'Frankfurters! Git your frankfurters! Twenty-five cents! Frankfurters!' The colored vendor roamed up and down the aisles, hawking the sausages. Clarence Potter handed the man-whose graying hair said they were about of an age-a quarter. He got back a frankfurter on a bun wrapped in waxed paper. As Potter unwrapped it and began to eat, the Negro hurried up the aisle once more. 'Frankfurters! Git your frankfurters!'
The medalists got up onto the victory stand. A pretty girl put the medals- gold, silver, bronze-around their necks. They all grinned and shook hands with one another. A band blared out what Potter presumed to be the Swedish national anthem, though he didn't recognize it. Up went the Swedish flag, yellow cross on blue. The Stars and Bars and the Stars and Stripes rose on flagpoles to its right and left.
When the anthem ended, the three young men descended from the platform. They were still chattering excitedly. Peter Dawson and the swimmer from the USA might have been friends. Maybe they were. Potter wondered how often they'd raced against each other, how well they knew each other.
'Frankfurters! Twenty-five cents! Git your frankfurters!' Here came the vendor again, distracting Potter-and everyone around him-from the joy of the moment. Back in the Roman days, vendors at the Colosseum selling dormice in honey had probably made people miss the best moments of lions devouring Christians.
The Negro paused by Potter, taking another frankfurter from the enameled metal box he wore at his waist. A sweat-stained canvas strap that went around his neck supported the box, leaving his hands free. He handed the sausage to a woman across the aisle, got back a dollar banknote, and gave her three quarters in change.
'Frankfurters! Git your frankfurters here!' The vendor stopped again, two or three steps farther down. For a moment, that meant nothing to Clarence Potter. Then he realized no one there had called or waved for a frankfurter. The Negro reached into the box just the same. What he pulled out this time wasn't a bun wrapped in waxed paper. It was a submachine gun with the stock sawed off short to make it easier to hide. With a wordless shout of fury and hate, he aimed it in Jake Featherston's direction and started shooting.
Guards toppled, wounded or dead. People screamed. The president of the CSA went down, too. Did he dive for cover, or was he hit? Potter didn't know. He did know the surviving guards were going to fill the Negro full of lead… and probably everyone around the fellow, including himself. With hardly any conscious thought, his own pistol sprang into his hand. He shot the Negro in the back of the head.
The colored man crumpled as if all his bones had turned to mush. He was surely dead before he hit the stairs. By sheer luck, the submachine gun didn't spray any more bullets when it clattered off the concrete. You poor damned fool, Potter thought. If you'd only waited a little longer, I would have tried to do it for you. Now-sweet Jesus, maybe I've gone and saved Jake Featherston's worthless life.
'Drop it!' Four Freedom Party guards screamed the words at the same time. They pointed Tredegars and submachine guns of their own at Potter. Very slowly and carefully, he laid down the pistol.
'Don't shoot him!' somebody close by called. 'He just killed that goddamn nigger-and where the hell were you?'
'That's right!' someone else said, voice cracking with excitement. 'He's a hero! He just saved President Featherston!'
Those rifle barrels didn't waver, but the guards held their fire. Maybe I didn't save him, Potter thought hopefully. Maybe he got one right between the eyes. Maybe…
But no. Jake Featherston stuck his head up. He had a pistol in his hand. He wouldn't have been easy meat for anyone. With a little luck, he won't recognize me, Potter thought. He hasn't seen me for years, after all.
Featherston's eyes widened. He recognized Potter, all right. Then one of his guards-who didn't-said, 'This guy killed the nigger who was shootin' at you, sir.' Other people called Potter a hero, too. Hero, here, was the last thing he wanted to be. But he was stuck with it-and so was Jake Featherston.
Back in the Gray House, Jake Featherston gulped down a whiskey and set the glass on the presidential desk. Across the desk from him, Clarence Potter, annoyingly calm, sipped from a drink of his own. Jake said, 'So you were sitting right there close to me, and you just happened to have a pistol in a shoulder holster.'
'I didn't just happen to have it.' Potter sounded annoyingly calm, too. 'I'm an investigator. Some of the things I investigate are pretty unsavory. I always have a pistol where I can grab it in a hurry.'
'And you never once thought of plugging me?' Featherston said.
'Of course not,' Potter answered. His face said, If I did, do you think I'm dumb enough to admit it?
A silent aide set a piece of paper on Featherston's desk. His gaze flicked down it. When he was done, he eyed Potter again. 'You've been a busy boy down in Charleston, haven't you? It's a wonder you're still running around loose.'
'You come right out and admit that?' Potter said.
'Admit what?' Jake's smile was all teeth and no mirth. 'You say I said it-you say I said it and you get anybody to print what you say-and I'll call you a liar to your face. How are you going to prove anything different?'
Potter took another sip from his drink. 'A point.' He wasn't just a cool customer. He was a cold fish.
'So what the hell am I going to do with you?' Jake wondered aloud. 'You hate my guts, but you shot that nigger before any of my guards could.'
He'd had bullets whistle past his ear before. The frankfurter seller who'd tried to do him in couldn't shoot worth a damn. The first couple of rounds had been near misses, but then the submachine gun had pulled up and to the right, as such weapons did all too often. Ten or twelve people were hurt, some of them badly, but not Jake. And, by failing, the Negro had handed the Freedom Party a whole new club with which to beat his race.
That could wait-for a little while, anyhow. 'What am I going to do with you?' Featherston repeated.
With a shrug, Clarence Potter said, 'Give me a medal and send me home.'
Featherston shook his head. 'Nope. You'd be back. And who knows? You might not miss. If I send you home, you'd have to have an accident pretty damn quick.'
'You don't care what you say, do you?' Potter remarked. 'You never did.'
'I already told you, you're not going to make a liar out of me,' Jake said. 'Tell you what I'll do, though, since I owe you for this, and since you were damn near the only officer I knew during the war who had any sense at all.' He leaned forward. 'How'd you like to go back in the Army… Colonel Potter?'
In spite of Potter's calm faзade, his eyes widened. 'You mean that,' he said slowly.
'Damn right I do. I can get some use out of you, and so can the country. About time we had some intelligence in Intelligence, goddammit. And I can keep an eye on you that way, too. What do you say?'
'If I tell you no, I wind up dead,' Potter answered. 'What do you think I'm going to say?'
You can end up just as dead in a butternut uniform as you can in slacks and a jacket, Jake thought. But he wasn't sorry Potter had said yes. The other man was a prim son of a bitch, but he had brains and he had nerve. He'd proved that during the war, in the swimming stadium, and-Jake's eyes again traveled down the list of some of the things Potter had done in Charleston-in between times, too, even if he'd been on the wrong side then. He could do the CSA a lot of good if he wanted to.
'All right, Colonel,' Featherston said. 'We'll go from there, then.' He stuck out his hand. Potter didn't hesitate more than a heartbeat before shaking it.
Watching Potter walk out the door with a flunky reminded Jake of something else, a piece of business he wondered why he'd left unfinished. He picked up the telephone and spoke into the mouthpiece. He'd taken too many orders in his time. He liked giving them a lot better.
He had to wait a while before this order was carried out. Normally, he didn't like waiting. Here, though, he composed himself in patience and went through some of the endless paperwork on his desk. If I'd known how much paperwork went with the job, I might've let Willy Knight he president of the Confederate States. But he shook his head. That might be funny, but it wasn't true. The paperwork didn't just go with the job; in large measure, the paperwork was the job.
His secretary poked her head into the office. 'General Stuart is here to see you, Mr. President.'
'Thanks, Lulu.' Jake's smile was large and predatory. 'You send him right on in.'
In marched Jeb Stuart Jr., his back as stiff as an old man could make it. He was a year or two past seventy, his chin beard and hair white, his uniform hanging slightly loose on a frame that had begun to shrink. He looked at Featherston with gray-blue eyes full of hate. His salute might have come from a rickety machine. 'Mr. President,' he said tonelessly.
'Hello, General,' Featherston said, that fierce grin still on his face. 'We meet again.' He waved to a chair. 'Sit down.'
