Jokers Wild wc-3

by George R. R. Martin

  "Ellroy found her in Jokertown," Ichiko said. Like Miranda, she'd put on weight in the last ten years. She was tall anyway, and now she looked positively Anglo-Saxon. She wore a black cotton sweater and skirt with a red-and-black silk blouse. The top three buttons were undone. She-moved across the room to Fortunato without sound or visible effort. "She was coming out of the Church of Jesus Christ Joker and looked like she was about to get in trouble with one of Gambione's scouts. Ellroy offered her a ride." She shrugged. "Here she is."

  "She's beautiful."

  "Yes," Ichiko said. "She is."

  "Okay," Fortunato said to the others. "Break it up. Don't you ladies have places you're supposed to be?" They moved off, one at a time, Caroline stopping to slip one arm around his waist as she passed. Then he was alone with her. "I'm Fortunato," he said.

  "Cordelia." She didn't stand up, but held her hand out to him. Fortunato took it for a second and then sat down next to her. "I appreciate the rescue," she said. Her voice was deep, a little breathless, very Southern. Sexy.

  "Do you know where you are'?"

  "Ellroy told me a little. He said there were no obligations, but I could hang around for an interview if I wanted."

  "And?"

  "I'm still here, aren't I?"

  She was flirtatious, but she seemed terribly young. "I'll have to ask you some personal kind of things."

  "Like am I a virgin, you mean?"

  "For instance."

  "No. I had a regular boyfriend back in Atelier Parish. And-well, you know what they say about virgins from Louisiana. They're just the girls without any close male kin." She laughed but Fortunato didn't.

  "We need to talk some more," he said. "Do you have dinner plans?"

  "'Dinner plans?' Not hardly! But from the way you're dressed I can't see myself going anywhere with you." Fortunato looked at his watch. "We can find you something here to wear. How soon could you be ready?"

  Chapter Fourteen

  7:00 p.m.

  When his barber finished trimming his beard and swept away the apron, Hiram Worchester rose majestically from his chair, shrugged into a perfectly-tailored tuxedo jacket, and surveyed himself in the mirror. His shirt was silk, of the deepest, purest blue. His accessories were all silver. Blue and silver were the Aces High colors. "Very good, Henry," Hiram said. He tipped the barber handsomely.

  Curtis waited just outside his office door. Beyond, his restaurant was ready. Waiters and bartenders stood at their stations. Kelvin Frost's astonishing ice sculptures had been moved out onto the floor, each one surrounded by a moat of crushed ice dotted with bottles of Dom Perignon. Tables of hot and cold hors d'oeuvres were scattered throughout the restaurant, to keep the guests from clumping. The musicians stood poised by their instruments. Overhead, the glittering art-deco chandeliers shone softly. The beginnings of a magnificent redgold sunset were visible to the west.

  Hiram smiled, "Open the doors," he told Curtis.

  A dozen people were already waiting in the foyer when the doors were opened. Hiram bowed to the women and kissed their hands, gave each man a firm handshake, performed the necessary introductions, and pointed them all toward the bar. The early birds tended to be obscure minor aces, insecure of their status and excited by Hiram's invitation. A few, only recently out of the deck, had never been to Aces High before, but Hiram treated them all like long-lost friends. The major aces tended to be fashionably late.

  The first uninvited guest was a tall blond college student who looked uncomfortable in his rented dinner jacket. "What do I have to do to get in, guess your weight?" he asked when Curtis called Hiram over to pass on his admission.

  "No," Hiram said, smiling. "That got a bit old, I'm afraid. But I see you've read your Wild Card Chic."!

  "You bet. So what does it take to get in?"

  "Show me proof that you've got an ace power," Hiram said.

  "Right here?" The boy looked around uneasily.

  "Is there a problem? What is your power, if I might be so bold?"

  The boy cleared his throat. "It's kind of hard to-"

  His date giggled. "He gets itsy-bitsy," she announced in a loud, clear voice.

  The college boy turned a bright shade of red. "Yeah, uh, I compress the molecules of my body, I guess, to make myself smaller. I can, uh, shrink down till I'm six inches tall." He tried keeping his voice low, but it had gotten very quiet. "My mass stays the same," he added defensively.

  "That's some power, kid," Wallace Larabee opined loudly from the buffet, where he stood holding a tiny buckwheat pancake that sagged dangerously under the weight of the caviar he'd piled atop it. "Whooeee, I'm sure scared."

  Hiram wouldn't have thought it possible for the boy to turn a deeper red, but he did. "Don't mind Wallace," Hiram said. "He nearly ruined our 1978 get-together when he demonstrated his power, and he knows I'll throw him out if he ever does it again. They call him the Human Skunk."

  There was general laughter, Larabee turned away to load up another pancake, and the boy seemed a bit less mortified. "Well," he said, "the only thing is, when I do it, I, uh, well, it's like this, I shrink, but my clothes don't."

  Hiram understood. "Curtis," he said, "take him back to my office, and see if he can do what he claims."

  Curtis smiled. "This way, please."

  When they reemerged a few moments later, the maitre d' gave a slight nod, the assembled guests broke into applause, and the boy turned red again. "Welcome to Aces High," Hiram said. "I didn't catch your name."

  "Frank Beaumont," the college boy replied.

  "But I call him Itsy-Bitsy," his girlfriend volunteered. "Gretchen!" Frank hissed.

  "You have my word, I'll take that secret to my grave," Hiram promised. He caught the eye of a passing waiter. "Soft drinks, or are you old enough to enjoy some champagne?" he asked Frank and Gretchen. "Please remember, the room is full of telepaths."

  They settled for soft drinks.

  The street in front of the Empire State Building's Fifth Avenue entrance was a madhouse. Paparazzi and celebrity watchers and ace groupies formed a milling gauntlet that scru tinized anyone who tried to enter. Jennifer and Brennan watched from across the street as limos pulled up to the red carpet that had been rolled out from the building's foyer to the curb and ace after ace was greeted by popping flashbulbs and squeals of delight.

  Peregrine arrived in her chauffeured Rolls. She wore a backless, strapless black velvet dress that was slit in the front to her navel. She smiled graciously at the milling crowd, but kept her wings curled closely to her body, having dealt with feathersnatching souvenir seekers in the past. Tachyon arrived in a limo. His companion was a gorgeous black woman who wore a gown almost as low cut as Peregrine's.

  "I'll have to leave you here," Brennan said as a cab pulled up and deposited a man in a white skintight suit.

  "Be careful," Jennifer said.

  Brennan smiled. "It'll be a piece of cake. Remember, stay away from Fantasy and Captain Trips. They may be in Kien's pocket. "

  Jennifer nodded.

  "One more thing. I can't imagine anything dangerous happening in there, but, just in case something goes wrong and you have to leave, I want to set up a meeting place so we don't have to chase each other all over the city again." Brennan thought for a moment. "Times Square, the corner of 43rd and Seventh."

  "Fine," Jennifer said. She wanted to warn him to be careful again, but that was silly. Things were under control, and the adventure was almost over. She felt, she realized, a little regret mixed in with her relief.

  Brennan lifted a hand in salute and she waved. She watched him fade silently into the shadows, then put on her mask, turned, and crossed the street.

  "Have you heard about the Turtle?" Hiram asked, almost the second Fortunato came through the door.

  "Not since this afternoon. Have they found the shell yet?" Hiram shook his head. "Nothing. I still can't believe it. It's-" He suddenly noticed Cordelia. She'd cleaned up nicely and Ichiko had found her something white and
clinging. "My dear. Please excuse my rudeness. I'm Hiram Worchester, proprietor of this establishment."

  "Cordelia," Fortunato said. Hiram bent over her hand. Fortunato waited him out. "What about Jane? Is she all right?" Hiram pointed to the bar. "She hasn't been out of my sight all afternoon. His either," he added, pointing to the android next to her.

  Fortunato nodded, saw the bottle of unblended Scotch by Modular Man's right hand. "Is he drunk?"

  "I heard that," Modular Man said, with great dignity. "I am an android and incapable of becoming intoxicated in any conventional human sense." He made an artificial throat-clearing noise. "I have initiated a subroutine which somewhat randomizes my thought processes, simulating the effects of alcohol, but it will be overridden at any sign of danger. I assure you I am not drunk." He turned back to Water Lily, who was staring into a Shirley Temple and nursing her impatience. "Now, where were we?"

  "Fortunato?" Water Lily said.

  "Hang on," Fortunato said. "Just another couple of minutes." He could see Peregrine across the room. He turned back to Hiram and said, "Would you show Cordelia around for me? There's something I need to take care of."

  "I'd be delighted."

  The knot of men around Peregrine saw him coming and drifted away. By the time he got to her it was just the two of them.

  She wore long gloves with her gown, which left plenty of room for her broad, muscular shoulders and the big brownand-white wings that came out of her back. It was cut so low that she must have glued it on.

  In her spiked heels she was just over six feet tall. Her brown hair had been styled with a deliberate artlessness that took up several cubic feet around her head. Her nose and cheekbones were so sharply cut they looked like the product of sculpture rather than genetics.

  Her eyes were such a vivid shade of blue that Fortunato suspected contact lenses. But the expression in them took him a little by surprise. The eyes glittered like they were about to squint shut with laughter, and one side of her mouth twisted up in an ironic smile.

  "My name is Fortunato," he said.

  "So I hear." She looked him up and down, slowly. Miranda had left him with a lingering taste of musk and a clearly visible erection. Peregrine's smile grew wider. "Hiram said you've been looking for me?"

  "I think you could be in very serious danger."

  "Well, not at the moment, maybe, but I could see it as a distinct possibility."

  "I'm afraid I'm serious. The Howler and Kid Dinosaur are already dead. The Astronomer killed them both this morning. Not to mention about ten or fifteen of his former associates. The Turtle is missing and probably dead. You and Tachyon and Water Lily are the next most obvious targets."

  "Wait a minute, wait a minute. I'm getting the picture. You're the only one that can save me, right? So after dinner you should come back to the penthouse with me and guard my body, right? As in all night long?"

  "I promise you-"

  "I'm a little disappointed, Fortunato. After everything I've heard, I'd hoped for something, well, a bit more romantic. Not this kind of lame approach. Original, mind you." She reached out and patted his cheek. "But very lame."

  She walked away smiling.

  Fortunato let her go. At least she was here now, where she would be safe.

  He looked for Cordelia and spotted her talking to an Arab in a circus costume. The Arab was trying, with some success, to see down the front of her dress.

  She had talent, Fortunato thought. She could play a man like a fish, seemed smart and funny and not prohibitively fussy. If he took her on, it would be up to him to. break her in. It was the kind of job he normally looked forward to, but in this case he had doubts. She seemed so goddamn innocent.

  There was a commotion at the door. Hiram was pumping Tachyon's arm, overdoing the genial host bit. Next to Tachyon was the woman Fortunato had seen him with at Jetboy's Tomb.

  The woman glanced his way for a second and Fortunato recognized her. She did freelance outcall, and she was very expensive. Expensive the way blowfish was expensive in Japan, because every man who went with her risked his life. Everv so often, supposedly at random, she secreted a deadly poison when she climaxed. Her nickname on the street was Russian Roulette.

  Tachyon would be okay, Fortunato thought. He didn't see much chance the little alien fruitcake would be able to make a woman like that come.

  "Are you certain you wish to be here?"

  Silk slithered as her leg thrust through the slit in her skirt, and she stepped from the limousine, Tachyon's hand a steady prop.

  "Are you sure you want to be here? You're the one who got his face danced on."

  A dismissing gesture with one small hand. "It's nothing. And I would not like to disappoint Hiram after he was so obliging as to rescue us."

  "Okay."

  "But you've had a very terrifying experience, and I wouldn't want-"

  "Doctor, we're here now, and I really don't see what's to be gained by continuing to discuss the matter on the sidewalk in front of several hundred gawking tourists."

  She swept through the front doors of the Empire State Building, thoroughly bored, and thoroughly irritated by his harping. Tachyon had been concerned while he dressed for dinner, attentive when they'd returned to her apartment so she could change from her neat slacks into the white silk evening gown she now wore, solicitous as they drove, and she was ready to kill him. And the irony was not lost on her. For even as he had fussed and cosseted, all her thoughts were obsessed with the fact that he yet lived. She had spent eight hours in his company, helped rescue him from kidnappers, and still hadn't killed him.

  Later, there is still time.

  The lobby was crowded with reporters. They lay like a seething lake before the elevators, and when Tachyon entered they become a tsunami rushing forward to accost him. Microphones thrust rapier-like into their faces, a babble of overlapping questions-"Any comment on the death of Kid Dinosaur, and the Howler?"

  "Are you working with the authorities on this case?"

  "What's this about you being kidnapped?" -blended with the whine of high-powered cameras. Tachyon, looking thunderous, waved them away, and when that failed, shouldered through them toward the express elevator.

  A handsome man in a rumpled gray suit pushed up close to Roulette, and she shied back.

  "Hey, Tachy, givin' our eyes a rest or what, or just trying to match your lady love?" The reporter's eyes swept ironically across the white breeches, tunic, and cloak, and white boots, the heels inset with moonstones, and ended on the small white velvet hat with a moonstone and silver brooch pinned to its upturned brim.

  "Digger, step aside."

  "Who's the new ace? Hey, babe, what's your power?"

  "I'm not an ace, let me be." Agitation made her breath ragged, and she looked away from those too-piercing eyes. "Tachyon," Digger said, tone suddenly very serious. "May I speak with you?"

  "Not now, Digger."

  "It's important."

  "Tachyon, please get me out of this crowd." Her fingers plucked at his sleeve, and he pulled his attention from the journalist.

  "See me at my office."

  The elevator doors sighed closed behind them, and her heart began to slow. "I've never known Digger to be wrong. Are you quite sure-"

  "I am not an ace!" She jerked his hand from her bare shoulder. "How many times do I have to tell you!"

  "I'm sorry." His tone was low, the hurt evident in his lilac eyes.

  "Don't! Don't be sorry, don't be solicitous, don't care!" He moved to the far side of the elevator, and they completed the ride in silence. The elevator deposited them in the large outer lobby of Aces High. Roulette glanced about, curiosity submerging agitation. She had never been to the restaurant. Josiah had considered the entire ace/joker phenomenon vulgar and more than a little frightening (witness his response when he discovered that he too carried the alien virus), and had avoided this ace mecca.

  Celebrity photographs lined the walls, and in the center of the room stood Hiram, sm
iling, urbane, polite, but implacable in his refusal to allow the tall scarecrow figure in the purple Uncle Sam suit to enter his restaurant.

  "But I'm, like, a friend of Starshine's," the gangling blond hippie was protesting, "and Jumpin' Jack Flash too, man."

  "I'm sure you are," Hiram said. He went on to gently explain that well-known aces had a great many friends, far more than the restaurants seating capacity, and while Aces High would be delighted to have the Captain's patronage on any other night of the year, tonight was a private party; he was sure that the Captain would understand.

  Tachyon grasped the situation in an instant, and put a hand on Hiram's broad shoulder. "I know what it looks like," he said, "but Captain Trips really is an ace, and a good man too. I'll vouch for him, Hiram."

  Hiram looked surprised, then relented. "Well, of course, if you say so, Doctor." He turned to Trips. "Please accept my apologies. We get a great many would-be gatecrashers and, ah, ace groupies, often wearing outlandish costumes, so when someone cannot demonstrate an ace talent, we… I'm sure you understand."

  "Yeah, sure, man," Trips said. "It's cool. Thanks, Doc." He put on his hat and entered the restaurant.

  "Just because you're wearing a mask doesn't mean you can just waltz in, lady," the big man wearing a tuxedo in the foyer of Aces High told Jennifer.

  She smiled at him, ghosted her arm, and put it through the wall. She wanted to do something more box-office, like sink through the floor, but didn't want to have to dress again in front of all the people waiting to enter the restaurant.

  "Yeah, okay." The man in the tuxedo waved her in, looking faintly bored.

  Aces High was a dream. Jennifer felt small, insignificant, and decidedly underdressed. She wished that Brennan had brought her an evening gown rather than jeans, but realized with a sigh that that would have required supernatural foresight on Brennan's part.

  There were over a hundred people in the main dining area, drinking cocktails, nibbling on delicious-looking hors d'oeuvres, and talking in small groups and large parties. Jennifer headed for the buffet table, her stomach rumbling at the sight of so much food. There was pate de foie gras, caviar, slices of Danish ham, twelve kinds of cheese, and a half-dozen varieties of bread and crackers. She spread pate on a cracker and looked around the room, feeling like a celebrity hound as she watched scores of famous people pass by her.