Jokers Wild wc-3

by George R. R. Martin

  "Feed 'im his teeth, Billy," said the leader. "It'll save time with everybody else."

  Billy whipped the board around his body a couple of times, then swung it up into an attack position. It reminded Spector of the Chinese bench fighters he'd seen in kung fu movies. These guys obviously knew what they were doing. He'd have to take them out in a hurry. He locked eyes with Billy. Spector's death flowed into him. Billy fell face first into the bar-rail.

  "Shit, get him, Romeo." The little punk was still directing traffic.

  Romeo looked at Billy's body, then at Spector. Mistake. Five seconds later he was dead on the floor.

  Spector sensed movement and raised his arm, reaching for the Ingram with his other hand. The skateboard slammed into his forearm, jolting him hard enough to knock him over and send the gun flying. He bounced off a table and landed on the floor. The gun was several feet away. The punk dropped his skateboard and grabbed the pistol. He centered it on Spector 's chest and smiled. A cue ball caught him in the side of the head as he pulled the trigger.

  Spector rolled as the bullets tore up the table and floor. He felt bits of wood dig through his clothes and into his flesh. He crawled to the remaining Bedtime Boy. The kid sat up and shook his head. The sunglasses were gone.

  "Good-bye," Spector said.

  The punk met his eyes and gasped, then keeled over. Spector grabbed the Ingram and holstered it, then stood. The bartender was looking at him, afraid but annoyed. Nobody was talking.

  "Some people got no manners at all. These boys are doing the big sleep now. Serves them right," Spector said, rubbing his arm.

  The bartender gestured tentatively toward the door. "Don't worry. I'm gone."

  "Hey, tough guy. Throw us back our cue ball." A short, well-built man in a white tank top pointed at Spector's feet. He picked up the ball and tossed it back. "Nice shot." The bartender coughed.

  Spector walked out into the sunlit street, reaching inside his shirt to tug the splinters out. The fight with the skateboard punks had momentarily made him forget about the Astronomer. He sucked air in through his clenched teeth. With Butcher dead, the job was probably off Couldn't hurt to find out, though. He pulled a quarter from his pants pocket.

  He found a pay phone just down the street from the Bottomless Pit. There was no answer at the Dime Museum, so Spector called the Twisted Dragon and asked for Danny Mao.

  After waiting for a few moments a young Oriental came on the line.

  "Danny Mao. Who's this?" The voice was smooth and assured, with only a trace of accent.

  "My name's Spector. I was born in the year of the fire horse. I need to get in touch with one of your people. Guy with a Boston accent, sharp, careful."

  There was a brief pause. "Mr. Spector, I'm not familiar with you. Who gave you my number?"

  "A joker named Eye. Look, I was contacted this morning about a job. Things have changed, I have to find out what he wants done. Can you help me or not?"

  "Possibly, but he's a very busy man, particularly today. Perhaps I can have him contact you later."

  "Fine. I'll take the notebooks to someone else." He figured the lie would get Mao's attention.

  "Ah, I see. Where are you now?"

  Mao had bitten hard. The notebooks must be even more important than Spector had originally guessed. "You just give me the number, or I'll make sure the word goes around that you held up delivery on these babies."

  "Call 555-4301. It's his private line. You'd better not be jerking us around…"

  Spector hung up on Mao in midsentence. A chic young couple was standing behind him, obviously waiting to use the phone. He stared at the woman, grabbed his crotch, and licked his lips. They hurried away. Spector dropped another quarter into the slot and punched in the number.

  He answered on the first ring. "Latham."

  It was the person who'd called that morning. No question. The only Latham he was aware of was a big-cheese lawyer. "This is Spector. Have you heard about Butcher?"

  "Of course. His death does alter a few things." Latham didn't act surprised to hear from him. There was the sound of fingers on a keyboard.

  "So everything's off, right?"

  "Let me see. I think it would be best for you to have dinner at the Haiphong Lily in any case. The Gambione Family is extremely vulnerable right now. I don't think they could stand to lose any more leadership. It could destroy the Family entirely."

  "So, you want as many senior members killed as possible. Right?" Spector looked around to make sure no one was in hearing distance.

  "Yes. We might be able to work out a bonus situation for you based on how many you neutralize."

  "Fine. Eye said you'd set it up for me to get in with no trouble. Is that right?"

  "I'm sure that's the case. By the way, who gave you my private number?"

  "Smooth punk named Mao." Spector hoped they gave the kid bamboo shoots under the fingernails.

  "I see. Thank you, Mr. Spector. We'll be in touch. Good hunting."

  Spector hung up the phone. The quarter dropped into the change box. He looked up and down the street; if the Astronomer got hold of him there wouldn't be a bonus. There wouldn't even be a tomorrow.

  Out on the street again, Jennifer took stock of her situation. She wasn't wearing much in the way of clothes. She had no shoes. She'd spent her last dime on the taxi that brought her back to Manhattan. What to do next?

  Before she could make up her mind, though, things were decided for her.

  They came out of nowhere. Two men emerged from the pedestrians milling around her, gripped either arm, and hustled her down the street.

  "Make a sound and you'll die," one whispered to her, and she swallowed the instinctive scream welling in her throat. The crossed the street and went into a small park across from the Dime Museum. There were three other men there, waiting. One of them was the reptilian joker she'd first seen in Kien's condominium.

  "The booksssss," he hissed, coming close to Jennifer. "Where are they?"

  She flinched backward from the long forked tongue that lolled from his mouth.

  "I-I don't have them on me."

  "I can ssssee that." He stared without blinking at her bikini-clad figure. "Where are they?"

  "If I told you then you wouldn't need me."

  The reptilian joker grinned, dripping saliva from the overlong incisors that hung down from his upper jaw. He leaned forward and his tongue flickered caressingly over Jennifer's face. She flinched backward at the warm, wet touch of it. The joker stooped and his tongue slipped down the column of her throat, between her breasts, then up again and down her bare arms. It rasped sensuously on her forearm and Jennifer shivered, half in fear, half in delight. The man gripping her right arm held it stiffly at the wrist, and the joker licked her palm before she could close it into a fist. The tongue lingered on her hand, then the joker straightened himself and pulled his tongue back into his mouth.

  "We don't need you anyway," he hissed. "You tasssste of the alien, Tachyon." His eyes narrowed. "Why did you give him the book?"

  The card hadn't lied, Jennifer thought. The suit had once belonged to Tachyon and this joker had somehow gotten his scent off it. She couldn't deny his accusation, but she didn't want to tell them that she'd put the books in the statue, either. She had to come up with a good story, but she wasn't a very good liar.

  "Uh…"

  "Tell me."

  The joker's fingers had thick, sharp nails. He ran them across the bare skin of Jennifer's chest, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to leave red welts with their passing. "Uh-"

  The tree behind them blew up. Blew right up, showering them with leaves and fragments of branches. The shock waves from the explosion knocked Jennifer and the men holding her to the ground. One let go of her arm and she kneed the other one three times. She wasn't sure if she hit his stomach or groin, but whatever she hit was tender enough to make him scream and let her go. She rolled away and looked wildly around, as the thugs were doing.

&nb
sp; "There!"

  One of them pointed across the street. A man stared back at them. His features were concealed by a hood. He was of average height, rather nicely built. Nothing about him really stood out, though, except for the bow he held. It was a hightech piece of machinery with funny curves and multiple strings and what looked like small pulleys attached to it. He was calmly nocking another arrow while people on his side of the street also noticed him and started to run about like a flock of panicked chickens.

  The reptiloid seemed to recognize him. He hissed hatefully as the man brought his bow to bear, but a bus going down the street suddenly blocked his aim.

  The thugs were scattering and Jennifer took this as a propitious time to do some vanishing of her own. She ran deeper into the park, thanking her lucky stars for the man's intervention.

  How did he fit into this? she wondered. What could he want? She wondered if he was the crazed Bow and Arrow Vigilante that the papers had been full of the last few months. He must be. New York City was a strange place, but she doubted that there could be two people running around shooting at things with a bow and arrow.

  And she realized something else as she cut through a copse of trees, wincing as she stepped on a sharp stone. She had seen him before. Even though he now wore a hood, she recognized him by his clothes and by his build as the man who had accosted her in the bleachers of Ebbets Field.

  Why was he following her? What did he want?

  Chapter Nine

  2:00 p.m.

  It was two o'clock before Bagabond was able to return to Rosemary's office. Both the streets and the subways were swollen by the masked and made-up revelers. Once she had seen an alligator snout in the crowd but, even as she turned toward it, she realized it was papier-mache-not Jack. It had deeply disturbed her. Bagabond had always felt self-pity at the changes in her life caused by the virus. Jack and his oftenuncontrollable shape-shifting taught her that there were worse fates than experiencing the deaths, births, and pain of every wild creature in the city.

  She leaned against the wall and considered the horrible fates of the jokers, never able to escape into hiding because of deformities too hideous or life-threatening to be hidden.

  Trapped in the isolation of their own betraying bodies. Bagabond shivered violently, closed her eyes for a moment, and reached out to the black and the calico, her oldest companions. They were safe. The thought warmed her.

  A slight tug alerted her. She reached down for her camouflage-fabric purse as she sent a wave of hate and threat at the man attempting to snatch her handbag. Startled at her reaction and disoriented by the alien feeling in his head, the tentacledjoker-masked purse snatcher retreated into the crowd. She rarely attempted to use her ability on humans; she was never sure what its effect, if any, would be. Still uncomfortable in her heels, Bagabond pushed off from the wall and entered the surging flow of the crowd as it, and she, moved toward Jetboy's Tomb and the Justice Center.

  By the time she reached the justice Center, much of the crowd had diverted into Jokertown, Jetboy's Tomb, or Chinatown. Bagabond walked into the district attorney's build ing. She felt less at home in the business-suit costume than she did in rags, and it was more difficult to walk with head raised confidently. Getting out on Rosemary's floor, she realized that Paul Goldberg was no longer on phone duty. Bagabond nodded to the current receptionist and walked back toward Rosemary's office. As she did, Goldberg walked out of an adjacent office, arms filled with legal references, nearly colliding with Bagabond.

  "Christ! Sorry." Goldberg attempted to juggle the books, succeeding with all but the top one which Bagabond neatly caught.

  "Thanks," he said. "You okay?"

  "Fine. You were released from the phones, I take it." Bagabond carefully placed the book on top of the stack beneath Goldberg's chin.

  "You caught my act?" Goldberg grinned, then looked puzzled. "I can't believe I don't remember seeing you."

  "You were distracted. Is Ms. Muldoon in?" Bagabond gestured toward Rosemary's office.

  "If you thought this morning was distracting, you'll love this afternoon. All hell's broken loose." He shifted the books slightly to the right. "So, if you get a chance, say good-bye before you leave. You'll be a breath of sanity."

  "Well see." She reached out and steadied the top volume. "Goldberg! Where are those goddamn casebooks?" The rough disembodied voice was distinctly impatient.

  "Never keep Mrs. Chavez waiting." He trapped the first book with his chin and began trotting down the hall. "Later, I hope. "

  Bagabond turned to watch him leave. Looking back toward Rosemary's office, Bagabond saw her leaning against the doorframe, smiling.

  "Making a conquest, Ms. Melotti?" Rosemary waved Bagabond inside her office.

  Bagabond shook her head, realizing angrily that she was blushing.

  "Uh huh. Why the outfit?" Rosemary closed the door behind her. "Have a seat."

  "Business." Bagabond sat down and kicked off her shoes with an inaudible sigh.

  "Does that translate to 'I really don't want to know'?" Rosemary received only a bland stare from Bagabond. She continued, "The Butchers dead. 'Car accident. I can't say I'm tremendously distraught, but I'm not buying the accident theory. Know anything about it? Happened in Central Park a little after twelve noon." Rosemary sat on the edge of her desk and leaned back, stretching her neck and arching her spine. "As resident expert on the Families, everybody's been asking me about it. I was hoping maybe a squirrel or one of the cats saw something."

  "Sorry. Their memories are much too short for-" Bagabond gasped and broke off: "Jack!" Her body spasmed. "Suzanne, what's going on? Should I call a doctor?" Rosemary grasped Bagabond's hand only to have it jerked away. Bagabond saw the end of her snout, a bright flash of flame; she saw a hand holding a packet of small books wrapped in clear plastic, another hand waving the pistol; another flash-

  She still looked sixteen to Fortunato, though she was obviously old enough to be serving drinks. She wore jeans, sneakers, and T-shirt under her apron, and her red-brown hair was pinned up in a loose mess on top of her head. She had a row of dishes lined up on one arm and a fat tourist grabbing the other. The tourist was shouting at her about something and she was starting to sweat.

  Her sweat was an event. Water began to condense out of the air all around her. The fat tourist looked up, trying to figure out how it could be raining inside.

  "Jane," Fortunato said quietly.

  She whirled around, eyes as wide as a gazelle's. "You!" she said, and the dishes hit the floor.

  "Relax," Fortunato said. "For god's sake."

  She pushed her hair off her forehead. "You wouldn't believe the day I've had."

  "Yes," Fortunato said, "I would. I want you to not ask any questions, just come with me, right now. Forget your purse or sweater or whatever."

  Obviously she didn't like the idea. She looked at him for a couple of seconds. She must have seen something there, seen the urgency in his eyes. "Uh… okay. But this had better be important. If this is some stunt, I'm not going to be amused."

  "It's life or death. Literally."

  She nodded, and wadded her apron into a ball. "Okay then." She threw the apron in a heap with the broken dishes. "This job really sucked anyway."

  The fat tourist stood up. "Hey, what the hell is going on around here? You her pimp or something, buddy?" Fortunato never got a chance to react. The girl gave the fat man a look of pure hatred and the light drizzle pattering around him turned into a sudden five-second torrent that soaked him to the skin.

  "Let's get out of here," Water Lily said.

  "Good Lord, and how many times have you been robbed?" she exclaimed as her eyes roved about the immaculate living room with its plush white carpet, maroon vertical blinds, white baby grand piano, and maroon sectional sofa.

  "Too many. I do wish you humans would have the sense to legalize narcotics. It would make life so much simpler for so many people."

  "Some of us humans wish that too. It would
make such a nice cash crop for developing nations," she answered, drifting over to fondle the petals of an elaborate gardenia-and-orchid bouquet resting atop the glass coffee table. The air conditioner chattered away, pouring cold air into the room, making it less than comfortable.

  The gardenias breathed their fragrance into the room mingling with the smell of coffee, which still lingered from the morning, and the pungent scent of incense. The rest of the table was swept clean but for a large photo book. All Those Girls in Love With Horses by Robert Vavra. Roulette rested the book in her lap, and turned the pages.

  "And which do you love? The girls or the horses?"

  "Which do you think?" Tachyon responded with an impish smile. He was playing back his phone messages, most of which seemed to be from women. The final message ended, and he switched off the machine and unplugged the phone. "So we can have at least a few hours of privacy." She found herself unable to meet the hunger in his gaze, and she dropped her eyes back to the book.

  "Would you like a drink?"

  "No thanks."

  Tension filled the room, forming almost-tangible lines between them. Agitated, Roulette rose and roamed about the room. Two walls were covered by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with works in several different languages, and in an alcove formed by an outthrust of the wall and flanked by two windows was what could only be described as an altar. A low table covered by an embroidered gray cloth held a simple but profoundly beautiful flower arrangement, a single candle, a small knife, and a tiny Hopi seed pot holding a long, thin incense stick.

  "Is this really for…"

  "For worship?" he said, turning from the small efficiency kitchen where he was pouring himself a drink. "Yes. That's that ancestor business I told you about."

  That opened a whole set of disturbing memories: singing in the choir at the Methodist church back home, her mother rehearsing the angels for the Christmas pageant, her head bobbing energetically as she pounded out the melody on their old piano, and the children's voices like piping crickets filling the house. Being frightened by a hell-and-damnation sermon by a visiting missionary, and clinging to her father for comfort.