“Is it included with the room?”
“Yeah.” Idly, Ben slid a hand up her inner thigh to twirl her blond pubic hair around one finger. A real blonde. “It’s a cramped, disgusting little room, but the landlord pays the heat. The radiator is hard to control, so I’d rather have it too hot than freeze to death.”
“Makes sense to me.”
He studied the skin over her pelvis and upper thighs. She was so white that she didn’t have even the slightest hint of an old tan. Maybe she couldn’t tan at all.
“What’s downstairs? It was dark when we came in.”
“Grocery store.” And she didn’t seem to mind lying there talking while still spread wide open. She was really white. And cleanly, purely pink.
“A Chinese grocery store?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “You can get anything there, really.”
“Do you mind my asking questions?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t this room bother you? I mean, it’s so small. You don’t even have a phone, do you?”
“I hang out in the Twisted Dragon. Anybody wants me, they come there. Or call. I just sleep here.”
“Or screw girls here.” She giggled playfully, quivering her tits.
“Yeah.” He had picked her up a few hours ago in the Twisted Dragon. She had wandered in alone, wide-eyed and curious, her vulnerability plain to see. Among the street toughs and jokers, this slightly chubby and very attractive nat had turned most of the heads in the place—but Ben was under no illusion that she was very bright.
Another victim. Ben, do you simply hate all women? Or just yourself, even more?
Ben clenched his teeth against his sister Vivian’s accusation. It seemed to echo in his mind. She had made it many times.
“I’ve never been to Chinatown before,” Sally said shyly.
“Or Jokertown.”
She shook her head tightly, with a self-conscious smile, her big eyes glowing.
“And you want someone to show you around.” Ben gave her a cynical smile.
Her face was pink now, too.
You like them dumb and helpless, don’t you? Vivian had said that plenty of times, too. Not to mention the impressive bra size.
“I want a drink.” Ben pushed Sally’s outside leg away and got up. Even the aged hardwood floor was fairly warm. He picked through the clothes he had scattered earlier and found his underwear. It was the Munsingwear brand, with the pouch in the front. He began to dress.
Ben put on a black turtleneck over a gray thermal shirt and blue jeans and black boots. As an afterthought he added a light blue sweater. Once he was dressed, he pulled a small piece of white paper wrapped in a wad of tissue out of his pants pocket.
It was an intricately folded sculpture, one he had been practicing more often lately, representing a Chinese dragon. Satisfied that it was in good condition, he stashed it again and picked up a brush from the little table that had come with the room. He paused when he saw her looking at him. She hadn’t moved.
“Do you want me to go with you?” she asked.
“Don’t care.” He turned away to face the small mirror standing on the table and brushed his hair back into place.
“Do you want me to stay here?”
“Don’t care.”
“Can I sleep here tonight?”
“Don’t care.”
He tossed down the brush and shrugged into his padded brown stressed-leather jacket. JETBOY STYLE! the poster for the jacket had said. Fadeout’s money had paid for it after a recent job.
“Why do you wear those baggy pants?” She giggled again.
Ben’s jaw tightened. “I’m going down to the Twisted Dragon.”
Stung, she watched him, only her blue eyes moving as he stomped to the door.
He knew his lack of interest hurt her more than any rejection would have; he didn’t care about that, either. Nothing of value was in the room for her to take. He left the door standing open without looking back.
Ben paused just inside the door of the Twisted Dragon to brush snow off his shoulders and to shuck his leather jacket. The snowfall outside was gentle and the breeze not too cold, really, but he was so used to his overly heated room that the night seemed colder than it was. Anyhow, the twinkling, colorful Christmas lights over the stores and other decorations in their darkened windows had put him in a bad mood. It was a white people’s holiday that had nothing to do with his heritage.
I like Christmas, anyway. Vivian always answered his objections the same way, every year.
Even in the Twisted Dragon, a tape of instrumental versions of Christmas carols was playing faintly in the background. A two-foot green plastic Christmas tree on one end of the bar blinked red and green lights. He started down the aisle away from it.
“Hey, Dragon.”
Ben turned again.
“You know Christian? He wants to see you.” Dave Yang, a short, stocky Immaculate Egret with a frequent but forced smile had come down the aisle behind Ben and now jerked his thumb back over his shoulder.
Ben studied the phony smile carefully. Then he glanced at the tall British mercenary with pale blond hair who was lounging on a bar stool. He faced this way with a smirk as he leaned back against the bar. Christian was a new player in the Shadow Fist organization.
“I met him once; that’s all.” Tingling with tension, Ben followed Dave back up to the bar and eyed Christian without a word.
“And what do you drink, Mr. Dragon?” Christian raised an eyebrow.
“Bailey’s on ice.” Ben did not relax.
The bartender nodded and turned to get it.
“A sweet tooth, eh?” Christian laughed, crinkling his lean, weathered features. “The mercs I know would call that a lady’s drink, but no fear. You require a new twist on the old joke: ‘What does a man drink, who can turn into a tiger or dragon or any other animal at will? Answer: Anything he wants to.’”
Ben clenched his jaw. Under the smooth words, the Britisher’s tone was taunting.
“So,” Christian continued. “Have you reversed your name Chinese-style? Is it Mr. Dragon or Mr. Lazy?”
“What did you want to see me about?” Ben demanded.
“And they say we Brits have no sense of humor. Ah, well.” Christian sipped his drink, then turned to the Immaculate Egret as he swirled the ice in his scotch and water. The bottle of Glenlivet was on the bar behind him. “What are you drinking? Plum wine or some such?”
“Bourbon and water,” said Dave, grinning again. “You buying?”
“One Beam’s Choice and water,” said Christian over his shoulder. He did not bother to make sure the bartender heard him. “You mustn’t be so vague, or people will hand you cheap goods. Now, then.” His tone hardened. “Leave us.”
Without taking his eyes off Christian, Ben saw that the Immaculate Egret walked away without a word. He hated to see the arrogant white man assume that kind of power here in Chinatown. Christian had all these Immaculate Egrets, members of a Chinatown street gang, doing his bidding without question. Still, the move told Ben how much power Christian had here. He would not be a man to cross in a room full of Immaculate Egrets.
“Sit down, Dragon. We have business.”
Ben hesitated. Since joining the Shadow Fist organization, he had taken all his orders from Fadeout. He had never worked for anyone else.
“You have heard, haven’t you, that I am an authoritative member of the umbrella organization that runs this part of town?”
Ben’s jaw tightened again. Christian might be drawing him away from Fadeout or this might be some kind of loyalty test Fadeout had set up. For that matter, with Fadeout’s ace ability to turn invisible, he could be sitting undetected on the damn bar right now observing Ben’s every move.
Ben shrugged elaborately and sat down, patting the pocket with his paper sculpture and Cub Scout knife out of nervous habit. He would have to watch himself very carefully.
Christian spun his stool and set down his glass, hunche
d confidentially over the bar. “I want you to take a package out to Ellis Island. You are not to report this message or this instruction to anyone at all. Understood?”
Ben nodded, staring at the bar in front of him. He understood; whether or not he would obey was another matter. When the bartender brought his drink, he left it untouched.
“And you will get it from the Demon Princes.”
Ben looked at him in surprise. “You’re doing business with a joker street gang?”
“They hit a Shadow Fist courier this afternoon and took our package.”
“So you want me to clean up your mess.”
“Indeed.” Christian snickered and ran a callused hand through his pale blond hair. “Our Immaculate friends think of themselves as tough, but they are really just a well-armed adolescent mob. I’m told the Demon Princes are the largest and meanest independent gang in Jokertown.”
“That’s right.” Ben knew they allowed only jokers in their gang and were led by a guy named Lucifer. They were involved in petty crime and small protection rackets, but had a code of no violence against jokers.
“Our amateur commandos can probably take them, but one never knows. You do it instead.”
“What kind of package am I looking for?”
“A padded manila envelope with blue powder in plastic bags inside.” He gestured with his hands, indicating a size that would just fit into the patch pockets of Ben’s jacket.
It was probably the new designer drug called rapture, Ben guessed.
A drug runner, Vivian’s voice said disgustedly.
“Where are the Demon Princes?”
“Your problem, mate.”
“How do I get to the island?”
“Am I your mum? Make like a birdie and fly, for all I care. Or swim like a fish, but mind the pollution.”
Ben’s stomach tightened at the man’s sneering tone, but he said nothing.
“You haven’t touched your drink.”
“Have we finished business?”
“That we have.”
Ben shrugged and took a swallow. He tried to think of something to say; if he could draw Christian out, he might learn more about where he stood. However, he couldn’t think of anything.
The big problem was that he didn’t know exactly how powerful Christian really was. He certainly didn’t doubt that the man was a major player in the Shadow Fist organization. Of course, no one could force Ben to follow his orders tonight, but he had no idea what the consequences would be if he refused.
Christian seemed to have all the Immaculate Egrets here now jumping to do his bidding; if he decided to eliminate Ben, he seemed to have plenty of soldiers to pull it off. On the other hand, the courier job sounded nasty, too. Finally he decided that he would definitely be better off doing the job and keeping an eye on the newcomer in the future. At least, it was the better of two bad options.
“I must confess to a certain fascination with your name,” said Christian. “Picked it yourself, I assume?”
“Yeah. I took it from a guy out of Chinese literature. He was a thief, but sort of a good guy.”
“Ah! A kind of yellow Robin Hood.”
Ben smiled slightly. Some knowledge of his heritage was one of his few sources of pride. Even most of the Chinatown people around him didn’t know the origin of his nickname.
If only you lived up to the original Lazy Dragon, Vivian said with a sneer in his mind. You don’t deserve your name.
“Enough chitchat.” Christian drained his glass and set it down with a decisive clunk. Without another word, he got up and sauntered into the back, toward the storerooms and kitchen.
Ben wouldn’t learn anything more from Christian tonight. He took one more gulp of his drink and slid off the stool, moving to the restroom. His face and throat were warm with the liqueur.
Inside, he took the small oblong piece of soap from the dirty sink and wrapped it in toilet paper. Then he stuck it into another pants pocket. Supplied with potential reinforcement, he returned to the bar to pull his jacket on again.
More than a few of the Immaculate Egrets glanced up at him from their booths and tables, but no one moved or spoke. Ben knew from their studied reserve that they were aware he was doing Christian’s bidding. He had no idea if they approved or not.
If not, they might express their opinion with Uzis sometime later tonight.
Ben stepped outside and drew in the sharp, cold air as he glanced around. Only a few people were in sight, all of them down the street toward other Jokertown nightspots. The snow was falling softly in big, wet flakes. A light film of white snow covered the sidewalk and street, darkened by occasional footsteps and the streaks of tire tracks.
The snow on the sidewalk just outside the Twisted Dragon was stamped to water by many feet, but one very large pair of footprints was accompanied by the twin tracks of a small two-wheeled cart. The Walrus, who had his newsstand over on Hester and the Bowery, was making his nightly rounds of Jokertown bars, hawking papers and magazines. He wasn’t far ahead, by the look of the tracks, and he often stopped to talk affably with his customers.
Ben hurried after him.
No one can save you from yourself, Ben. Vivian’s voice had thankfully been out of his mind while he had been measuring Leslie Christian. Now it came back with a reminder no less condescending than Christian himself. His sister had never approved of anything he did.
“Shut up,” he muttered out loud as he walked down the deserted sidewalk.
Ben was in a vise; he had no question about that. Fadeout, for whom he had been a top aide for some time now, was on one side. The other side remained a mystery.
Get out, Ben. Get out of this life right now. Just run for it. They’ll never know what happened to you. Vivian had said that more than a few times, too.
“I’m no coward,” Ben muttered aloud. It came out in more of a whine than he had intended.
It’s not cowardice. It’s the smart thing to do.
Ben gritted his teeth and tried to shut out the voice as he walked faster. He failed.
If Fadeout is testing your loyalty, then he represents both sides and you’ll pass the test by reporting this mission to him right away.
“Obviously,” Ben growled under his breath.
If Christian is testing your loyalty to Fadeout for someone else, or for his own purposes, you flunk the test by reporting to Fadeout.
Ben hurried faster; he was almost running now from the insistent voice.
Then again, someone might have decided to take you out completely by sending you on an impossible mission, or a setup of some kind.
The mission could be suicide … reporting to Fadeout could be suicide; so could not reporting it.
Fadeout could be watching right now.
Suddenly panicked, Ben whirled and looked around. Fadeout could turn invisible, but he couldn’t avoid leaving footprints in the snow. None had followed Ben out of the Twisted Dragon.
The sound of Vivian’s giggle echoed in his mind.
“Shut up!” he shouted aloud to the empty street. Angry at himself now, Ben spun again and strode fast through the falling snow. Nobody was going to scare him off. He would eat Demon Princes for a late-night snack.
He finally spied the Walrus at Chatham Square, waddling out of the offices of the Jokertown Cry. As always, he was in shirt sleeves, a rotund figure of oily blue-black flesh barely more than five feet tall. Tonight he wore a red Hawaiian shirt with orange, blue, and green birds of paradise all over it and he pulled his little wire cart behind him toward Ernie’s.
Get out while you can, Ben. If you die, I die, too.
Ignoring Vivian’s voice in his mind, Ben jogged carefully after the Walrus in the snow. He didn’t know him well, but they had spoken a few times. The Walrus was an endless font of jokes and gossip; everyone, including Ben, liked him.
“Hi,” Ben said breathlessly as he slowed down to fall in step alongside the Walrus. The Walrus knew him only as a frequent patron of the Twisted Dra
gon, in his human form.
“’Evening, Ben,” said the Walrus, looking at him from under a battered porkpie hat. Tufts of stiff red hair stuck out from under it. Twin tusks curved down around his mouth. “I sold all my Chinese papers back at the Twisted Dragon. May I interest you in something else?”
“Forget it; I can’t read Chinese, anyway. But, uh, I need to find some Demon Princes.”
“Mmm, well. They aren’t exactly customers of mine. I don’t know as how they read. No, sir.”
“Come on, Walrus. You hear everything.”
“An urgent matter, eh? You’re running around on a snowy night like this, during the holidays and all.”
“Look, I don’t have a lot of money. Right now, that is. But my time always comes.”
“I’m just a talkative cuss making rounds. No money necessary.” The Walrus nodded pleasantly. “But I don’t know that I can help you, Benjamin.”
Ben shrugged, trying hard to come up with something he could trade.
“I see the Twisted Dragon has a new regular,” said the Walrus airily, looking up at the swirling snow. “English, by his accent.”
That was what he wanted. Ben hesitated; talking about the Shadow Fist Society was never a good idea. Then he decided to take the risk—he was in serious trouble anyhow, and wasn’t even sure just how bad it was. “Leslie Christian. Highly placed, just moved right in. Word is he tells stories of being a merc all over the world.”
“And I hear a note of disapproval.”
Ben shrugged.
“I tried selling papers tonight at Hairy’s Kitchen. Business was bad, though. Most of the patrons were illiterate, I think.”
No, Ben. You don’t owe Christian anything.
“Thanks, Walrus.” Ben grinned and spun in a little twist of snow. As the Walrus continued to pull his little cart down the sidewalk, Ben jogged the other way.
Ben, stop. I’ll stop you. Somehow, someway, I’ll stop you. If not tonight, someday. Stop ruining our life and our home!
Ben had heard it all before. He jogged on down the cold streets. For now, at least, the voice stopped.
Outside Hairy’s Kitchen, Ben slowed down to let some pedestrians go by and then looked in the big picture window. Eight Demon Princes were lounging around a big round table at the back. Lucifer himself wasn’t there; the guy in charge had a head that looked like it was covered with purple grapes, except for dark circles for his eyes and mouth, and he wore an expensive black leather jacket. Next to him, a companion with a flattened fish head like that of a flounder stuffed pizza into his mouth with hands shaped like split, mitten-shaped fins.
Wild Cards VIII: One-Eyed Jacks Page 16
