Private Screening

Part 1

STACY TARRANT

THE CONCERT

June 2, The Previous Year

1

LYING in bed, Stacy Tarrant felt a stranger in her own city.

Jamie dressed in silent concentration. With the drapes closed, their suite was a collage of all her other mornings on the road. Running for president had begun to seem so much like rock ’n’ roll that she was living in a time warp; in fifteen hours, for the first time in a year, she would face twenty thousand people she already feared.

Fuck this, she announced, put on her glasses, stalked naked to the window, and jerked open the drapes.

It was 6:00 A.M.

A dawn-lit haze made the tangled freeways look like the map of a mirage. Turning from the mirror, Jamie bantered, It’s Los Angeles, all right. But what does it mean?

Stacy smiled. I’m more curious about where we’re going.

Behind her, she felt him summoning Senator James Kilcannon, slim and tailored and quick. On a magical mystery tour of Los Angeles, San Diego, San Francisco, Sacramento, and San Francisco again, for Alexis Parnell’s cocktail party and the rock ’n’ roll spectacular which will finance next Tuesday’s triumph. I hope. The last words, closer and softer, were followed by a kiss on her neck. As if my boyish charm weren’t sufficient, you’re about to make me the Democratic nominee for president.

He sounded rueful, Stacy thought. Half-teasing, she answered, Isn’t that what you expected when we met?

You told me you wouldn’t sing then, he parried gently. And the circumstances were distracting.

Turning, she touched his face. Why the Mona Lisa smile? he asked.

She hesitated. I guess I was thinking that people like us get the lives we ask for.

His eyes were bright with irony and understanding. But then nothing’s perfect, he said lightly. Nothing, and no one. Kissing her, he went to meet the aides already waiting in the next room, to plan his day.

Suspended between present and past, Stacy stared out at Los Angeles.

She had loved it since she had driven there with John Damone—a kid singer, her first single just released, who had never heard of James Kilcannon. The freeway is forever, a disc jockey had proclaimed as her beat-up Volvo joined a river of people on the move. She had begun tailgating and braking, shifting and accelerating, and as she’d hit Beverly Hills still high on the challenge, rows of palm trees seemed to float and vanish in the shimmering subtropic light. The image of a mirage had come to her then, and over time she had seen Los Angeles as a deceptive Oriental city and its absence of center as a metaphor: you could drive the maze for years, searching for the place where you could make things happen, but it kept moving behind some palm tree in a canyon you couldn’t find. Yet, that first day, she had felt that they would find it, she and Damone—passing a convertible at the West Hollywood line, her voice had come from someone else’s radio.

It had been the first time. Stacy had pulled over to the side, and realized she was close to crying.

She had been twenty-five then, and had written the song when she was seventeen, a thousand crummy clubs ago. We’ve worked so hard, she’d murmured.

And one year later, when she had come back from her first exhausting concert tour to realize that she was making more money than God, she’d found a Spanishy-looking house in the West Hollywood hills so outrageous in its campiness that she’d grinned just walking through it: a bar modeled as an English pub with slot machines; a sunken bathtub with a bidet next to the sauna; Greek columns surrounding the pool. By the time she and Damone had found the black bedroom with mirrors she had been laughing out loud. Looks like a wet dream from Walt Disney, he’d remarked, and Stacy had decided to buy it on the spot. She’d moved her piano and all her sound equipment into the mirrored bedroom and stuck two palm trees by the pool so she could write songs under them. And now her face was as famous as her voice, and the city of mirages was her home. It disoriented her to stare at it from Jamie’s suite.

She had met him four years later, with her third album number one, and her time so consumed by writing and touring that Stacy had wondered if she’d killed the rest of her. And then Damone had called to announce with exaggerated reverence, Senator James Kilcannon wants to meet you.

That strangers called because they both were famous had no longer startled or impressed her. He wants money, right?

"He wants you to sing—the way the law works you can only give a thousand bucks, but by packing an arena you can raise four hundred thousand more."

"But why would I want to?"

Shall I tell him that?

She thought a moment. I will.

But James Kilcannon had surprised her.

Stacy had been used to meeting politicians so determined to project warmth that it felt like she’d been mugged. But an air of amusement about Kilcannon suggested that he held part of himself back; this hint of complexity had appealed to her. His hazel eyes had an iris so much wider than the normal that they seemed to absorb everything around him, yet his fine sculpted face made him look impossibly young to be president. You’re wondering what I want from you, he’d said. Besides thirty seconds as a gossip item.

They were having lunch at Harry’s Bar. Like other things in Los Angeles, its original was elsewhere; one difference from Hemingway’s Florence haunt was the faces turned to watch them. Smiling, Stacy answered, I’m just curious how you’ll rationalize it.

Simply. I want to be president and I think I need you to do that.

I don’t believe that. And I don’t believe you do.

I’m afraid I do, though. Six months ago, I came to see you in Washington. People who waited for hours to hear you sing wouldn’t cross the street to vote for me or anyone.

It’s because they can feel things without being used.

Stacy, it’s because there are two Americas now, and the one you reach doesn’t respond to words or ideas, but to sound and pictures—film, TV, video games, music. I don’t like this, but I’m not responsible for them—you are. His face was keen with challenge. I wonder if it’s enough to let them make you famous because you’re a beautiful woman who can sing.

She tilted her head. If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, skip it. I’ve worked too hard.

Then you’ve achieved something, he answered crisply, for yourself. But if people like you don’t ask their fans to commit to the world they live in, we’ll end up with a generation so passive and easily manipulated that the next Hitler could stage the Holocaust as a miniseries.

She gave him a comic look of skepticism. You’re running to keep Hitler off of MTV?

"I’m running for things you’ve said you care about—like women’s rights, for openers. Shrugging, he finished in a throwaway tone. And because I can’t imagine being dead unless I’m president first."

Suddenly, she wanted to communicate with him, not just fence. Does needing it that much ever scare you?

For an instant he looked so vulnerable that Stacy knew she’d caught him by surprise. Does it you? he asked.

It sets you apart, she answered softly, to try and do what other people can’t. It doesn’t help that you never quite know why they want to be with you.

As Kilcannon glanced down, she noticed his lashes were unusually long. Stacy, I’m not asking you to sing, all right?

Then what do you want?

Something more, I think. Looking up again, he asked quietly, Are you free?

There was no missing it. After a time, she said, I can be.

As they left, Stacy realized they made a striking couple.

Later, as he held her in the dark, she wondered why it had happened. Stacy? he murmured.

Yes?

"I really did like your concert."

Stacy laughed aloud. "So you are going to ask me to sing."

Not after this. His voice softened. What I want now, is to see you.

For two years he had done that, in fragments stolen from his race for president or jammed between her tours. For weeks he’d be a face on her television; then they would be lovers on the Baja. They’d rented a house there. Mornings they would swim, or run the beach. In the afternoon, hiding from the savage brightness, they would make love. He read poetry to her, Yeats and Dylan Thomas. Sometimes Stacy sang new songs she’d written as he listened, thoughtful. Her reasons for performing seemed to fascinate him—as if, perhaps, he saw himself reflected. Besides Damone, he was the man with whom she talked most easily.

How is it for you? Jamie asked her. Onstage.

They were sitting at a white wooden table overlooking the ocean; their bottle of Chardonnay was half empty.

It’s getting harder, she said finally. They expect so much now.

You never use drugs?

It’s safer to depend on myself. Stacy shrugged. Sometimes, before a show, I don’t feel too great.

Jamie gazed out at the ocean. Do you know why you keep doing it?

Stacy wondered how to explain this. When I write a song, she said, it’s still not finished. It’s only when I can take something that doesn’t exist outside me, and put myself out there to give it to other people, that I feel complete. There’s nothing I’ve ever felt as strong as that. Speaking this, she realized how much it scared her. Sometime, I won’t have that anymore. Maybe they’ll stop coming. Maybe, some night, I won’t step through the curtain.

And if you can’t, then who will you be?

She turned to him. I’ve never really known.

Jamie reached out, brushing the hair back from her face.

Afterward she lay on his shoulder. When he spoke, it was almost to himself. All that effort, Stacy. But what does it mean?

She did not answer. He never asked this again—not of what she did.

This silence embraced his campaign. Away from him, she followed it, until at times she could not help but wish to be part of what he did. But he seldom spoke to her of his ambitions; she began sensing that he wished to hold them separate. The campaign was a void between them. She did not know what happened to him there. He never asked for help.

But she could tell that it consumed him. He would loll in an armchair, looking at the Baja sea; suddenly the look would grow hooded. Then, as if feeling her thoughts, he would laugh at himself. AWOL again, he would say, and take her hand.

They kept the press away. It did not matter if his reason for this reticence was politics; she did not wish to speak of him to others, even to Damone. He learned to ask when Jamie was coming, and never call. His only comment was a question, Has he asked you to sing yet?

He never will.

No? That’s good, then. If that’s what you want.

What do you mean?

Damone’s smile was no smile at all. I just wonder if he isn’t teasing you a little.

Jamie won in New Hampshire, and then Florida and Massachusetts, and did not ask. For those three months she did not see him. In mid-May, when his campaign came to California, only one man stood between him and the Democratic nomination, and his life seemed more vivid than her own.

Ten days before the primary, after a day campaigning in five different cities, Jamie spent the night with her.

She was shocked by the change in him. On television, he seemed vital and triumphant. Now it was as if the cameras had bled him. He was pale and too thin; there were new crow’s-feet at the corner of each eye, the first flecks of gray at his temples.

You look like hell, she said.

He stretched out on her sofa, watching the eleven o’clock news like a tired husband about to fall asleep. They say people over forty earn their own faces. Today’s my forty-third birthday.

Not to have known this troubled Stacy. She went to the kitchen, popped a bottle of French champagne, and brought it back on a tray with two glasses. Jamie had leaned forward. A film clip of his opponent was on television, reading a speech to a group of Jaycees; woodenly, he muffed the opening joke his gag writer had inserted. Jamie watched with something close to sympathy. Never violate your own nature, he murmured.

Happy birthday.

Turning, he saw the champagne, and smiled wryly. At my age, that’ll put me to sleep.

You’re allowed.

They sat at opposite ends of the sofa, feet touching. Jamie stared into the glass.

What’s wrong?

He did not look up. Finally, he said, I’m going to lose, Stacy.

How can you know that?

He angled his head toward the screen. That’s going to kill me. Right at the end.

You’re being awfully Delphic. As he hesitated, Stacy saw that his fingers were swollen from shaking hands. Tell me about it—all right? I’m tired of not knowing.

Jamie sipped champagne. All right, he said at length. The simple truth is that I’m ten days short of money. The bitterness in his voice surprised her. In 1980 no one west of New Jersey had ever heard of me. For four straight years I’ve flown coast to coast shaking hands and begging money until sometimes I didn’t know where or who I was. Now all that work has come down to California—whoever wins here wins the nomination. Three weeks ago I was ten points behind in a state so large and complex that I’ll live or die on television. Since then I’ve spent four hours daily on the phone extracting checks from the last contributors in America to pledge the thousand-dollar max, pumped it all into TV spots, and cut his lead to five percent with seven undecided. For the first time, he looked directly at her. That finished me, Stacy. I’m broke.

Stacy tasted her champagne. How much do you need?

Do you mean, Is that why you came?

That’s not what I asked.

He closed his eyes. Four hundred thousand, he answered. The exact amount Damone told me you could raise by singing, two years ago.

Stacy studied the lines of his face. Well, she said, next time you can pay for dinner.

When his eyes opened, she was smiling at him. I can’t let you lose. Not if I can help it.

Jamie could not smile. Taking his hand, Stacy realized the palm was damp.

"I’d love to have seen that performance, Damone said when Stacy phoned him the next morning. Did he suffer a little?"

Look, John, I called to ask how long it’ll take to put together a show.

Hasn’t he noticed you haven’t sung lately?

He’s running for president, dammit.

So you didn’t bother telling him that you came back from the European tour ten pounds lighter, ’cause you started getting sick.

No, she shot back, because I want to do this.

There was silence. He’ll need it by next Friday to do him any good.

Can you set it up?

At the Arena, in San Francisco. Damone laughed without humor. I reserved the date three months ago.

Stacy hung up.

That night, Jamie telephoned from Sacramento; in the background, a PA system called out flights. Come out with me, he said.

Campaigning?

Uh-huh. He sounded fresh and cheerful. It’ll set you apart from the rest of my contributors.

I don’t know, Jamie. The press …

If you’re going to do this for me, I want you to be a part of it.

Stacy realized that this was what she wished to hear. Okay, she said. Where do I meet you?

Two days later, their picture was on the front page of the L.A. Times.

It had happened so quickly that she still hadn’t absorbed it. The first day out, when the Secretary of the Interior had remarked that if you’ve seen one redwood, you’ve seen them all, some reporter asked her opinion. "If he’d seen even one, she’d snapped, he’d know how small he is." It was instinct; she had answered because it felt good. But the media had loved it—she gave them glamour and a fresh angle, and Jamie had not seemed to mind.

Now, in their suite forty-five stories above Los Angeles, Stacy tried to analyze how she felt about it.

The day before they’d swooped down from the Central Valley on a campaign high, with the press pool drinking and laughing and each crowd bigger than the one before. Jamie started throwing away his speeches; surrounded by migrant workers, he joked and quoted Yeats and Robert Kennedy, and they cheered with an intensity which surprised her. By the time the plane reached Los Angeles and they scrambled to the limousine, she sensed that Jamie really could be president. And the crowds were there for him again, packed between the stucco apartments and corner groceries and whiskey signs in English and Spanish, slowing the limo to a walk. "They can’t see me, Jamie had murmured. Oblivious to danger, he opened the door and got up on its hood as the crowd reached out to him. The moment had a terrible beauty; Stacy wished to turn from it, but could not. Above the bobbing, shouting heads, someone raised a Stacy for Veep sign. Grinning, Jamie pointed to it, and then the driver opened the sunroof. She stood without thinking, waving with the sun in her eyes as the crowd cried out, Stacy …" She could no more see faces than in the darkness of a coliseum.

But she stood all the way to the hotel where Jamie was to speak. She was part of it now.

There were more signs for her. She was sitting at the head table when Jamie rose.

You may remember me, he opened. I’m Stacy Tarrant’s warm-up act.

Stacy looked up in surprise.

In their cheers and laughter, Jamie smiled at her. Stacy thought he’d never looked younger.

Two hours later, in their hotel suite, his face looked slate-gray. His hand was swollen again.

Stacy, one of his aides said, your fans outside will keep him up all night.

I can talk to them.…

Probably better to cool it. The security people will chase them off.

She glanced at Jamie.

Aides surrounded him. Someone had scrounged cold sandwiches; another had paid the hotel to keep its laundry going all night; on the television news, their motorcade looked like jump cuts from an action film. Jamie pointed at the screen. A sixteen-hour day, and all that counts is thirty seconds.

Looks good, someone told him. A campaign on the move.

A red-haired aide shook his head. It’s too ‘hot’—all those Latinos screaming at two celebrities. Joe Six-pack’s not gonna get that at all.

Screw him, Jamie murmured.

It’s okay, the first man assured him. The last ads are all green lawns and shade trees. No music even, just actors and a voice. Lauersdorf’s bringing one by in the morning for us to look at, so we can run ’em statewide after Stacy’s concert.

Jamie’s sad-faced California manager, Tim Sherman, came in with statistics from the nightly tracking. Two hundred calls, he told Jamie. Mostly to San Diego. The seniors are worried about Social Security, the women about war, and the under-twenty-ones about employment—they’re getting close to graduation. Hit those in tomorrow’s speeches, and I’ll tell the TV people to look for that.

Jamie nodded.

Sherman stuffed the figures in his pocket. About the cartop routine, you’re not a bullfighter. I get sick thinking what could happen.

Jamie looked up. No help for it, Tim.

His voice conveyed a second message. Let’s let the candidate get some sleep, Sherman announced, and suddenly they were alone.

What do you make of all this? Jamie asked.

You’re good. She hesitated. Cynical, isn’t it?

Practical, he amended. Politics is the business of getting people to let you do a little of what you want. Even your songs are written for an audience, remember?

It’s different, though.

Is it? He smiled quizzically. Would they let you sing if no one came to see you? Would you still write?

Stacy flicked the hair back from her forehead. Maybe I just don’t belong here. Some of your staff doesn’t think so.

They will tomorrow night. His tone lightened. You’re not worried about old Charlie McCarthy’s ‘Jamie Jagger’ lines, I hope.

She smiled at Jamie’s nickname for his rival, a former vice-president so mortgaged to his contributors that when he’d spoken at a candidates’ dinner Jamie had whispered, Watch closely—when they pull the strings, his lips move. But still she asked, You don’t think that hurts you?

Not in this state. In addition to the minorities and jobless, who wouldn’t care if I were a hermaphrodite, I need young singles, single mothers, and white liberals—the ones who buy your albums in the millions. For those people, we belong together, and every time old Charlie appoints you ‘secretary of stereo’ you can hear them yawn from Berkeley to the Baja. He’s guaranteed you’ll pack them in, even on short notice. He examined his swollen hand. Once you sing, we can buy the airtime to run my final spots statewide, and just maybe I’ll get the thing I’ve wanted ever since I went to Congress.

Stacy studied him. My being here—you’ve thought it all out.

He looked up with the tactile gaze which was part of his appeal. Stacy, he said coolly, I’ve thought everything out.

She waited a moment. Even what might happen to you?

His expression grew curious and a little distant. Spiritually, or physically?

The motorcade. I agree with Tim—it scares me.

He shrugged. It’s the only time anyone really sees me.

Instead of an image?

I like to feel there’s a difference. He rose, heading for the bedroom. Although at the moment …

There’s a difference, Jamie. I saw it in the Baja.

Quiet, wasn’t it? He turned in the doorway. It got lonely without you. I thought that out, too.

Stacy smiled. But what does it mean?

He smiled back, and then his look grew serious. That I’d have to start living with mixed motives, and that you’ve lived enough in public to accept them—and your own. He disappeared inside.

Stacy was not tired. But the day remained a jumble. When she went to the bedroom, Jamie was sleeping.

His hair was rumpled as a teenager’s. Kissing his forehead, Stacy turned out the light.

When she woke again, it was not yet morning.

It took her a moment to realize where she was. Beside her, Jamie breathed evenly. She could not see his face.

In the darkness, Stacy began to search her memory for a song.

It was a trick she had learned on the road: when she was frightened of performing, or afterward, when she was strung out on her own adrenaline, she wrote to remember who she was and how she’d gotten there.

Lying next to Jamie, she remembered the first time she’d made love.

The boy had parked in the Berkeley hills; they’d looked across the bay toward San Francisco from his car. The city’s luminescent patterns glinted as if refracted by a diamond; the Golden Gate was an arch of lights, its traffic two opposing streams of yellow. When she had been small, wrapped in a blanket between her parents, she would invent lives and destinations for the people on the bridge. At fifteen, the memory made her squeamish.

I love you, Stacy. He moved closer. I can make it good.

His eyes were wide as a rabbit’s, so innocent that he might almost believe it. She took his face in her hands. All I want is for you to be scared with me. It’s okay if you are. I just don’t want you pretending not to be.…

Awakening, James Kilcannon had touched her.

Now, meeting with his aides, Jamie’s voice came from the next room. Stacy stood in front of the window, alone.

That she could never quite lose herself with him, she thought, must be as much her fault as his.

For another moment, she was pensive. Then she turned from the morning light, and opened the notebook she wrote songs in.

Scared with Me, Stacy scribbled for its title, and smiled at herself. Thirty-one, and still ripping off your life for lyrics.

Pausing, she wondered if that hadn’t begun scaring her a little. Perhaps what had made her want to campaign, even more than Jamie’s need, was that she needed to care for someone or something too much to sing it away. Too soon, and by surprise, her songs would be someone else’s trivia question, and then she’d face Jamie’s ironic catch-question, But what does it mean?

Beneath the title, she wrote its first lines:

Please don’t deceive me

That the morning will show

What it means to be lovers

When our hearts cannot know …

Suddenly she recalled the morning after she’d made love to the boy.

She’d awakened to silence; somehow, she had felt her parents knew. Guiltily, she tiptoed from her room. In place of breakfast talk and clattering dishes, she heard their television.

Her parents were in front of it. She knelt beside them. Robert Kennedy’s been shot, her father said.

For a crazy instant, Stacy wanted to confess to him, so that Kennedy might live. I’m sorry, she remembered blurting.

Stacy closed the notebook.

Nerves, she thought—less than twelve hours now. Stacy walked into the bathroom, glancing wryly at the thick glasses, the first hint of lines they magnified.

She showered, put in her contact lenses, and joined Jamie.

He was picking up the telephone as Sherman held an index card in front of him. Why am I doing this? he asked.

A morale-boosting call from the candidate. Old man Parnell is an absolute reactionary and she’s having this party anyway. Plus, she’s a pipeline to new contributors.

The red-haired aide stepped forward. I called one of our Bay Area people this morning. Some hotshot young lawyer has hold of a gay rights suit against Parnell and his paper.

Kilcannon glanced at Sherman. Why didn’t I know that?

"I didn’t know—anyway, we need the money and it’s too late to change. Sherman gave the aide a pointed stare. Maybe you can set up a meeting with some presentable gay leaders. After Stacy’s concert."

Jamie looked from one to the other. Then he dialed, peering at the card. I don’t see any children.

Sherman nodded. The son got kidnapped, remember?

Vaguely. His tone changed abruptly. Alexis? This is James Kilcannon. Listening, Jamie laughed. I’m just calling to thank you in advance. I know you’re Colby’s liberal conscience, and that’s not easy work.

Catching Stacy’s eye, Jamie made a grimace of self-dislike, then smiled into the phone. "Yes, I’m bringing her—she’s my liberal conscience.…"

Black coffee, Stace?

She smiled up; Nat Schlesinger, Jamie’s press secretary, had already learned what she liked. Of the people who surrounded them, she felt most affection for this rumpled, homely man who lived his life through Jamie. Nat, she told him, you’re my home away from home.

As Nat beamed with pleasure, Jamie hung up. What’s in San Diego? he asked Sherman.

An old-folks hit. Sacramento’s the day-care hit.

What’s this about? Stacy murmured to Nat.

Nat bent closer. What Tim calls a ‘hit’ is to go somewhere that makes a point in thirty seconds of air-time. If Jamie goes to a day-care center, people know by watching the news that he’s for working parents. As the door opened, Nat looked up. Here’s one of the TV spots you’re buying.

A man whose pin-striped suit cloaked too much bulk hustled in with a cassette. Who’s he? she asked.

The media buyer, Bob Lauersdorf. He negotiates for airtime in the media markets statewide—represents big private accounts like Procter & Gamble that pay top dollar year-round. With that kind of clout and a little of our money, he can stick Jamie’s final spots right in the middle of ‘Dallas.’ Nat’s face clouded. Your guy Damone—he’s got things all put together, even security?

He fidgeted with his navy-blue bow tie; Stacy remembered that he wore it whenever Jamie needed luck. John can do anything, she assured him.

Lauersdorf stuck the cassette into the video player.

Jamie stood to one side of the screen, hands in his coat pockets. Stacy leaned forward.

On the screen, an older man lovingly painted the door to his white-frame house a sylvan green. As he added the final touch, a grandmotherly woman finished polishing the brass door knocker. Turning, their eyes met; in a husky voice, she said, We brought five children through this door.

The man nodded sadly.

With agonizing slowness, the camera pulled back from them across a neatly tended lawn. As the old couple’s hands linked, a For Sale sign appeared in front of them. Through this silent image, an actor’s voice intoned, "Don’t let them tarnish your golden years. Vote for James Kilcannon, for a safer tomorrow."

Dynamite, the buyer enthused.

Jamie ruffled his hair. Who was ‘them’? he asked bemusedly. Termites?

Inflation; cutbacks in old age benefits; the opposition—

We have met the enemy …

"And them ain’t us. The buyer smiled. When we pretested this, one old lady cried."

But what does it mean? Stacy murmured.

As Jamie turned to her, the buyer’s smile looked pained. "Have you seen his ads? he asked rhetorically. The one where he takes his mongoloid granddaughter fishing and tells her about Medicare?"

Jamie was silent. We’d better go, Sherman told him. You’re running for president, remember?

For another moment, Jamie looked at her. I’ll call John, she told him softly. He can pick me up in San Francisco for the sound check.

She did that. And then they were off, sweeping through a hotel lobby filled with cameras, smiling for the midday news.

2

REACHING into his duffel bag, Harry Carson felt the snub nose of the Mauser.

In his mind, Stacy finished singing Love Me Now. From the darkness, the crowd screamed for more, until she beckoned to Kilcannon. As he stepped into the light, Carson raised his arm. But the revolver would not fire. He was paralyzed.

Harry?

Carson flinched. Moving his hand, he found the pack of cigarettes beneath his journal of poetry, and flipped it to Damone. Damone tapped the bottom, pulling out a cigarette with his lips. Even with the beard, Damone’s face looked like hammered bronze.

You all right? Damone asked.

Carson realized he was sweating. Just bored.

That’s why I hired you—to be chairman of the bored. Taking a drag, Damone watched the television he’d set down on the stage.

There’s too many amplifiers, Carson told him.

Damone didn’t turn. Leave the extras out till after the sound check. If we don’t need ’em, I’ll load the boxes back on the truck.

On the screen, Stacy was moving with Kilcannon through the lobby of some hotel. Beneath the blonde-brown curls, her green eyes seemed wary, reminding Carson of Beth. When her smile flashed, guileless and surprising, he looked away.

Satellite News International will continue its live coverage of the Kilcannon campaign with a rally in San Francisco’s Chinatown.…

Switching it off, Damone turned to the crew. Make sure the monitor’s set up and working. I’m picking Stacy up at noon.

Carson lit a cigarette for his nerves.

Empty, the stage was an enormous concrete bunker. Four levels of catwalk rose from each side; banks of lights and colored cloth backdrops hung from the ceiling; the crew hauled beat-up metal boxes from the loading dock, footsteps echoing on the dirty wooden floor. They worked steadily, laconically. When they were finished, the lights would be lowered and angled to make the backdrops look like multicolored silk and the stage a bubble suspended in the dark, and then Stacy would appear in a blaze of spotlights.

Golden Anniversary Carson decided he would call the poem.

This morning, he’d read the lines he could not finish:

Each year I remember you

Hair golden, free to live

Waiting for the camera

His golden life to give.…

Carson closed his eyes.

Capwell’s blood spurted into his hands, and then he was landing in Oakland. A newspaper said that it was June 2, 1970; Carson still could not remember the thirty-six hours before Capwell had died in his arms. He stared at his hands for blood.

The cigarette had burned to a nub. Carson looked up, and saw that Jesus, one of the sound men, watched him.

You have some kind of problem, man?

Jesus shrugged. I was needing help with the sound.

Carson stubbed out the cigarette. You want me to read your mind, Jesus, try moving your lips.

Sharp-eyed fucker. Opening a box, Carson stepped over the cords of the sound system as if they were trip wires and the amps could blow him to pieces. That the past bled into his present didn’t scare him so much as that he couldn’t control when it happened or remember why. And the part still missing in ’Nam had already cost him his kid.

He began unloading the box.

Beth’s two-month-old postcard was in the duffel bag next to the Mauser, addressed to him care of Damone. Cathy was all right, she had written, and she’d found work as a cashier. It was postmarked Columbia, South Carolina, but Beth gave him no return address. She didn’t want to see him again, she finished, and knew he had no money to help care for their daughter. That night Damone had slipped him ten bucks for a fifth of tequila.

Patching in the amp, Carson felt its sudden electronic current as a revolver in his hand. It surprised him; for a moment he did not know whether to associate this with past or future. Then he thought of the postcard.

Rising by instinct, he walked to the center of the stage.

The body lay behind him on the floor. Calmly, he began to follow the plan.

Where you going, Harry?

There was screaming; he did not even turn. To pull more boxes off the truck.

They would catch him if he took the elevator. Moving toward the catwalk, he counted fifty feet.

Three flights of metal stairs down, ten steps each, and Carson reached the entrance to the loading dock. His motorcycle was there. Less than thirty seconds’ time, he guessed. The adrenaline felt like a Dexedrine rush.

Mentally, he jumped onto the motorcycle and escaped into the darkness.

Hoisting another box, Carson took the elevator.

Once onstage, he walked to his duffel bag. Next to it lay the newspaper Damone had lent him, open to an inside page. It was dated June second; like someone memorizing words, Carson scanned the headline Lord to Question Parnell in Gay Rights Suit as he lit his cigarette.

3

TONY Lord felt the jury moving with him toward Colby Parnell.

He stopped for an instant, the way an actor uses stillness to dramatize what will come. In that moment, he was conscious of the judge’s stare; the court reporter bent to his machine; his client’s tautness; the heightened interest of the press; the jury poised to make its judgment. Then he stepped forward.

Parnell’s wool suit,