Percy was silent.
Merlin told him, 'I need someone with your skills, Percy. You were among the best. I know what you were, Percy. Before the Grail.'
Percy looked up at him.
'Come,' said Merlin. 'We'll talk.'
'Okay.'
They left the park together.
'Are you Democrat or GOP?' came the whining voice again.
Arthur felt terribly exposed and vulnerable, up high on the statue in Duffy Square. 'I'm an independent,' he called. 'I subscribe to no party line save for the dictates of my conscience.'
There were shouts of 'Whoa!' and the like from the crowd, and Arthur was unsure of the spirit in which they were made. He waved tentatively.
'How do you stand on the issues?'
Arthur visored his eyes. 'Would you mind stepping forward, please, so I can see who I am addressing?'
The crowd parted slightly, and Arthur finally spotted him.
Their gazes locked. They analyzed each other, scrutinized carefully. Arthur wasn't quite sure what to make of him. He was about Arthur's height, but slimmer. His black hair was receding and came to a widow's peak on his forehead, giving him a satanic look. To further the image he wore a Vandyke beard that came to a neat point. His eyes were foxlike. And he immediately said, 'How do you feel about capital punishment?'
Arthur recalled that this was a topic of some controversy. In the newspaper headlines that very day there had been news of the legislature once again waffling on how best to approach the touchy subject. On the one hand there was that part of the electorate who felt that they did not want people capable of taking a life without compunction walking the streets. The alarming number of murders by those who had been tried and convicted earlier and were now free was setting a great many people on edge.
But another sizable group felt that the state had no right to take a life, and that it made those who condoned capital punishment no better than the criminals they were condemning. Just put them away in jail for life. But jails were overcrowded and life was really only twenty-five years....
Arthur realized they were waiting for an answer, and only one seemed practical, and civilized, to him.
* There was a time,' he said, 'not so long ago at that, when merely insulting the aggrieved party was enough to warrant death on the field of honor. Certainly that is a bit extreme nowadays.' He was pleased at the laughter this prompted. 'I do favor allowing the death penalty in instances of murder.' This got applause from some, frowns from others. That was expected. This, however, they would not be expecting. 'However, I do not feel that it should be up to the state to decree whether a man live or die.'
The crowd looked puzzled, and someone-a girl with an NYU sweatshirt-called, 'Well, then, who?'
'The injured party,' he said.
There was silence of disbelief.
'You mean the victim?' asked the girl.
Arthur laughed loudly, and several others, uncertain, joined in. 'Hardly,' he said. 'The problem with the criminal justice system is that it ignores the wants and desires of the people, leaving the matter to lawyers and their tricks of the trade, and the judges.'
There were a number of nods of approval, and murmurs that did not sound the least bit hostile. The bearded man who had posed the question watched carefully with his ferretlike eyes as Arthur warmed to his topic. 'Now I'm not advocating a return to trial by combat, because then the aggrieved party doesn't win-rather, the party with the biggest sword. The justice system is the sword arm of the injured. But when it comes to actually deciding upon death, it should be the survivors of the victim who actually make the determination, not a judge whose life had not been permanently affected.'
A sharp wind came up and he clutched more tightly onto the statue for fear of being blown off. Then the wind switched about, carrying his words out to all the crowd-a crowd that had grown considerably beyond merely those people waiting for tickets.
And his voice rang out, strong and clear. 'If a woman has her husband taken from her, it should be up to her to decide whether the man who did the deed should live to see another sun or not, for it is the woman, not the judge and not the state, who must come home to an empty bed!'
The crowd went wild, for they had never heard a reply to this often-asked question quite like this one. They were thrilled by its novelty.
Someone shouted, 'Aren't you just passing the buck?'
Arthur didn't even try to locate the individual but addressed the crowd, even those who may not have heard the question. 'Is advocating a true trial for the people passing the buck? On the contrary, it's the perfect solution. No one will be able to feel that a proper sentence has not been meted out, for it will be the sentence of the people whose lives had been hurt the most by the criminal's actions.' Raising a fist proudly, he unashamedly mixed up quotes as he declared, 'Trial by jury of the people, by the people and for the people!'
Traffic didn't move for an hour.
Chaptre the Eighth
It was sometime later when the ferret-eyed, bearded man from the crowd entered the Eighth Avenue Health Club and made his way down to the racquetball courts.
He slid through empty seats mounted on tiers, moving down as close as he was allowed to the actual court. A large piece of Plexiglas separated him from the two men aggressively battling it out for final points on the court. One man was tall, lean, a sharp and accurate player. The other man was much shorter, heavyset, with a beer belly he liked to smack affectionately and refer to as his 'old hanger-on.' His legs were spindly and looked as if every sudden shift in direction might cause them to break like twigs. His thin blond hair was tied off in a sweat-soaked bandanna, and his LaCoste shirt was plastered to his chest. The first man was, by contrast, calm and self- possessed. His opponent was on the ropes, and he had barely broken a sweat.
The bearded spectator rolled his eyes as the heavyset man lunged at the ball and missed it by the width of several states. He thought to himself, as the two players shook hands, See if you can pick the likely candidate for mayor, and groaned silently.
The beer-bellied man turned and spotted him, 'Moe!' he called cheerfully, waving a beefy hand. 'Come to see your next mayor in action?'
Moe managed a grimace and a nod. 'You bet, Bernie. You bet.'
The exceptionally jovial (exceptionally, considering he'd just been slaughtered at racquetball) Bernard B. Bittberg dragged his opponent by the shoulder. 'Moe, you gotta meet one of the top eleven players I ever met. This is Ronnie Cordoba. Ronnie, this is Moe Dredd, one of the top three P.R. hacks I ever met. Ronnie, Moe. Moe, Ronnie.'
Moe reluctantly extended his hand and felt several fingers crack in Ronnie's grip. He grimaced again, and gingerly unwrapped the remnants of his hand. 'Bernie, we have to talk.'
'So we'll talk. We're talking.'
'I think he means just the two of you,' said Ron. 'I'll be shuffling off to the locker room.'
Bet he tosses a salute, thought Moe.
Ronnie smiled a perfect smile and tossed a salute before turning his broad back and trotting away, arms held perfectly for jogging.
'So what's to talk?' said Bernie. 'Newspapers already start giving their endorsements for me?' He grinned broadly, displaying teeth dirty from cigar smoke. 'I got it sewn up, even before the primaries. They know that. I know that. We all know that.'
Moe said, 'Bernie, sit down.'
Bernie looked at him oddly and stroked the faint stubble on his cheeks. 'Whaddaya mean, sit down?'
Moe sat and patted one of the solid wood fold-out chairs next to him. Bernard B. Bittberg sat down. He drummed his fingers on his knee impatiently.
'Bernie,' said Moe slowly, 'I agree with you that you have the Democratic nomination sewn up. With the incumbent mayor leaving politics to go into show business, it leaves a clear path for you. You've got your years of being City Council head. You've got your high-profile participations in well-covered charity stunts and your seat in
