Wild Cards III: Jokers Wild

by George R. R. Martin

  Jennifer, having gone back to her apartment to have a light breakfast and to change into a conservative suit with a black skirt, black jacket, and white blouse, reached out and patted one on the side as she went by anyway, in seeming encouragement of a job well done. She let herself into the building with her key, and then locked the door again behind her. The soles of her shoes clicked loudly, echoing eerily in the library’s vast antechamber.

  “Morning, Miss Maloy,” an old man wearing a rumpled uniform greeted her as she made her way through the cavernous central room back toward her desk near the first-floor stacks.

  “Good morning, Hector.”

  “Not going to the parade?” The old man was one of the security guards. He liked to tell stories of when he’d seen Jet boy battling the zeppelins over Manhattan back when he was a cop and what it was like in the first few horrible moments of the new age, when the wild card virus had been released and the world had changed, suddenly and forever.

  “Maybe later,” she said. She liked the old man, but now was not the time to get caught up in his interminable reminiscences. “I have some work to do. A project I want to finish.”

  Old Hector clicked his tongue against his dentures and shook his head.

  “You work too hard, Miss Maloy, a pretty young thing like you. You should get out more.”

  “I will. I just thought that today would be a good day to finish this project of mine. What with the library being closed and all.”

  “I get your hint. I get your hint,” the old man said good-naturedly, moving off along the darkened row of tables. “Never saw a girl liked books so much and going out and having fun so little,” he muttered half to himself.

  Jennifer went back into the stacks, keeping an eye on Hector, making sure he was going on his desultory rounds. It wouldn’t do, she told herself, to have him come upon one of the reference librarians poring over a catalog with a couple of books full of rare stamps on her desk. It wouldn’t do at all.

  The noise level inside the Crystal Palace was still low enough to listen in on individual conversations, but Spector wasn’t interested in eavesdropping. He headed straight for the bar, sat down, and started drumming his fingers on the polished wood. Sascha, alone behind the bar, was busy making a brandy alexander for a blond woman in a tight red-and-white cotton dress. Sascha’s eyeless face gave Spector the creeps.

  “Hey,” Spector said, just loudly enough to get Sascha’s attention. “I need a double shot of Jack Black.”

  “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Spector nodded and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. He was too scared to eat, but he could always drink. Shit, he thought, I should have agreed to whatever he wanted. That twisted old fuck can make mincemeat out of me. He put his hand over his mouth and tried to slow his ragged breathing.

  He turned around, afraid that the Astronomer might be right behind him. Only a few people would have the balls to start something at the Crystal Palace, but the Astonomer wouldn’t even think twice about it.

  God, I really don’t want that bastard after me. Maybe he’ll be too busy with the others. Even the Astronomer will have trouble taking them all on.

  “Your drink.”

  Spector jumped at Sascha’s voice, then turned around. “Thanks.” He fished in his pocket for a five and tossed the crumpled bill onto the bar. Sascha hesitated for a moment, then picked up the money and walked away.

  Spector picked up the glass and downed the whiskey. Got to keep moving. Maybe he won’t look for me in Brooklyn. He laughed softly to himself. Maybe the next President will be a joker.

  The air was chill and calm as he stepped outside. He rubbed his palms together and walked quickly down the street, toward the nearest subway.

  The first time she killed it had been by accident—if such a thing can ever be termed an accident—and even now she could excuse it because toads like Sully really shouldn’t be allowed to breed and multiply.

  She had just lost her job. Her fingers tightened, and sugar and stale doughnut crumbs pattered onto the plastic plate. It had been presented as a leave of absence, but she knew better. For weeks the whispers had haunted her; creeping about the corners of the office partitions, echoing in the washrooms, leaving a tangible mark on every face. Poor thing . . . husband is divorcing her . . . Is it true? . . . she had . . . a monster?

  Several of her pregnant friends dropped her as if her very presence could mutate their child, and the fear was not helped by a disquieting rumor out of the CDC that two anomalous cases of the wild card virus had arisen that could only be explained if the disease was in fact contagious. Frankhad been kind that day when he called her into his office, but very firm. Her presence in the office was affecting worker morale and productivity. And didn’t she really need some time alone to come to grips with What Had Happened To Her? So why not take a little time?

  Weeks later, money running low, and her spirits just as low, she found Sully Thornton at her door. He was a pathetic little toady who continually brayed about being one of Josiah’s “business associates.” Roulette had never particularly noticed him doing any business when he had been present at Small woods. Instead he had concentrated on lapping up all the free booze he could hold, and trying to press soggy drunken kisses on her whenever he caught her alone. She had slapped him once, and after a neighing titter that set his prominent Adam’s apple to bobbing, he had boozily explained that he was just “emulatin’ old grandpa Thornton, with his fascination for dusky women. Just runs in the blood.” Yeah, she’d thought sourly, like whuppin’ on the boys, and fuckin’ the mammies. Just comes natural.

  Sully had mouthed something about wanting to look her up because Josiah had treated her so bad, and could he buy her dinner, and he’d heard she’d lost her job, and did she need a “little loan?” She didn’t miss the meaning, and despite her revulsion with the man she accepted. Being broke ruins a person’s standards.

  Late that night, as he’d lain groaning and panting atop her, she had remembered the bone-cracking release as her baby was born, and raised herself up on her elbows, and had seen . . . No! Then had come a release of another kind, and Sully had died.

  Her eaters of the soul had begun to torment her within hours of Sully’s death. And if Judas had not found her perhaps she would have ceased to deal in death. But the Astronomer’s ace hound did find her, and took her to the Cloisters, and the Astronomer had spoken to her hidden places, nurturing her festering hate, promising that she would have her final revenge, and that when the last kill was made he would give her peace—remove forever the memory of her child.

  The Astronomer had used her sparingly, eager to keep her secret and very effective. And she was effective. Today marked the third kill she had made for her awful master, and each time it was worse. She gulped down some of the Sunshine Cafe’s enamel-stripping coffee, trying to wash away the sick taste of death that lay on her tongue.

  This time he would know. He would sense her guilt and doubt, and react, and she was scared to disappoint—No. She was just scared. Terrified of him. Of his powers. Of his obsessive drive to destroy. First TIAMAT. Now those who had denied him his ultimate victory.

  What if she just never went back?

  No, without him there could be no final catharsis, no final release from the memory of monsters. He could have all the rest, but Tachyon was hers. The alien had destroyed her life. She would repay him by destroying his. That was her obsession, and it had wedded her to the Astronomer in an unholy union of hate and vengeance, and it was far stronger a bond than love.

  “Lady, I don’t rent tables by the hour,” growled the proprietor of the Sunshine Cafe, who was living proof that the generators of cheerful advertising were under no obligation to follow it.

  She tossed money onto the table, and decided to be grateful for the interruption rather than irritated. Her greasy-spoon haven had been removed. She had to go.

  To face him.

  Normally Hiram liked to ride through the city st
reets, to watch the ebb and flow of the human drama on the side walks of Manhattan through the frosted-glass windows of his Bentley, while his driver worried about grid lock and kamikaze cabs. But today Jokertown and surrounding neighborhoods would be chaos, as the jokers took to the streets and thousands of tourists flowed into the city for the parades, street fairs, fireworks, and other celebrations that marked Wild Card Day.

  To avoid the crush, Hiram told Anthony to take the FDR Drive, and even so the traffic was a horror. He would have preferred to return to his apartment to change, but there wasn’t time. They went directly to the Empire State Building.

  Velvet ropes had been hung in front of the express elevators to Aces High, and a tasteful gold-lettered sign said CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY. Hiram hopped over the rope lightly, no feat at all for a man who weighed only thirty pounds, but it always raised a few eyebrows in the lobby. The elevator took him straight up to the restaurant’s foyer.

  As the doors opened, he heard his head chef shouting at someone. The saucier, no doubt; they were constantly arguing. A janitor was sweeping out the cloakroom as Hiram emerged from the elevator. “Make sure you empty the ashtrays, Smitty,” Hiram told him. He paused a moment, looked around the room. The marble floor was gleaming, the couches had been freshly cleaned. All the walls were hung with framed photographs of celebrities: politicians, sports figures, sex symbols, socialites, writers, film stars, newsmen, and a myriad of aces. Most had scrawled warm personal inscriptions to Hiram across their likenesses. He stopped to straighten the picture of Senator Hartmann and the Howler that had been taken the night the senator had been reelected, then swept through the wide double doors into the restaurant itself.

  Paul LeBarre’s voice was much louder in here, even through the hubbub. Workmen were setting up round banquet tables for the party, and moving the everyday tables into storage. Cleaning crews were polishing the floors, the long curved bar, and the magnificent art deco chandeliers that gave Aces High so much of its ambience. The wide doors to the Sunset Terrace had been thrown open to air out the room, and a stiff New York wind was blowing. Dimly, from far below, Hiram could hear the sounds of traffic and police sirens.

  Curtis, his maître d’ and good right arm, came up to Hiram Worchester with a dozen stiff pieces of poster board under one arm. He was a tall slender black man with white hair. Tonight, in his tuxedo, he would look splendid, elegant, even a bit austere. Right now, dressed in a flannel shirt and a pair of worn dungarees, he just looked harried.

  “The kitchen is in chaos,” he announced briskly. “Paul insists that Miriam has ruined his special hollandaise, and he’s threatening to throw her off the Sunset Terrace. We had a small fire in the kitchen, but it’s out, no damage. The ice sculptures are late. Six of our waiters phoned in sick this morning. Carnival flu, I call it, complicated by the fact that no one ever tips at these private parties. A larger bonus might effect a sudden remission. The usual rumor about Golden Boy has made the rounds, and I’ve had three calls from guests anxious to let us know that if he was coming, they weren’t. Oh, and Digger Downs phoned up to tell me that if he isn’t admitted tonight, Aces! magazine will never mention the restaurant again. And how are you this morning, Hiram?”

  Hiram sighed, ran a hand across his bald head in a nervous gesture left over from the days he’d had hair. “Tell Digger I’ll let him in if his editor promises in writing that we’ll never be mentioned in Aces! again. Get me six temp waiters—no, make that ten, they won’t be as good as our regular people. I’m not worried about Paul. He hasn’t thrown anyone out a window yet.” He strode toward his office.

  Curtis matched him pace for pace. “There’s always a first time. What about Golden Boy?”

  Hiram made a rude noise. “We get the same rumor every year, and Mr. Braun has yet to show up. If he ever does, I’ll deal with the question of his dinner. Who’s threatening to cancel?”

  “Sparkle Johnny, Trump Card, and Pit Boss,” Curtis said.

  “Reassure Shawna and Lou,” Hiram told him, “and tell Sparkle Johnny that Golden Boy is definitely going to be here. Are those the seating charts?”

  Curtis handed them over. “I’ll call Kelvin and check on the ice sculptures,” he said as Hiram unlocked the door to his private office.

  “Out the window!” Paul LeBarre was screaming in the kitchen. “All the way down you can think of the proper way to make hollandaise. Perhaps it will come to you, before you hit!”

  Hiram winced. “Do that,” he said. “And please have someone do me up a small breakfast. An omelet, I think. Tomato, onion, crumbled bacon, cheese.”

  “Cheddar?”

  Hiram raised an eyebrow. “Of course. Four eggs. With pomme frites and a carafe of orange juice, a little Earl Grey. Are there biscuits?”

  Curtis nodded.

  “Good. Three, please. I’m weak with hunger.” Using his powers always left him famished. Dr. Tachyon said it had something to do with energy loss. “Anthony will be back soon with a clean suit. I had a bit of an altercation down on Fulton Street. Send someone to the lobby to wait for it. If Anthony tries to bring it up, the Bentley will probably be towed.” He closed the door.

  A 26-inch color television was mounted in the wall above his desk. Hiram seated himself in a huge, custom-designed leather executive’s chair that smelled like the inside of a very old and very exclusive British men’s club, turned on his built-in back massager, spread the seating charts out across the black walnut, and flicked on the television with a jab at the remote control. Willard Scott and Peregrine appeared on the screen. Willard was wearing moose ears, for some reason. Peregrine was wearing as little as she could get away with. They were talking about the Jokertown parade. Hiram hit the mute button. He liked to keep the television on as he worked, a sort of video wallpaper that kept him plugged into the world, but the noise distracted him. After a final glance at Peregrine’s admirable costume, he began reviewing the charts, initialing each in the lower right-hand corner after he’d looked it over.

  By the time Curtis returned with his omelet, Hiram had finished the charts. “Two changes,” he said. “Put Mistral over by the terrace. If it gets too windy, she can take care of it for us. Switch Tachy and Croyd. If we put Tachyon at the same table with Fortunato, we’ll have innocents killed in the crossfire.”

  “Excellent,” Curtis said. “Six tables for the at-the-doors?” Formal invitations were sent out annually to the Wild Card Day Dinner at Aces High, and RSVPs were expected, but there were aces who carefully kept their names secret, and others who’d yet to come out of the deck. The party was open to all of them, and each year the queue of those hoping to win admission by demonstrating an ace talent at the door grew longer and longer.

  “Eight tables,” Hiram said after a moment’s reflection. “This is the fortieth anniversary, after all.” He glanced up at the television screen again. “One more thing.” He took back the top chart, made a notation. “There.”

  Curtis studied it. “Peregrine next to you. Very good, sir.”

  “I thought so,” Hiram said, with a quiet smile. He felt rather pleased with himself.

  “The ice sculptures will be delivered within the hour.”

  “Excellent. Notify me when they arrive.”

  Curtis closed the door behind him. Hiram leaned back in his chair, glanced up at the TV set, changed the channel. On the steps of Jetboy’s Tomb, Linda Ellerbee was interviewing Xavier Desmond. He watched them mouth silent words for a minute. Then a news bulletin interrupted their conversation. Something about the Howler, whose picture flashed up on the screen, wearing his yellow fighting clothes. A nice fellow, but his color sense was almost as bad as Dr. Tachyon’s.

  Hiram frowned, and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. Everything was under control. The party would be a smashing success, the social occasion of the year. He ought to be feeling elated. Instead, he was troubled.

  The business down at the Fulton Street Fish Market, that was it. He couldn’t get if off his mind. Gills w
as in some kind of trouble. He needed help. Hiram was fond of the old joker. They’d been doing business for a decade, and Aces High had even catered his son’s graduation.

  Someone ought to find out what was going on, Hiram thought. Not him, of course; he was a restaurateur, not an adventurer. Still, he knew all the right people, and many of them owed him favors. Perhaps he ought to use his contacts.

  Hiram found Dr. Tachyon’s number on his Rolodex, picked up his telephone, punched out the number. He let it ring a long time. The Takisian was a notoriously late sleeper. Finally he gave up. Wild Card Day was always a trial for Tachyon. As often as not, it set him off on binges of guilt, self-pity, and cognac. This being the fortieth anniversary, the doctor’s angst could be particularly acute. Oh, Dr. Tachyon would be on time for dinner, no doubt of that, but Hiram wanted to get someone working on this immediately.

  He thought for a minute. His good friend Senator Hartmann would lend him the services of some Justice Department ace, undoubtedly, but involving the government was time-consuming and messy. Fortunato might help, but then again he might not.

  He turned his Rolodex, looking at the names, and of course it was right there, on the very first card:

  JAY ACKROYD

  Confidential Investigations

  & Sleight-of-Hand

  Smiling, Hiram Worchester picked up the phone and dialed.

  Ackroyd got it on the fifth ring. “It’s too early,” the PI complained. “Go away.”

  “Out of bed, Popinjay,” Hiram said cheerfully, knowing it would irritate him. “The early bird gets the worm, and tonight you’ll be solving for your supper, so to speak.”

  “It better be more than one supper, Hiram,” Ackroyd said. “And don’t call me Popinjay, dammit.”

  Each stockbook had ten pages and each page held about a hundred stamps with their Scott Postage Stamp Catalog numbers written in neatly below them, making them very easy to identify.