Wild Cards VIII: One-Eyed Jacks

by George R. R. Martin

  Jerry sat in the lobby, paging through the sports section of the Times. He’d changed his eyes and hair to brown and darkened his skin. His bone structure was thicker. The Knicks were definitely going to make the playoffs. As long as they didn’t wash out in the first round, especially to Boston, he could live with whatever happened.

  He hadn’t turned up thing one on Latham. St. John didn’t even have a police record, so he was obviously as sharp as Kenneth said. Might as well shadow him and see if he could come up with something. Anything Jerry could uncover he’d turn over to Kenneth. That way, if Latham decided to up the stakes, Kenneth could match him.

  The elevator pinged softly. Latham stepped out of the car, alone. Jerry carefully folded up his paper, stood, and followed him into the street.

  It was warm and breezy outside. The sky over Manhattan was clear. The sidewalks, unfortunately, were not. Latham was walking fast and Jerry had to push and shove to keep him in sight. Latham crossed the street at the corner, trotting out onto the asphalt just as the sign across the street started blinking DON’T WALK. Jerry knifed through the crowd, but before he could get across, the traffic surged in front of him.

  Jerry stood at the corner, bouncing up and down on his toes. Latham got into a black Cadillac parked in a tow-away zone. There were two young boys in the front seat, and a girl in the back with Latham. The girl had spiky black hair and looked vaguely familiar, but at this distance most people did. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. They were still kissing when the light changed and the Caddy whipped out into the street. It was gone before Jerry could get a license-plate number.

  He changed back in the first-floor men’s room. Nobody noticed that the person who went in didn’t look at all like the person who came out. Nobody ever noticed. That was one good thing about present-day New York. He checked himself in the mirror on the way out. “Just call me Mr. Nobody,” he said. The name felt more appropriate than he wanted it to.

  Tachyon was giving Blaise a lecture of some sort. The boy looked like a pit bull who’d just taken a beating from his master, mad and ready to get even.

  “Not now, Jeremiah,” Tachyon said. “Family discussion.”

  Blaise gave Jerry a contemptuous look. “Yeah, you don’t belong here.”

  Tachyon reached over with his good hand and grabbed Blaise by the chin. “That will be quite enough. Apologize to Mr. Strauss.”

  Blaise set his jaw and stared at his grandfather in hateful silence.

  “I’ll see you some other time,” Jerry said, backing out.

  Tachyon turned Blaise loose and shook his head apologetically. “Soon, I hope. You’ve just caught me at a bad time.”

  Jube the Walrus was standing by the curb when Jerry stepped outside the clinic. His Hawaiian print shirt was a recognizable beacon against the gray of Jokertown.

  “Did you hear the one about the guy who played center on the joker basketball team?” the Walrus asked.

  “Nope,” Jerry said.

  “He was a seven-footer, but only five feet tall.” Jube smiled around his tusks. “Want a Cry?”

  Jerry had started to shake his head when he saw the DOUBLE JUMPER INCIDENT headline. He’d been so involved with snooping on Latham that he hadn’t paid attention to what was going on in the world. “Sure.” He dug out his wallet and handed Jube a twenty. “Don’t bother with the change. What do you know about these jumpers?”

  Jube shrugged. “Nothing that isn’t in the paper. There hadn’t been an incident in a while, I thought maybe we were through with those kids.”

  “Me, too,” Jerry said.

  “Sure you don’t want your change?” The Walrus hadn’t tucked the bill away yet.

  “Nah. Just let me know if you hear anything else. I know where to find you.” Jerry raised his arm as a cab rounded the corner.

  “Will do. Did you hear the one about the joker cabdriver?”

  “No.” Jerry had a feeling he was going to.

  The Devil’s Triangle

  by Melinda M. Snodgrass

  HER FINGERS TWINED, WARM and a little dry, through his. Each undulating rise and fall of the horse pulled them apart. Skin sliding on skin. Then the midpoint when for an instant they were side by side, poised in the moment with no retreat.

  Tachyon half opened his eyes and watched the colored lights of the carousel whirl past. The music was a little sharp, a little tinny, but it was a waltz.

  And in his dreams they were dancing.

  He cautiously turned his head, and with that unspoken communication that had arced between them from the moment of their first meeting, she, too, was turning her head. The fine bones of her face were etched in the lights of a Coney Island ride, the eye patch a dark scar on that beautiful face. A deformity, yes, but an honorable one. A wound won in battle. Even on Takis one might be tempted to keep the scars, not replace the missing eye.

  The music was slowing, the horses’ eager spring dying to an awkward sad sigh as the ride came to an end. Without thinking, Tach patted the arching neck of his steed. His artificial hand struck the wood of the carousel horse, producing an ugly hollow tone.

  The violence of his reaction was wearily familiar. Stomach closing into a tight ball, jamming itself against the back of the spine, nausea like a physical pain. Cody’s hands cupped his face, but there was no gentleness in the touch.

  “Cut it out. You lost a hand. He could have gutted you. I lost an eye. The bullet could have blown my damn head off. If you’re smart, you’re grateful to just fucking be alive.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not normally a whiner.”

  “Yes, you are.” She smiled to take away the sting. “You’re always agonizing about what can’t be fixed. The past is dead, and the future ain’t here yet. The best we can do is live for the moment, Tachyon.”

  They started walking down the midway. The air was redolent with the smell of stale grease, corn dogs, cotton candy. Overhead the sky was a diffuse milky white as the high clouds reflected back the lights of New York. Barkers squalled from their cheap and gaudy arcades.

  “See Tiny Tina, the world’s smallest horse.”

  “Three balls for a dollar. Knock over the milk bottles, and a prize is yours.”

  Screams from the more garishly neon-decorated rides ripped the night air. The Parachute Jump blossomed like an exotic lily against the night sky. Tiny figures plummeted toward the ground only to be caught by the billowing of a parachute. There was something almost grotesquely maternal about the gigantic ride dropping its little chutes like seedlings around its looming bulk.

  Tachyon tore his gaze away from the Jump and asked, “Where did they say they were going?”

  “The Zipper,” Cody said.

  “Dreadful.”

  “They’re boys.”

  The couple stopped at the entrance to the ride. Rock music assaulted the ears, the bass line vibrating in the ground itself. The little cars were opening, spilling their stumbling, tottering passengers like peas from a pod. Blaise had his arm around Chris. The human boy was staggering, but Blaise, his hair almost scarlet under the lights, was fully in control. There was a wild light in his dark eyes, and his teeth gleamed.

  “What did you think?” asked Blaise.

  “Damn … that was awesome,” replied Chris.

  Tachyon and Cody exchanged glances at the way the child had awkwardly prefaced the sentence with the cuss word.

  Boys into men, thought Tachyon. So difficult a transition.

  “Chris is what? Thirteen?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Cody.

  “At thirteen I was just emerging from the women’s quarters.”

  “That’s lousy planning. Just when a boy wants to be around girls, you separate them.” She studied her adolescent son now exchanging playful blows with Blaise. “On second thought, considering the raging hormones at that age, maybe it’s a good thing—before any ad hoc biology lessons can begin.”

  “We have toys for that.”

  “What!�
�

  He caught her thought of outrageous sexual implements. “Not those kind of toys, living toys.”

  “I think that’s worse.”

  She walked away to join her son, and Tachyon chewed on his lower lip. She was a strong woman with strong attitudes. Had his flippant remark offended her? Made her think that he regarded her as a toy? He hurried after the threesome wondering how to make amends.

  The boys were walking across each other’s lines, each trying to draw Cody’s attention. Blaise danced out in front of her, walking backward with easy hip-swinging grace, somehow avoiding the oncoming crowds.

  Maybe he has more telepathy than I think, Tachyon mused as he studied that lean figure. At fourteen Blaise was already three inches taller than his grandsire, and already showed signs of developing a linebacker’s shoulders, and the whip-lean hip of the true athlete.

  And you’re having a hell of a time taking him during your karate workouts, a disquieting voice reminded him.

  Tachyon shook off the worry. Blaise had been much better since Cody had entered their lives. Putting aside that it was a celibate relationship, it had all the qualities of a marriage. Cody alternately scolded and mothered Blaise, and he loved it. Her interest in the boy had soothed his mercurial disposition. In fact, it had been months since Tach had felt actively afraid of his grandchild.

  “Cody,” Blaise was saying. “Would you like me to win you a stuffed toy? I can do it.” He jerked his head toward the shooting gallery.

  Tachyon stepped up to join them. Cocked a grin up at Cody. “Perhaps you better rely upon me. I’ve been at this a little longer than he has.”

  Blaise frowned, and Tach felt a flare of embarrassment. Prancing and snorting in front of his fourteen-year-old grandson. Who was in competition with whom?

  The woman sniffed. “Thanks boys, but I’ll win one for myself.” She allowed her fingers to ruffle lightly across the curls on the top of his head. Tach felt as if his lungs had been replaced with stones. It was tough to draw a breath.

  “A contest,” said Blaise, his eyes bright.

  The three males followed Cody to the gallery and laid down their money. She was already testing the weight of the weapon. Tach hefted the rifle. It was awkward left-handed. Despite his thrice-weekly sessions at the range he still had much to relearn.

  The operator fired up his machine, and a line of rampant bears trundled across the back wall. Blaise and Chris blazed away. Blaise was better than the human boy, but neither of them succeeded in scoring the requisite number to continue. Blaise threw down the rifle and backed off, muttering petulantly in French.

  Tachyon and Cody stepped up to the counter. Began firing. The operator stared openmouthed at their competence. Charging bears fell supine onto all fours and were swept away. The numbers mounted. Chris’s cheeks were red with excitement. He hung close to his mother’s left side. Blaise’s glance was smoldering fire between Tachyon’s shoulder blades.

  Tachyon had missed two shots. Cody only one. One more and he was out. He sighted, drew in a breath, held it, squeezed the trigger. The bear remained smugly, stubbornly upright. It seemed to be sneering as it rounded the corner. Tachyon laid down the rifle. Cody kept shooting. It took five more minutes before she had finally missed three shots.

  The man pulled down an enormous white tiger and handed it with a bow to Cody. Tach as a consolation prize got Roger Rabbit.

  The man and woman, with their children in tow, headed back into the shifting color of the midway.

  “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” Tachyon scolded as they waited for Blaise and Chris to buy cotton candy.

  “For what?”

  “Demolishing my fragile Takisian ego.”

  “Takisian, my aunt Betsy. Male ego.” She gave him an ironic glance out of her one eye. “Going to win a prize for the little lady,” she mocked.

  “Be kind, I am a one-handed shootist.”

  “And I’m a one-eyed shootist. So much for excuses.”

  But Tachyon had lost his taste for the banter. He was reliving a nightmare. Blood and bone fragments fountaining into the air. Agony, agony, agony!

  Her cheek was warm against his. Her arm a welcome support.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Memory,” he forced out. “We remember more clearly than you humans. It’s our curse.” He drew his thumb across his forehead. It came away wet. “Oh Ideal, I am sorry, it is passing now.”

  Her hand slid down and gathered his prosthetic hand into hers. “You remember the pain…?” Her voice trailed away in a question.

  “As if it were yesterday.”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

  Her lips were against his cheek. Whispering the words. The warm breath puffed against his chilled skin, and suddenly Tachyon realized he was in the circle of her arms. Since that day at the clinic they had never done more than touch hands. Now her arms were around him again. Their thighs were lightly touching, and he had a full erection.

  Simultaneously they began muttering apologies and inanities and backed away from each other. Cody hurriedly swept up the boys. Tachyon went in search of a men’s room.

  “Meet you at the car,” he called to them as he fled in search of cold water to splash on his face and a long pee to relieve the pressure—sort of.

  Roger Rabbit sprawled on the sofa in the office. The tensor lamp threw an almost painful yellow light across the welter of papers on the desk. The rest of the room was in shadow. Tachyon rubbed gritty eyes, picked up his fountain pen, and laboriously scrawled his signature across the bottom of a grant request. His prosthetic right hand was serving as a paperweight at the top of the page.

  Most of the grants had dried up after the bloody events at the Democratic National Convention last July. This grant was for fifteen thousand dollars from the greater New York Franco-American society. Fifteen thousand dollars would keep the Blythe van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic open and operating for about two hours and twenty-seven minutes, but all the little thousands added up to joker lives saved.

  Tachyon heard the distinctive quick tap of her heels in the hall outside his office. The door opened, and Cody was there, backlit by the fluorescent bulbs in the hall.

  “What in hell are you doing here? It’s two A.M.”

  “And why are you here, Madam Surgeon?”

  “I had patients to check on.”

  “As do I.”

  “Those”—she waved a hand toward the paperwork—“are not worth killing yourself over.” She crossed to the desk. “People we either cure or bury. These”—she swept up a handful of paper from the desk, crumpled them and dropped them into the trash can—“we handle in a different way.”

  “Cody, behave yourself.” Tachyon dug out the abused paperwork.

  She cocked a hip up onto the desk. Tachyon’s mouth went dry. At the amusement park she had been wearing blue jeans: now, unaccountably, she had changed into a skirt. Her pose left a lot of thigh visible. Tachyon was noticing.

  She noticed him noticing and smiled. With the eye patch and the scar it gave her a dangerous predatory look. But sexy: God, she was sexy.

  “You had one hell of an erection at the carnival,” she said conversationally. “Made me realize just where I stood with you.”

  After swallowing his stomach, Tach forced his voice into the same matter-of-fact tone she had used. “Cody, we have been working together for almost a year. Frankly I’m surprised at my forbearance, and I can hardly be blamed for my body’s betrayal.”

  “I’m a professional. Soldier, doctor, your chief of surgery.”

  “And a woman,” he reminded softly.

  “And you want me.”

  “I would be a liar if I denied it.” He picked up his hand and fitted it onto the stump of his right arm. “Could you ever want me?”

  “I don’t know. I’m nervous about getting too close to you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve had too many women. I don’t want to be just another notch on your
gun.”

  “You make me sound very spoiled … heedless.”

  “You are. In some ways you’re a real user.”

  “As long as we’re being this honest—you should know that I have been incredibly forbearing and patient with you. I have been willing to wait—”

  She slid off the desk. “Yeah, but I’m worth it,” she interrupted.

  “God damn it, woman. I want you!”

  “Tough. Until you lose the revolving door, I’m not interested. If I walk through your bedroom door, I better be the only one.”

  “What are you asking for?”

  “Commitment. It’s an important word to me. I’m the most loyal friend you’ll ever have, Tachyon. But if you betray me I’ll kill you. Are you still certain you want me walking through that bedroom door?”

  “I don’t know. You frighten me … a little.”

  “Good. The game’s not big enough if it doesn’t scare you.”

  She suddenly leaned in and kissed him quick and hard on the lips.

  “What was that for?” Tachyon asked.

  “For being man enough to admit that we women really are the more dangerous sex.”

  He combed back his hair. “You have me totally confused.”

  “Good.”

  The door closed softly behind her.

  Tiny, gaudily dressed figures whirled past in a kaleidoscope of colors. The rifle butt was slick against his cheek. Her eyes warm on the back of his neck. He squeezed convulsively and bullets sprayed like light rays from the barrel of the gun. Tiny Tachyons shattered and died.

  The man was handing down a gigantic toy. He turned to face her. Her expression of pride and love warmed him. Her hand reached out, and stroked down his cheek, unzipped his pants, pulled out his penis. Her lips were hot on the head of his cock. His heart squeezed into a tight painful ball.

  Sperm jetted hot and sticky across his belly. Blaise sat up in bed, breath coming in hoarse gasps.

  Cody, Cody, Cody.

  Cody was just leaving as Blaise and Chris arrived at the apartment. She kissed Chris on the cheek, lifted Blaise’s Dodgers cap, and ruffled his hair. Fire shot through him, and he stared at her with hot, suggestive eyes. Blaise noticed with satisfaction that she turned away quickly to gather up her purse and briefcase.