Private Screening by Richard North Patterson Read Free Book Online Page B

said.
    The Bronx accent was unmistakable; Stacy turned to John Damone’s sardonic half-smile. “Just get here?” she asked.
    â€œUh-huh—your boyfriend’s packed the streets. Lots of white folks out for dim sum.”
    After close to ten years, Stacy could still be annoyed by his gift for speaking her least comfortable thoughts. “I saw some Chinese.”
    â€œNot many. But then what does all this have to do with them?”
    She didn’t answer. Damone kept looking from Kilcannon to the cameras to the crowd: he had a hyper-alertness to new situations, an edge to the way he looked and moved, and there was nothing soft left in his face. The black beard accented the skin stretched across his cheekbones, the aggressive prow of a nose, the lines etched at the corner of his eyes. Gazing at the rooftops, he murmured, “What idiot told Kilcannon he was bulletproof?”
    She began looking from the buildings to the limousine and back. Above them, Jamie raised one hand; the roar subsided to scattered cries. “ Jamie ,” a woman screamed.
    He grinned. “Well”—his voice resonated through the microphone—“it’s nice to be wanted. But will you respect me in the morning?”
    Laughter. Stacy saw the press corps smiling with Nat Schlesinger: they loved Jamie best when he was playing off his crowds.
    â€œ Yes ,” more voices called back.
    â€œAnd on Tuesday?”
    â€œ Yes .…”
    â€œGood. Because I mean to make a difference and I need your help to do that.”
    In the cheers and applause, Jamie let his smile linger. “I’ve come here to the Chinese community, where unemployment stands so high, because the man I mean to replace as president thinks this is a place to eat. When he thinks of it at all.”
    An approving burst of laughter. As it died, Stacy heard the whine of news cameras. Damone’s gaze flickered to the rooftops.
    â€œThe president says that he’s color-blind. I think that’s true.…”
    â€œ No ,” someone shouted.
    â€œReally, I believe that. Remember when he appointed a black man to his cabinet, then met him at the inaugural and called him ‘Mr. Mayor’?”
    A ripple of laughter, cameras jostling.
    â€œThat’s when I realized that the president not only thinks that all minority citizens are equal, he thinks they’re interchangeable.…”
    As the laughter rose, Jamie’s voice rang out, “When he thinks of them at all.”
    Leaning back, he let the applause widen until it came back to him again. Stacy felt the same disturbing excitement—she could help him become president.
    Damone edged close to her. “Good at this, isn’t he?”
    â€œIt’s easy for him.”
    A reporter in the press pool called out, “Forty seconds,” and resumed timing the applause on his wrist-watch. Stacy saw a camera aiming toward her, and smiled up at Jamie. A part of her began wanting to escape.
    Damone stared at something. She followed his gaze to a lone man, crouched on the roof of a trading company. “You’re making me nervous,” she told him.
    â€œI don’t like this. Especially for you.”
    Jamie raised the microphone again.
    â€œBut the unemployed in this community are forced to think of him . For they’ve been forced to serve as extras in the Grade B script he calls an economic program.…”
    There were three sharp cracks.
    Jamie recoiled, mouth falling open.
    â€œ No …” someone screamed.
    Damone hurtled onto the car and hit Jamie at the knees; as they fell together, the crowd released a keen of agony.
    â€œ Jamie! ” she cried out.
    In the chaos, police covered Damone. As Stacy tried to reach them, a cameraman pushed her aside. All she could see were Jamie’s legs; the camera was in his face.
    â€œStop!” a policeman shouted at her. Two Secret Service agents wrenched Damone to his