It was a good song, but a bad lie. “I just threw a kid from the car?”
“Oh what does it matter?!” Asta screamed, exasperated. “He’s still fucking poisonous! These bastards sell drugs! You think they’d think twice about using a kid as an assassin?”
She had a point, but not one that Howard wanted to concede. He didn’t want to hurt a kid and prayed that he hadn’t.
Then the girl cried out, “Juan! Juan!”
Rita of the Impossibles or one of Archbishop Fitszmorris’s other potential patron saints of wild cards must have been listening: Howard saw a flashing figure leap from tree to tree, a swatch of black shadows and blue sky, perfectly camouflaged when clinging to the canopy but visible when he crisscrossed over the roadway, the frog boy leaping with the incredible jumping power of a tree frog but scaled to human size. Physically impossible by the square-cube law, of course, but like Peregrine’s flight, that went out the window when the wild card entered the picture.
Butterflies fluttered through the canopy as well, moths disturbed from the bark as the human tree frog leapt from branch to branch, a gathering army—and visible among that army was its general, a shadowy figure like a wraith that formed for an instant wherever a coven of witch moths gathered together.
The Jeep came out of the jungle into the dazzling brilliance above the tree line and the panoramic view of the valley, climbing up the mountain to Machu Picchu, ancient citadel of the Incas. Howard squinted against the glare, half of his sunglasses missing.
If it were some other time, Howard would have liked to stop and take pictures, admire the grandeur of the long-fallen fortress city, the gray stone of its walls and battlements and the green grass of its squares and avenues. But as it stood, only one sight mattered: a helicopter waited in the central plaza, three figures beside it. “There!” Asta pointed. “Phuc sent them!”
Howard was wondering who this Phuc was, since he hadn’t asked Asta anything about her patron, only assuming it was some ballet angel she’d met on the casting couch, and it wasn’t as if he had any call to be judging about that. But the sobbing girl was another matter. “¡Por favor, déjenme ir!” she begged as Howard pulled the Jeep to a stop. “¡Por favor!”
Asta rolled her eyes. “Now she speaks Spanish.”
“¡No entiendo!”
“Give her a break,” Howard said. “She’s been through a lot.” He turned to the girl. “It’s okay, honey,” he told Lorra, wiping the tears from her cheeks as gently as he could with his rough hands. “It’s okay.”
The tears pooled on his finger but refused to go away, crystallizing in an instant. In the cracks between the warts, his finger felt slightly numb. Howard looked down. It wasn’t sequins that covered the girl’s dress, but frozen tears. The back of the Jeep was awash with them, like the ones cried by the good sister in “Toads and Diamonds.”
Howard then lifted the tear on his finger and touched it to his tongue. It tasted bittersweet and slightly ethereal, but numbness spread out from where his tongue touched it.
Not diamonds. Crystals of rock cocaine.
“She’s Cocamama,” Howard realized. “That’s not just a code name, that’s her ace.”
“So I lied.” Asta shrugged. “Most of what I told you is still true. She’s not a drug lord’s daughter, but she was stolen from the Gambiones’ associates, and if they couldn’t get her back, they were willing to kill the goose that laid the golden egg. And if they did get her back, they were going to lock her in a dungeon to spin straw into gold, or turn sugar into cocaine, or some other fairytale shit. We still rescued her.”
“Maybe,” Howard allowed, “but who the fuck’s this Mr. Phuc? Another drug lord?”
“He’s a wise investor with a diversified portfolio,” Asta explained diplomatically, “and he takes good care of his people. Lorra won’t want for anything, and neither will you.” She grinned. “Kien can be particularly grateful, especially if you have special talents.”
Howard remained unconvinced, so Asta added, “Listen, when I called Kien from Cuba, he was horrified that the Gambiones were thinking of killing such a talented little girl just because they were pissed that some ace ganked a bunch of their boys to steal her.” Asta uncuffed Lorra from the roll bar. “And I wasn’t making that shit up about el Emisario Negro and the assassin frog. Bunch of Mafiosi started bleeding out the eyes after getting stung by some damn caterpillars.” Asta clapped the handcuff to her own wrist. “Hortencio was scared spitless.”
The air about the girl sparkled like a cloud of glitter, and she put her hand on Asta. “None of that!” Asta slapped the child. “I’ve done more coke than you can dish out, sugar.”
Lorra began to cry, cocaine diamonds raining to the grass.
“Let her go,” Howard growled.
“What, and leave her here with killers and assassins? I don’t think so.” Asta looked bemused. “I take it you’re really not interested in joining Kien’s organization?”
“Looks that way.”
“Not even if we’re still occasionally fuck buddies?”
Howard was tempted, if for the barest second, but still felt bad about that. “No.”
“Your loss,” Asta sighed, “but I was afraid you’d say that. Jack’s a blabbermouth and a boy scout too, but his biggest problem is that he’s invulnerable.” Asta smiled. “You’re not.” She raised her free hand in a theatrical gesture. “Ladies?”
There was the sound of guns cocking. Howard looked past Asta to see a trio of Asian women bearing high caliber rifles, elephant guns more than capable of bringing down an elephant and easily able to deal with a rhino. Or a troll.
Sound also issued from the helicopter, an overfamiliar holiday tune: Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy” from The Nutcracker Suite. Asta went up on pointe.
“Oh well,” she remarked as Howard became stricken. “I’d hoped to bring Kien a pet troll for Christmas too. I guess he’ll just have to make do with a magic crack whore.” She danced around the girl, pulling Lorra up by the handcuffs, forcing her to stand on tiptoe. “Practice, dear. Practice! You’ll never be a ballerina if you don’t do your stretches!”
Lorra cried as she was dragged toward the helicopter, trailing cocaine diamonds like breadcrumbs. Asta paused, letting the girl rest as she demonstrated how to do a dramatic kick.
That was a mistake. Lorra kicked her in the shins. Hard. Asta stumbled.
Howard wrenched his gaze away, hitting the ground behind the Jeep just as the Asian trio let loose with their elephant guns.
Bullets ripped into the side of the car. “Đu má! Đu má!” Asta shouted in what Howard guessed was Vietnamese as the tinkling bells of Tchaikovsky’s celesta tripled in volume. He looked under the car and saw five pairs of women’s feet getting into the helicopter.
Asta’s feet were immediately recognizable and anything but beautiful. They were twisted, as bruised and ugly as her soul.
The whup-whup-whup of helicopter rotors began, dirt and cocaine crystals blowing in all directions along with moths and butterflies as a great migration of dozens of species sacrificed themselves to the blades in a vain attempt to stop the helicopter from ascending. It rose nonetheless, and Howard did as well, dodging as one of the gunwomen took another shot.
The grass exploded inches behind him as a flash of lapis and jet hurtled through the air: Curare, landing on the side of the helicopter. The frog boy smeared his elongated fingers across the face of the gunwoman hanging out of the left door.
She froze, as paralyzed as Howard when he’d seen Asta’s dance.
Howard saw his chance. Ducking low to avoid the rotors of the rising helicopter, he ran and jumped, catching the left skid. He hauled himself up, grabbing the paralyzed gunwoman and tossing her aside—straight into the rotors as the helicopter tilted, weighed down by several hundred pounds of joker. An explosion of gore spattered the ground.
He tore open the door, slamming his fist across the cabin into the other gunwoman, smashing he
r into the far wall. Asta and the girl both screamed as Howard grabbed the bench they were buckled into and tore it free, bolts shearing, and pulled them backward out of the helicopter, falling to the plaza below, holding the bench above himself for the kid’s sake at least.
Howard landed like a rhino, flat on his back, the force of the fall knocking the wind out of him, the bench bouncing against his chest as Asta and Lorra screamed. He didn’t know how far he’d fallen. Farther than he’d ever fallen before.
Above him, whirling in the blue sky, he saw the helicopter, spinning higher, thousands of moths and butterflies swarming around it as a frog jumped free. The copter was then lost within the kaleidoscope of the Lepidoptera migration and tumbled out of his range of vision. A moment later, he heard an explosion, followed by the smell of burning gasoline and the burnt-hair stench of ten thousand burning insects.
Asta unbuckled herself and Lorra from the bench, dragging the girl free and limping a few steps away as the bench, now unoccupied, teeter-tottered atop Howard’s chest. Howard realized that he was still partially holding the bench with his right arm.
He pushed it aside as he sat up, watching as Curare crouched on a pile of ancient rubble, clutching the gray stones with his black and electric blue fingers and toes, blinking the nictitating membranes of his great golden eyes as he watched the kaleidoscope of butterflies funnel down in a vortex, swirling down and around, taking the shape of a hooded figure. Thousands of colored wings whirled inside, forming a rainbow-colored lining, the world’s most lavish living brocade, while the dark outer fabric was a mosaic of a thousand black witch moths with an owl butterfly as the figure’s face and two great white witch moths taking the place of hands.
“Forget you, Howard!” Asta raved, staggering painfully. “Forget you, you fucking frog! Forget you, you, you whatever you are!” she swore, pointing at the Messenger in Black. “Forget you, crack kid! I’m a fucking diva! I’m a fucking star!” She attempted to go up on pointe but stumbled, her shins still bleeding from where Lorra had kicked her. “Forget all of you!”
*Yes,* whispered the Messenger in Black in a voice made of the coordinated rustling of a thousand moth wings. *Yes.* *Forget.* *That is an excellent suggestion.…*
It drifted toward Asta and opened its robes, or its illusion of robes, the black witch moths that formed the sleeves and outer draperies floating aside like the Ghost of Christmas Present revealing Ignorance and Want. Howard could not see what the Messenger in Black revealed because of the angle, but whatever it was must have been terrible to behold. Asta stared aghast, her jaw dropping open. The specter pointed to her, and the white witch moth that served it as a hand flew out and into Asta’s open mouth.
The ballerina gasped and choked then fell over, motionless.
The Messenger in Black closed its robes, turning slightly. It buzzed and whispered, the rustling of moth wings seeming to form words again, but not in any language Howard could understand. However, the message was not intended for him. Lorra nodded and began to look through Asta’s pockets, producing a handcuff key, which she used to free herself.
She gave Fantasy one more kick for good measure, then ran over and embraced Curare. Her aura sparkled with white light as the droplets of milky poison transmuted to clear crystals.
The Messenger in Black turned to Howard, its white witch moth hands multiplying like a magician’s cards, for it again had two. *Mr. Mueller,* the figure whispered, spreading them wide in a gracious gesture, *I am grateful for your assistance with the recovery of my wards, and while I will not forget your transgressions, I must forgive them, for you were deceived. You acted with the best of intentions*—its false owl eyes regarded him—*for the most part.*
“Um, thanks.”
*I have been observing you and your companions during your passage through my demesne, and I must warn you that Fantasy is not the least duplicitous of your fellows. Her motives are base, but human. There is another who does not present the same face to the world as what my pretty ones have seen, and the face behind that face I shudder to describe.*
“Who?” Howard asked. “Why?”
*I dare not say, lest the eyes of that monstrous visage be drawn toward me and mine. I only give you a warning, and ask in exchange that you take Fantasy back with you. She will not remember the past day. Use your unquestioned honesty to weave some plausible lie to cover her misadventures. No one must suspect what has transpired here, for the protection of the children if nothing else.*
Howard glanced toward them, huddled together, clutching each other. “Tell them I’m sorry.”
The Messenger turned and buzzed in the same language the girl had spoken. She nodded solemnly then walked up, placing her arms around Howard’s neck and kissing his cheek. His neck numbed slightly where she touched him, and his cheek tingled as he rubbed the kiss in.
“When next we meet, may the circumstances be happier.”
With that, the Messenger in Black raised its arms, flowing up into a kaleidoscope of butterflies and moths, filling the sky in all directions, streaming away in all the colors of Lang’s Fairy Books: red, blue, yellow, pink, orange, crimson, lilac, and violet. Even green.
Cocamama embraced Curare, Lorra hugging Juan, and then the frog boy sprang, bearing his playmate away like some Bilbin illustration for a book of Andean folktales.
Howard looked at Asta’s unconscious form, still costumed as Ondine except for the cuts on her shins and the bruises on her feet. She looked like the Little Mermaid after the sea hag cursed her to feel each footstep on land as if she were walking on knives.
He’d never felt the Little Mermaid deserved that till now.
DECEMBER 20, 1986, EN ROUTE TO LA PAZ:
Billy Ray had located a key that unlocked the handcuffs Asta found herself in when she came to. The official story was that she’d succumbed to altitude sickness.
“So what’s the real story?” Digger Downs asked. The reporter had managed to be seated next to Fantasy, who was beside Howard for this leg of the flight.
“Wasn’t Billy going to sit with me?” Asta asked plaintively. “He was so sympathetic.…”
“Yeah, but someone spilled a Bloody Mary on him,” Downs told her. “Trust me, he’s going to be in the restroom for a while.”
Howard grinned. “Story’s exactly what I told you: I ditched the tour to go up to Aguas Calientes and try the hot springs. Hotel beds have been wrecking my back. Came out and found Asta wandering around in a daze with altitude sickness.”
“In handcuffs.”
Fantasy glared at him. “If any of that hits the papers, I’ll sue.”
“Freedom of the press,” Downs countered. “Bigger question is: Were they yours?”
She slapped him.
Downs rubbed his cheek. “Can I take that as a yes?”
Asta quivered with rage. “I’m the prima ballerina for the American Ballet Company! I know powerful people in New York! And I can have them squash you like a bug!”
She looked a bit troubled as she said the last. Downs echoed, “Like a bug?”
Asta looked more troubled, then sneezed. A dusting of iridescent white powder came out her nose, sparkling like the scales of moth wings.
She reached for a tissue and began to wipe it off, mortified. “Don’t you dare…,” she threatened. “One word.…”
“One word and I’ll be out of a job, because puppies are trained on yesterday’s newspapers, and you and your little Studio 54 habit? Old news, sheila. Old news.” Downs laughed. “Only thing that might make it sell is if you got some interesting nookie. Did you two…” He waggled his finger between her and Howard.
Asta’s expression went from mortified to revolted. “Me and … oh now you’ve gone from vile to simply ridiculous.” She turned to Howard and added, “No offense meant. You were very kind, and I’m certain you have many stellar qualities, but simple logistics…” She shook her head, unbuckled her seat belt, got up, and stalked toward the front of the cabin. “I’m finding Billy
.”
Downs peered after her. “I smell a story here, because I believe her but I don’t believe you, mate.” He glanced across the aisle to Howard. “And that doesn’t match up.” He tapped his finger on the side of his nose. “But I’m probably overthinking it. I’m guessing Fantasy couldn’t resist the all-you-can-snort coke buffet that was Peru and went to Aguas Caliente, and while you were there, you had every guy’s Fantasy—and by every guy’s Fantasy, I mean every guy. Am I right, mate?”
“Maybe.” Howard chuckled. “But a gentleman never tells.”
The Tint of Hatred
Part Three
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1986, RIO:
SARA DETESTED RIO.
From her room in the Luxor Hotel on Atlantica, the city looked like a curving Miami Beach: a display of gleaming, white high-rise hotels arrayed before a wide beach and gentle blue-green surf, all fading into a sun-hazed distance on either side.
The majority of the junket had fulfilled their obligations quickly and were using the Rio stopover for R&R. After all, it was almost the holidays; a month on the tour had worn the idealism off most of them. Hiram Worchester had gone on a binge, eating and drinking his way through the city’s myriad restaurante. The press had opted for the local cervezaria and were sampling the native beers. American dollars exchanged into handfuls of cruzados and prices were low. The wealthier of the contingent had invested in the Brazilian gem market—there seemed to be a jewelry stall in every hotel.
And yet Sara was aware of the reality. The standard tourist warnings were indication enough: Don’t wear any jewelry on the streets; don’t get on the buses, don’t trust the taxi drivers; be careful around children or any jokers; don’t go out alone, especially if you’re a woman; if you want to keep something, lock it up or stay with it. Beware. To Rio’s multitudes of poor, any tourist was rich and the rich were fair game.
And reality intruded as, bored and restless, she left the hotel that afternoon, deciding to go see Tachyon at a local clinic. She hailed one of the ubiquitous black-and-yellow VW Beetle cabs. Two blocks in from the ocean, glittering Rio turned dark, mountainous, crowded, and miserable. Through the narrow alleys between buildings she could glimpse the old landmark, Corcovado, the gigantic statue of Christ the Redeemer atop a central peak of the city. Corcovado was a reminder of how the Wild Card had devastated this country. Rio had suffered a major outbreak in 1948. The city had always been wild and poor, with a downtrodden population simmering under the veneer. The virus had let loose months of panic and violence. No one knew which disgruntled ace was responsible for Corcovado. One morning the figure of Christ had simply “changed,” as if the rising sun were melting a wax figurine. Christ the Redeemer became a joker, a misshapen, hunchbacked thing, one of his outstretched arms gone completely, the other twisted around to support the distorted body. Father Squid had celebrated a mass there yesterday; two hundred thousand people had prayed together under the deformed statue.
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