn’t much he could do about it now. He started again from the beginning. How can I travel with a face like this?
MCKINLEY CLAREMONT SIPPED the last of his bourbon and watched the film of the Arab gun crew expertly loading and firing at a distant hillside. He wondered if it was stock footage, or if they were really getting that organized. In ’67 he’d been to Egypt on a fact-finding tour and it hadn’t been like that. After a couple of rounds, the ammunition they had with them had turned out to be the wrong size, so the crew he was with just sat down and started eating and drinking. Two hours later a captain told him they were waiting for the supply lines to get untangled, or for further orders, whichever happened first. Meanwhile they sat in the sun behind their useless cannon, waiting.
Carlson interrupted his thoughts, “I’d say it came off very well, wouldn’t you, Senator?”
“All right, I guess,” said the Senator. “On television they don’t get the chance to spell your name wrong, anyway.”
“Big day tomorrow,” said Carlson tactfully.
“Right,” said the old man. He set down his glass and raised himself slowly from his chair. “Call me at eight and while we’re having breakfast we’ll try to figure out what’s got to be done. That is, if we’ve got time for breakfast?”
“Yes sir,” said Carlson. “First appointment isn’t until ten.”
“Fine, see you in the morning then.”
“Good night, Senator,” said Carlson, already halfway out the door. “My room is right next door if you need anything. Four oh eight.” The door shut.
Claremont shuffled over to the closet and brought out his pajamas. He tossed them on the bed and then took off his suit, carefully hanging it up so it wouldn’t get wrinkled. If he didn’t hate the idea of losing his privacy, he’d get a valet, he thought. Living out of a suitcase half of each year was bad enough. Then you had to decide whether to spend your time worrying about wrinkles or give up the few minutes of solitude you ever had.
He eased himself into the strange bed and tried out a couple of positions for comfort. Politics wasn’t so bad for the young fellows, he thought. Trouble was, by the time you knew anything and had enough seniority to make anybody listen to it, you were too old. He peered through the darkness at his teeth soaking in the glass on the nightstand. Those things were older than some of the men in the House of Representatives. He chuckled to himself. Still plenty of bite to them, though.
HE FELT THE WATER around him loosening the taut muscles and soaking some of the hurt out of him. He began to feel stronger. Now and then he would take a deep breath and lean back with his chin tucked into his chest to submerge his whole head. Then he would wait until his breath came back and do it again for as long as he could. Finally he sat up, took the soap between his hands, worked it into a lather, then rubbed soap over his head and face. It was as though dozens of hornets were stinging his scalp, his cheek, his temple. He gasped to fill his lungs again and ducked under. Slowly the pain went away.
He waited a few seconds, then climbed out of the tub and began toweling himself off, gingerly. When he came to his knee he dried around it. No telling what germs there were on a hotel towel, and no sense leaving blood stains. He looked in the mirror again. This time the face didn’t seem quite so bad, with the hair combed and no clot of blood on it. It was the cheek and the eye that’d give trouble, but with the right pair of sun glasses, maybe not so much, at least until tomorrow night.
He knew what he had to do now. There just wasn’t any other way. As he dried himself he walked out into the bedroom. He picked up his watch from the dresser and put it on. Eleven thirty-nine. It would be a long night, no matter what. If only this had happened when he was working on something normal. He could call them and ask them to send somebody else, or even farm it out himself to someone he knew—Eddie Mastrewski had done that with him a couple of times. That reminded him of something Eddie had said, and it brought back the nervous anxiety: “Never work when you’re hurt, kid. If you don’t feel good you won’t think straight, either. And if people can see it they’ll remember it. I don’t mean major surgery either. I wouldn’t work with a pimple.” Eddie was full of reasons not to work.
He put on clean clothes and carefully combed his wet hair. There was one consolation, he thought. If anybody saw him and he did get away, what they’d remember about him was the bumps and bruises, and they’d be gone in two weeks with any luck.
The whole thing would have to be changed now. He had planned to get a high-powered rifle with a scope, and get him through a window in his hotel. That was the way the crazies whose fantasies didn’t include getting their pictures in the newspapers all did it. There wasn’t time for that now, and he didn’t have a gun, and—no use
