Jokers Wild wc-3

by George R. R. Martin

  Spector took the Ingram and looked it over. The gun was well-oiled and had a nice heft. "Sure. No flak jacket?" '. Sorry.'

  Spector had hoped the jacket might help if the Astronomer tried to tear out his heart. Just his luck; it was an item Gruber normally had around. "What about bullets?"

  "Right here," Gruber said, handing him an unopened box. "Why do you need a gun? I mean, being an ace and all it just seems, um, unnecessary."

  Spector noticed that Gruber was careful not to meet his eyes. He grabbed the fat man by the ears and pulled him close. Gruber tried to gouge Spector's eyes with one hand and pulled a. 22 automatic with the other. Spector took hold of Gruber's gun hand and pointed it at the fence's stomach. There were two shots, both into Gruber's abdomen. Spector knocked the gun away; he knew that Gruber would be a long time dying from the gunshot wounds. Spector pulled Gruber's head around, forcing their eyes close.

  "No," said Gruber, shutting his eyes. Spector punched Gruber in the throat, knocking him to the floor. He straddled the fat man and pinned his arms.

  "Don't kill me. Please, no."

  "You're dead already." Spector grabbed Gruber's eyelids and pulled them up. Gruber screamed, but it was too late. Their eves locked.

  Spector was the only person who had drawn the Black Queen and lived to tell about it. Unfortunately, the memory of his death was always there. He turned it loose on Gruber, pro jecting his agony into the man's body, convincing him that he was dying. Gruber's pudgy flesh believed. His eyes rolled up into his head and he gasped. Spector felt him turn to dead weight and let go.

  He looked at the desktop. Gruber had written one word on a notepad. Stamps. He shrugged and turned away. Spector put on the holster and slid the Ingram into it. If he ran into the Astronomer it might help, then again it might not. He closed and locked the cage door, donned his mask, and left through the back.

  Stupid! How much more of an idiot could I have been? Jack thought as he fought his way downtown through the throngs. His anger with himself still burned savagely. He scanned what he could see of Eighth Avenue ahead of him. Where was the girl with the man wearing the purple suit and the dapper fedora?

  He hadn't called Cordelia's mother vet. Elouette would just have to wait, impatient or not. Jack had made the one phone call he thought might do some good. If Bagabond and her animals could just sight his niece… He'd take care of the rest. His tongue felt rough, sliding across teeth that were slightly more profuse, sharper, and longer than were normal. He tried to damp the anger. Time enough for that later.

  Control. Obviously he had some now. At first, upon exiting the Port Authority, he'd searched at random, fighting his way first one direction through the crowds, then another. Then the human level of his mind started to calm the urgent reptile brain. Set up a grid. Don't repeat a line of search. Try downtown. Consider Fortunato a lead. He didn't know that the guy he supposed was a pimp was one of Fortunato's freelance talent scouts; in fact, he didn't know if the man even used that kind of scavenging talent; but it was worth a try. The man with Cordelia would find it easier to fall in with the flow of the crowds down toward Jokertown. Eighth was less crowded right now than the other avenues. Eventually Jack would have to worry about a good crosstown route. But for now, he went on his hunch.

  It paid off.

  He came up to the intersection of 38th Street. Suddenly he saw, across the street, a familiar fedora bobbing a bit as though the wearer were looking about himself confusedly. He also saw the back of a head, a quick glimpse of a fall of shining black hair. The fedora moved toward the black hair. The young woman with the black hair moved farther away. She was running.

  Fedora pursued.

  Jack, staring after them, started off the curb. A hand grabbed his shoulder, roughly tugging him back. A honking yellow cab nearly took off his toes and latent snout.

  "Watch it, bub,". said a husky joker standing beside him. "Cabbies don't give a shit. Not today. Not never."

  By now, the intersection was full of traffic. The last cabs to make it through had done so. Now there were vehicles lined up in either direction. No one seemed worried about automatic $25 tickets for gridlocking.

  "Never a cop when you need one," somebody said.

  Jack made it across the intersection like a good brokenfield runner. The Jets'd be proud, he thought irrelevantly. This season, they could use him. On the other side of 38th, he realized that neither the fedora nor Cordelia was in sight.

  Damn it. Sooner or later, he thought, striking downtown again. He looked around for one of Bagabond's birds, a cat, a squirrel, anything.

  Never a pigeon when you need one.

  Having chosen her clothing from the collection of tattered and dirty mismatched coats, pants, and shirts she kept at Jack's, Bagabond jammed a Greek fisherman's cap on her stringy hair and left the cats behind as she made her way up to ground level through the tunnels that bypassed Jack's home. Agile from years of moving through the underground, she used the eyes of the rats who lived in the tunnels to show her the path. The floor-level view she gained from their perspective was enough to avoid most obstacles. She had spent days underground without using her own eyes. It was best to remove herself as much as possible from contact with the mass of people who crawled on the surface as her creatures crawled in their tunnels and burrows.

  Bagabond grasped the rungs of a ladder to the world above her and climbed. Shifting the manhole cover slightly upward, she looked around and saw only a sleeping derelict in the allev. She climbed out, replaced the cover, and limped toward the crowds at the mouth of the alley. Long ago she had found the most direct route to Rosemary Muldoon's office in the district attorney's complex. Today, though, the streets were crowded with revelers. Many wore grotesque masks; some were in full costume. Bagabond felt anger at these "normal" people. The virus that had given her a means of survival had also removed her from this human world. Sometimes she regretted it, most of the time she did not. It took no effort to curse the crowd and clear a path to the justice Center.

  Somebody whistled, appreciative by the sound of it. She didn't glance around. It wouldn't be at her.

  Before the security guard noticed her, Bagabond joined a crowd of people waiting for the elevator. Keeping the crowd of three-piece suits between her and the guard, she walked with lowered head and sidelong glances to the stairs. It took several minutes to walk up to the eighth floor but she hated the elevator.

  Instead of the usual receptionist, who knew that she was an old client of Rosemary's from her days with Social Services, the front desk was manned by a handsome, black-haired man in a brown suit. He was having trouble with the phone as she walked up.

  "Damn! Lost another one. Whoever created hold buttons should be shot. Don't you agree?" He spoke without looking up from the phone console whose buttons he was punching.

  "Even though I know that's no attitude for a lawyer." He finally looked up and his face registered surprise for just a moment. "Hello. What can I do for you?" He smiled at the bag lady. "Do you want this floor? This is the DA's office. What are you looking for?"

  "Rosemary." Bagabond kept her head down and her voice weak and rough.

  "Rosemary? I'm new here, but the only Rosemary hereI think-is Rosemary Muldoon. She's an assistant district attorney." He turned to look dubiously down at the phone console. "Well, I could try to buzz her, but…"

  "Rosemary" The derelict's voice was stronger and angry. When he looked up again, he met, for a mere second, a pair of sharp and clear black eyes.

  "I'll do my best." The phone rang. "Paul Goldberg. District attorney's office. May I help you?"

  Bagabond started toward a door behind Goldberg, but it opened as she reached for the knob.

  The woman behind the door was petite, about three inches shorter than Bagabond. The bag lady knew that because they had once been obliged to exchange clothes. Rosemary's eyes varied from dark brown to hazel, depending on her mood. Today they were dark and intense..

  "Hello there. Good to
see you. Go right in. I'll be back in a moment." Rosemary Muldoon held the door for the bag lady. Before she entered the office, Bagabond looked back at the receptionist's desk. Rosemary nodded. "Paul, call that temporary service again. Tell them if someone doesn't show up in fifteen minutes, we're calling another service. This is ridiculous."

  "Yes, Ms. Muldoon. I hope I didn't offend your client." He smiled apologetically at the bag lady, who shook her head once, sharply.

  "My friend, Paul," Rosemary said. "Hold my calls, will you, please?"

  The man behind the desk sighed and nodded. "Of course, Ms. Muldoon. I look forward to seeing you again, Miss," he said to Bagabond. He was already reaching for a ringing phone as Bagabond stared at him again, then turned and limped into Rosemary's office.

  "Donnis is on vacation and things are a mess." Rosemary shut the door and walked over to the walnut desk. "Here we are, understaffed, and our newest addition has to answer phones instead of working on the caseload. He's decorative, though." Rosemary perched on the side of her desk. "They offered me new carpet to replace this ghastly green shag. I took another staff attorney instead."

  "Good choice." Bagabond sat down on the edge of an old straight chair. She took off her hat and brushed the hair out of her face.

  "How's Jack?" Rosemary reached out and took the cap from Bagabond. Putting it on, she looked inquiringly at Baga bond, who shook her head.

  "Doesn't go with the tweed." Bagabond sat back carefully, as if worried the chair would collapse. "Okay, I guess. We're not talking all that much right now. I just got a call from him before I came over. He's out hunting a niece who ran away to New York City."

  Rosemary raised an eyebrow.

  "Her name's Cordelia Chaisson. Sixteen. Country girl from Louisiana. Jack says she's real pretty-tall, slender, black hair, dark brown eyes. That's all he told me. He sounded pretty upset. "

  "I'll put the word out in the station houses," said Rosemary. "That much I can do. Too many kids run away to the city." She took a fountain pen out of the desk set by her hip.

  Bagabond nodded her appreciation. "How's life off the street?"

  "Who says I'm off the street? With this job, I never leave." Rosemary sighed and continued to play with the fountain pen. It was obvious she had other things on her mind. "Things are getting worse with the Family. The Butcher-remember Don Frederico?-is killing anyone who threatens his authority. It's no way to run the Gambione Family. We're no longer completely in control in Jokertown. Somebody's setting the jokers against us, the Family. They're just being used, of course."

  "The jokers are always getting used. Either they're the great downtrodden minority of this century, or else they're a plague to be eradicated." Bagabond fixed her with wide black eyes.

  Rosemary continued, "They get something when they pay protection to the Gambiones. That's one tradition that even the Butcher doesn't dare abandon." She gestured with the pen. "I keep thinking that if my father had just had a son, to take over the Gambiones, this wouldn't be happening. Maybe that S. O. B. Butcher will have a nice accident. Slip in the bathtub or something."

  "He always was bad news." Bagabond smiled humorlessly up at Rosemary. "Even in our brief acquaintance, I can't say that he made a good impression. If I hear anything. I'll let you know. I usually avoid Jokertown, but the rats like it down there. Lots of food."

  "I don't want details, please." Rosemary shivered. "You want to know what else is making my life interesting? First thing I hear this morning is that there're some valuable note books on the street. I don't even know whose they are, but the Egrets want them. If the Egrets want them, so do I. You really do hear the strangest things, so if you find out anything about this, I would appreciate it." Rosemary wouldn't meet Bagabond's dark gaze. "I feel as if I'm using you, Suzanne, but you know things no one else does. Thanks."

  "I have a lot of eyes and ears." Bagabond looked out the window behind Rosemary's shoulder. "You are a friend. I only have one other-human. I want to help."

  "I wish Jack wasn't such an idiot," Rosemary said. "What is wrong with that boy?" She shook her head in sympathy. "Have you thought of maybe looking elsewhere?"

  "Maybe at the mission?" Bagabond combed the hair back across her face with her fingers and jammed the cap down on her head. She stood up and spread the ratty paisley skirt she wore over a pair of chinos. "Or perhaps the singles bars. I could start a new fashion trend."

  "I'm sorry." Rosemary slid off the desk and touched Bagabond's shoulder. Bagabond swung away from her hand.

  "I've been alone for years. I'll survive. Besides, the cats would be happier." Bagabond showed her teeth, white and sharp. "I'll be in touch."

  Rosemary opened the door and walked with her to the front desk.

  "I've got court in twenty minutes. Just call me if you need anything, dear." The stooped and limping bag lady nodded her lowered head and walked away. As she passed the receptionist's area, Goldberg looked up.

  "Hope to see you again soon. Have a nice day."

  As he said the last words, the bag lady turned her head to stare at him.

  "Yeah, I don't believe I said that either." He grinned and shrugged in apology, and the phone rang again. "'Bye." Making her way slowly down the stairs, Bagabond wondered if Jack had found Cordelia yet. Missing girls, missing notebooks. Everyone was looking for something. She wasn't. It was the advantage of having nothing to lose.

  The jokers started all looking alike.

  So did the normals dressed and made up as jokers.

  Jack blinked confusedly. Trying to survey all the faces he was encountering was akin to scanning more than about six rows of book spines in the Strand. After a while, the colors, the sizes, the titles, all began to look the same. He saw black hair-never the right black hair. He saw fedoras, panamas, snap-brims, nothing was exactly right.

  At the corner of West 10th, he nearly collided with a kid heading east. "Watch it, faggot," the young man said.

  Jack stared at him in surprise.

  "You can't fool me," said the kid. "Don't even try."

  Jack started to step around him, since it was obvious the kid wasn't going to move. Punk, he thought. Real street punk-not costume punk with mohawk and makeup.

  Shorter than Jack, the kid was as skinny as a ferret. Face hollowed, eyes the color of rainwater, there was a tight, springloaded look about him. "Just watch it," he said again.

  As Jack moved past, he was jostled by a passerby. Recovering his balance, he brushed the kid's elbow with his hand. The young man recoiled, his hands coming up in what looked to Jack like a martial arts stance.

  "Don't touch me, fairy," said the kid.

  They stared at each other for several seconds. Then Jack nodded, stepped back, and turned to go. He didn't look back, but had the feeling that the kid was staring after him with those clear, mean, psychopathically intense eyes.

  The Crystal Palace smelled like any other bar in the morning-like stale smoke and spilled beer and disinfectant. Fortunato found Chrysalis in a dark corner of the club, where her transparent skin made her nearly invisible. He and Brennan sat down across from her.

  "You got the message, then," she said in her phony English-public-school accent.

  "I got it," Fortunato said. "But the trail's cold. The Astronomer could be anywhere by now. I was hoping you might have something else for me."

  "Perhaps. You know a yo-yo calls himself 'Demise'?"

  "Yes," Fortunato said. His fingernails dug uselessly at the urethane finish on the table.

  "He was in about an hour ago. Sascha got a reading off him, loud and clear. 'He's going to fucking kill me. That twisted old fuck."' "Meaning the Astronomer."

  "Right you are. This Demise seemed completely round the bend. Had quite a lot on his mind, Sascha said."

  "You mean there's more," Fortunato said. "Yes, but the next bit's going to cost you."

  "Cash or favors?"

  "Blunt this morning, aren't we? Well, I'm inclined to say favors. And in honor of the holid
ay, I'll even extend you a line of credit."

  "You know I'm good for it," Fortunato said. "Sooner or later."

  "I don't like charging for bad news, in any event. The other line Sascha heard was, 'Maybe he'll be too busy with the others. "'

  "Christ," Fortunato said.

  Brennan looked at him. "You think he's going on some kind of killing spree."

  "The only thing that surprises me is that it took him this long. He must have been waiting for Wild Card Day out of some fucked-up sense of drama or something. Was there anything else?"

  "Not about the Astronomer. But there is another matter. This is perhaps more in your bailiwick, Yeoman. I got a call this morning advising me to keep my eyes open for a certain stolen book. Three books, actually. Two of them are stockbooks with rare postal stamps in them. It was the third the caller seemed most interested in. Its the size of a regular schoolboy's notebook, blue in color, with a bamboo pattern on it."

  "So who was the caller?" Brennan asked.

  "Unimportant. What interests me is the group he seems to belong to. It took me a bit of time and a bit of influence, but I came up with a name."

  "What's your price?" Brennan said.

  "Information for information. I think if we should put our heads together on this, we'd both benefit. But you mustn't hold out on me. I'll know it if you do."

  "Agreed. "

  "Does the name 'Shadow Fist Society' mean anything to you?"

  Brennan shook his head. "Not much. I've heard the name in Chinatown. That's all."

  "All right," Chrysalis said. "Suppose I mentioned a name high in the organization. He's known as 'Loophole.' Mean anything to either of you?"

  Fortunato shook his head. Brennan was looking at the table. "Yeah," Brennan said. "I've heard of him. His real name's something-or-other Latham. As in Latham, Strauss, the law firm. The story is that nobody knows if the wild card virus destroyed all his human feelings, or if he's just a very, very good lawyer."