Card Sharks

by George R. R. Martin

  "I will try ... Father." She stumbled over the word. "To do that, I need you to tell me everything you can."

  "May I ask you a question first?"

  Hannah shrugged.

  "You're afraid of jokers, aren't you?" Father Squid held up a web-fingered hand, stopping her protest. His eyes, kindly and snagged in tidal ripples of skin, smiled gently at her. "Please don't take offense. You seem to find the curtains and the bedspread a lot more interesting than my poor face. The only time you've approached my bed is to put your tape recorder down, and now you're sitting all the way on the other side of the room. You held your breath when I coughed. My guess is that you're new to the city, and you don't know that the virus can't be passed by a joker's cough." Again, a soft, sad smile showed under the tentacles. "And the way you're blushing tells me that you're sensitive enough to care that I've noticed."

  Hannah could feel the flush on her cheeks. "I've been here three months," she said. "I'll admit that my contact with jokers and aces has been ... limited."

  "Yet they gave you this assignment." The smile touched the lips again. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

  The words stung. "Father, I can assure you that I'm entirely capable of handling this. I was in charge of several arson investigations back in Cincinnati."

  "Fires like this one?" Father Squid asked, but the smile took away some of the edge.

  "No," Hannah admitted. "Father, I won't gild the truth; even when a fire is so obviously arson, proving a case against someone can be very difficult - your evidence tends to literally go up in smoke. But I have a good team of investigators working with me, and I have the cooperation of the fire and police departments. If your firesetter can be caught, I'll catch him."

  He nodded, gently and sympathetically. "I'm sure you'll try. Yet ..."

  "Yet?"

  His gaze held her softly; after his comments to her, Hannah could not look away. "Would your superiors have given this assignment to you if the Archdiocese of New York's cathedral had burned down, if the victims had included, let's say, a council member's family or two? What if a hundred of the Park Avenue wealthy had died instead of jokers? Do you think that you and your 'team' would be alone, or would the outraged hue and cry have mobilized every last department in the state, maybe even have brought in the federal agencies? Would you be the one interviewing the Archbishop in his hospital room?"

  "I can't answer that," Hannah said, but she could. No, it wouldn't be me. It'd be Myricks, or probably Malcolm himself. Not me.

  "I know you can't," Father Squid was saying. "And it's not really fair of me to ask. I'm sure you'll do whatever you can. Behind your professional mask, you have a kind face."

  "Father -"

  "I know, that sounds trite. But it's true. Forgive me for my meanness and pettiness, but I think they chose you because they think a young, attractive, and relatively inexperienced woman will fail and they don't think that matters. I think it's because a fire in Jokertown isn't deemed to be worth the effort of the best people in your department, because they really don't care if a murderer of jokers is ever found as long as they can show that they made some effort. I also think that they made the wrong choice if that was their thought. So ... where do I start, Ms. Davis? What can I tell you?"

  Hannah wanted to respond angrily, but she had found herself nodding inside to each of his arguments. She retreated into routine. "Had you received any threats recently? Do you know of anyone with a grudge against you or your church?"

  "My child," he said softly, sounding for all the world like Bing Crosby in The Bells of Saint Mary's, "I receive threats regularly, at least once or twice a month, and the list of those who might conceivably have reason to be annoyed with me is impossibly long. You don't have the manpower to check out each and every one of them. Besides, I'm a recognizable and easy target. I'm out in public every day. I never lock the doors to the church or to my house. If someone wanted to kill me, there were a thousand easier ways to do it. Ways that needn't ... that needn't have killed -"

  Father Squid's voice broke. Tears welled in his eyes, and he brought up a hand to wipe them away. "My dear God," he husked out, his voice quavering. "All those poor, poor people ..." He gave a great, gasping sob that pulled Hannah from her seat. She wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but she held back. She told herself it was only because she was being professional, not because she didn't want to touch a joker. After a few moments, Father Squid brought his hands up and knuckled his eyes with an embarrassed laugh. "I'm sorry ... All last night and this morning ... every so often I would remember and find myself crying. Each time I think I've finally cried myself dry I find that there's still more grief underneath, layers and layers of it." Father Squid looked at her with stricken eyes. "Ms. Davis, what kind of monster would do a thing like this? Those innocents ..." The tears began again; this time he let them fall unashamedly down his face and into the tentacles.

  "Father, you said that you 'remember.' What do you remember?"

  "It ... it all happened so fast. It was Black Queen Night, after all, and so the church was full. ..."

  "Black Queen Night?"

  Father Squid smiled at that, briefly. "You are a newcomer, aren't you? September 15th is Wild Card Day, ever since that day in '46 when Jetboy failed us and let the alien virus loose. The world remembers on that day, but the 15th is the day for the nats and the aces - the ones the virus left untouched or the ones it made into something more than human. In a way, the 15th is a day of celebration. But the 16th, though ... the 16th is for Jokertown. The 16th is for sadness. The 16th is when we remember the 90% of those who are forced to draw from the wild card deck get the Black Queen - the killer. And we remember that in some ways they're the lucky ones, because almost all of the rest of us get the Joker, the bitter card. We became freaks."

  Father Squid spat out the last few sentences. His gaze had gone distant. "When did you become aware of the fire?" Hannah asked, and that brought Father Squid's glance around to her again.

  "I noticed a haze about the time I was saying the benediction. I remember thinking that I should have turned on the ceiling fans. Mighty Wurlizter ..." Father Squid stopped again. Muscles knotted in his jaw. He swallowed hard. "... began playing and people started singing. There was a lot of coughing - I noticed that, too. I found myself clearing my throat. And then ... I saw a flame ... at the side door ..."

  The voice broke again. Hannah said nothing, letting Father Squid compose himself before proceeding. "Then it was just chaos," he said finally.

  "You didn't see anyone, didn't hear anything from the basement, didn't smell anything?"

  "No, I'm afraid not." Father Squid smiled apologetically. "I remember thinking that this was just like the movie. You know - Jokertown, with Jack Nicholson and Marilyn Monroe?"

  "What do you mean, like the movie?"

  "You've never seen it?"

  "A long time ago. I remember something about a plot against the jokers, some rich guy ..." Hannah shrugged.

  "They wanted to burn down Jokertown. They wanted to burn everything, all of us."

  The slow voice came from Hannah's left, in the corner of the room. Hannah jumped, startled - she hadn't heard anyone enter and she couldn't imagine how anyone could have slipped behind her from the doorway.

  Someone had. She recognized the humpbacked figure. "Quasiman," she said aloud, identifying him for the tape recorder. The joker glanced at her.

  "Who are you?" he asked. "Do I know you?"

  "Don't you remember? You talked to me yesterday. Your ... your right arm was missing then."

  "It was?" Quasiman shrugged as if he'd forgotten the entire incident, then went to Father Squid's side, looking down at the priest with an infinite tenderness on his strange, slack-muscled face. "How are you, Father?" he asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, "I'm sorry. I saw, but I didn't know ... I couldn't get them all out. Only a few ..."

  Father Squid had reached up with his hand. He clasped the hunchback's shoulder. "You
did more than anyone else could have. I owe you my life." Quasiman nodded, then he stiffened alongside the bed, looking off into distances only he could see.

  "What's the matter with him?" Hannah asked. She hated looking at Quasiman even more than Father Squid. Something about him made her shudder in revulsion.

  Father Squid shook his head. "Parts of him just go away at times. Sometimes parts of his body will just vanish. Other times it's his mind or his memories - often he doesn't remember me or what happened yesterday or where he is. Sometimes - like now - he just shuts down entirely."

  "How long does it last?"

  "A few seconds. Minutes. There's no way to tell."

  Hannah started to ask another question, but Quasiman's eyes came back into focus then, and he was staring at her. "I remember you now," he said. "I needed to tell you - Father Squid is right. The fire was like the movie. You need to look into that. You ought to watch it."

  "Why? How's a movie going to help me?"

  "It was real," Quasiman insisted, and Father Squid's soft voice followed.

  "Some of the events in the movie were based on facts," the priest said. "The script was written with the actual story in mind. There was a conspiracy, if not exactly one in the movie, back in the late '50s. '59, I think."

  "Yes," Quasiman said. He was gripping the railing of the bed, and Hannah, fascinated, watched the metal bars bending under the pressure of the joker's fingers. Whatever Quasiman's other problems, he was incredibly strong. "There's a lot we need to know. Start with the movie," he said. "You have to."

  "I don't think so," she told him. "I'm sorry, but we're not going to catch our torch by looking up a thirty-plus year old plot. I have a lot of leads to follow, good ones -"

  Quasiman was suddenly right in front of her, those horribly strong hands on either arm of her chair as he leaned in at her. Hannah could hear the wood-grained Formica of the handles cracking as she pressed her spine against the back of the chair. "Jesus, get away from me!" she shouted, but she couldn't escape. His breath touched her, warm and sweet, but it was the breath of a joker, of someone infected by that awful virus. She would have pushed at him, but she couldn't bring herself to touch him. Hannah started to shout once more to call the nurses and security guards, but Quasiman's face stopped her. There was no menace there, only a soft, pleading concern. "This is very important, Hannah," he said, and the use of her name was startling. "I know. Please."

  "Quasiman," Father Squid said from the bed. "You're frightening the young woman."

  "Oh," the joker said, as if startled. "Sorry. It's just -" He lifted his hands up suddenly and gave Hannah an apologetic smile. He scuttled away from the chair and Hannah slowly relaxed.

  "Just what?" Hannah asked shakily.

  "I know that you need to start there. With the movie."

  "You keep saying that," Hannah answered. "You 'know.' I don't understand." She looked from Quasiman to Father Squid; it was Father Squid who answered.

  "Another by-product of Quasiman's affliction is limited precognition," he told her. "One of the places his awareness seems to go during his episodes is the future. The vision is very erratic, and he can't control it, but it's there. God has seen fit to grant my friend occasional glimpses of what is to be."

  "Yes," Quasiman agreed. "I've seen you, Hannah. I've seen us. I've seen other faces. I'm going to try very hard to remember."

  "Great. That all sounds very convenient. Now just tell me who started the fire and I'll have him arrested and we can all go home. In fact, with that kind of evidence, we can probably just do away with the trial, too." She wouldn't look at either of the jokers. She stared at the cracks Quasiman's fingers had left in the chair arms.

  Father Squid's reply was as gentle as ever, and made Hannah's sarcasm seem even more vitriolic in comparison. "Ms. Davis, I wonder how many comments were made in your office yesterday?" he asked. "I wonder how many people said that there s no way you can find this murderer?"

  "What's your point, Father?"

  "I just wonder if you're letting your preconceptions blind you right now. After all, how much is Quasiman asking of you? An extra interview? An hour of your time?"

  There'd been comments. Hannah had even half-heard some of them. "Even granting that there's something to what you're saying, this supposed plot is ancient history. Half the people involved must be dead." Hannah said. "I don't know who to contact or where to start."

  "I do," Father Squid answered. "If you're willing. If you can bring yourself to talk to another joker."

  The priest's barbed comment brought up Hannah's eyes. She looked from Father Squid to the hunchback. She knew he was pushing all her buttons, but she wasn't going to be called a bigot. She sighed. "All right," she said. "I can give you an hour."

  ***

  "Mr. Tanaka? Chuck Tanaka?"

  Hannah had already decided that the atmosphere of the Four Seas Seafood Delivery Service, placed precariously between Chinatown and Jokertown, would probably put her off fish for months. The tiny office in the small warehouse was dingy, looking as if it had last been redecorated somewhere around World War II. From the look of the desk, the file cabinets, and each available horizontal surface in the place, every last scrap of paper that the business had generated had found a home here. On the wall were dusty, cheap frames holding faded prints that were just as cheap; behind the desk, a larger frame held a collection of baseball cards. They looked old, too, and there was a spot in the middle of the frame where a space had obviously been reserved for a card.

  "You're the one called Chop-Chop?" Hannah asked.

  The joker behind the desk looked up, and from his appearance and the grimace on his face, Hannah realized that the question didn't need an answer. The joker was a walking cliche of every bad comic-book depiction of an Asian. He squinted at her from behind coke-bottle bottom, black-rimmed glasses. His myopic eyes were almost comically slanted, the epicanthic folds stretched and exaggerated. He was horrendously buck-toothed, his upper front two teeth extending entirely over his bottom lip, and his ears stuck out from under jet-black hair like twin handles on a jug. His skin was a bright, chrome yellow.

  I'd kill myself if I ever become a joker, she told herself. I wouldn't allow myself to be such a mockery of what I'd been.

  He sighed. "Yes, I'm called Chop-Chop. And you're ... ?"

  Hannah introduced herself and showed Tanaka her identification. "Father Squid gave me your name," she said as she took her tape recorder from her purse. "Do you mind?"

  Tanaka shrugged, though he looked uneasily at the recorder as Hannah set it on a pile of old invoices. "Sit down," he said. Just move those files off the chair. ... You know, I don't know anything about the fire. Just what was in the papers and on the tube. Why Father would send you to me ..?" He shrugged thin shoulders.

  "It wasn't exactly this fire that he thought you might know about," Hannah said, and with the words, she saw something move in Tanaka's face, a twitch of muscles around his mouth and a slow blink of both eyes. She softened her voice, tried to smile at him - there was something there, and she didn't want him to think he had to hide it. "Father ... he said to tell you that you could trust me."

  "How is he? I heard he got burned."

  "He'll be fine. He's lucky - minor burns and some smoke inhalation. They'll release him from the hospital in a day or two."

  Tanaka nodded. His skittish gaze moved away from her, as if he weren't comfortable looking at her. Which is about the way I feel about you, Hannah thought. "That's good. That's real good. I like the Father. I ... I almost went to mass that night. Got stuck here instead; a problem with a shipment. I manage the place now. Have for a long time ..." His voice seemed to run down. He looked at the pictures on the wall, at the file cabinet.

  "Father Squid said I should ask about a movie," she said, and that brought Tanaka's head around as if she'd reached out and turned it back herself. The eyes blinked again, like an owl's.

  "Jokertown," he said, flatly. It wasn't a question, b
ut Hannah nodded anyway. "I don't know why you should be interested in that. It was just a movie."

  "Exactly what I said. But Quasiman insisted that I ask. He seems to think that the fire wasn't just a random hate crime." Hannah bit her lip, drumming her fingers on the arms of the chair. "Look, I think this is probably just a dead end. Thank you for your time, and I'm sorry to have interrupted your busy day. ..." She started to reach for the tape recorder.

  "They were really all wrong, you know," Tanaka said.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "About the movie. They were all wrong." Tanaka looked at her through the thick windows of his glasses. "I was there. I know the truth. Did you see it? Did you see the movie? ..."

  "'Til I Kissed You"

  by William F. Wu

  I was working for the Four Seas Seafood Delivery Service. On a very hot, humid day, I remember taking a breather at the rear doors of the refrigerated delivery truck I was unloading. I was working at a corner bay near the fence that separated the yard from the street.

  A beat-up old radio blared from a shelf inside the bay. A news item about Bobby Fischer, the new U.S. chess champion, was followed by the melodic voice of Paul Anka singing "Lonely Boy": "I'm just a lonely boy, lonely and blue - ooh. I'm all alone, with nothing to do ..." Out where I was, the music sounded thin.

  It didn't matter. I hated Paul Anka.

  I had one more undelivered wooden crate to return to the freezers in the back of the warehouse. Full of frozen shrimp, and caked with bits of ice, it weighed only twenty pounds, but these last few had felt like a ton. I put my arms around it, but motion on the sidewalk caught my eye, and I turned to look.

  A teen-aged girl, a nat, had stopped on the sidewalk. She was looking at me through the gate of the chainlink fence.

  I usually turned away from strange nats, being deeply embarrassed by my appearance. As you can see, it's a racial caricature of both the Japanese and the Chinese from World War II. I had stopped growing during the previous year at five feet in height, and kind of chubby. The only choice I had about my appearance was my haircut, which was a bristly flattop.