The smell of hot pretzels made Spector’s stomach rumble. Other than a few peanuts at the Bottomless Pit, he hadn’t eaten all day. He walked over to the stand. The vendor was a short, middle-aged man in a light blue shirt and black beltless pants. He smiled at Spector, showing crooked yellow teeth. He wore a button that said PRETZEL VENDORS KNOW HOW TO GET TWISTED
“What can I do for you?”
“Give me a pretzel. Make it two.”
The vendor pulled out the pretzels and wrapped them absent-mindedly. “Boy, I’ll tell you. It would be fine by me if every day was Wild Card Day. I could retire and play the horses.”
Spector took the pretzels and paid him. The vendor had the kind of dim, simple-minded dreams only losers have. Spector was beyond even having dreams anymore. He just killed people and occasionally wondered why it didn’t bother him more.
He took a large bite of the pretzel. It was warm and chewy. This would fill him up until he ate at the Haiphong Lily.
A wave of nausea and dizziness hit him in midstride. He dropped the pretzels and fell to his knees. Darkness was creeping in around the edge of his vision.
“You sick or something, mister?” he heard someone ask.
He saw the limousine pull up next to him. A mirrored window lowered slowly. The Astronomer smiled at him. Spector doubled over and pressed his face to the cold concrete. He didn’t have the strength to move. He closed his eyes, fighting for breath. He could still smell the pretzels.
A car door slammed. He felt hands lifting him just as he passed out.
Fortunato introduced her as Water Lily, but she told Hiram she’d prefer to be called Jane. “I know how you feel,” he said, with one of his most charming smiles. “They used to call me Fatman.” She seemed shy and sweet, but the way she was dressed would simply not do. Blue jeans had their place, but it was not in Aces High, and her sneakers were unbearably ratty. “A droll fellow, that one,” Hiram said conversationally, indicating the smirking likeness of Jumpin’ Jack Flash on her faded T-shirt.
“Will he be here tonight?” Jane asked him.
“I’m afraid not,” Hiram said. “He received an invitation via Dr. Tachyon, of course, but sent his regrets. He did say a friend of his might attend, whatever that means. Come with me, if you please. It’s a madhouse out here right now.”
Hiram escorted Jane through the din of the restaurant to the relative sanity of his office, and buzzed for Anthony. When the chauffeur arrived, he introduced him to Jane and said, “Give him your sizes.”
“Sizes?” She seemed confused.
“The dinner tonight is a formal affair,” Hiram explained, “and there’s no reason a lovely young lady like yourself shouldn’t look her best. It will have to be off the rack, I’m afraid, we can’t have you leaving to go shopping. Fortunato insists that we all stay together, and I think his tactical instincts are sound.” He turned to Anthony. “Something in blue or green, I think. Off the shoulder. With hose and accessories. Are you comfortable in high heels, Jane, or would you prefer to wear flats?”
“Wait a minute,” she said, her eyes wide and apprehensive. “I can’t afford a lot of expensive clothing.”
“Heels,” Hiram said. “Definitely. You have lovely legs. Aces High will take care of everything.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to deduct it. I have an extraordinary accountant.”
She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that.”
Hiram was nonplussed. “Why ever not?” he said.
“I can’t accept a lot of expensive clothing from you as a gift. I can’t. I won’t.”
“My dear,” Hiram said uncertainly. “You put me at a loss. Mind you, I don’t enforce a rigid dress code at the dinner, but it would be a shame if—”
Anthony spoke up unexpectedly. “Perhaps the lady would accept the clothing as a loan.” Both Hiram and Jane turned to look at him in surprise. “If I may be so bold to suggest it.”
“I couldn’t,” she said. “Even as a loan. I quit my job this afternoon, and even if I get another one, I’d never be able to pay you back waiting tables.”
Hiram stroked his beard thoughtfully, and smiled. “You might,” he said, “if the tables were at Aces High. Not tonight, of course, but starting tomorrow, when we reopen to the public. I promise you, the tips are excellent, and we can always use a good worker.”
Jane seemed to think it over for a moment. “All right. I’ll do that. You can take what I owe you out of my pay.” She looked at Hiram evenly, with a ghost of a smile.
“Excellent,” Hiram said. “Now, I’m afraid I’ve got work to attend to. If you’re hungry, find Curtis and he’ll have them bring you some lunch.”
Hiram found himself staring at the closed door after Jane had gone. She was far too young for him, but she was lovely, with an air of innocence about her that he found very erotic. She reminded him of Eileen Carter, who had been almost as young as Jane when she and Hiram had first met, years ago. Innocence and strength; a potent combination. The girl would be lucky indeed if the blend didn’t get her killed.
He frowned, made a small reflexive fist, and thought about the dead. An adolescent boy with delusions of glory, and a big man all in yellow whose shout could crack stone. And Eileen. He must never forget Eileen.
That had been a long time ago, seven years now, since Fortunato had come to him with a shiny blood-red penny and Hiram had given him her name, never dreaming that he was sealing her death warrant. Afterward, Hiram had scarcely been able to believe it. Dead? Eileen dead? She helped identify a rare coin, and for that she is dead?
Eileen had been his lover years before the virus had taken him for its own. That was over by the time she had gotten involved with Fortunato, but she had still meant a good deal to him. The pimp had bedded her and then gotten her killed, involved her in something she had no more business in than Hiram.
The night that Fortunato had broken the news had been one of the worst nights of his life. As he had listened to Fortunato go on about Masons, Hiram could taste the bile in the back of his throat, could feel the rage rising in him. He had never used his spore-given ability to kill, but that night he had come close. He had flexed and unflexed his fingers, watched the gravity waves shimmer about the tall black man with the almond-shaped eyes and the bulging forehead, and wondered just how much weight Fortunato could stand. Five hundred pounds? A thousand? Two thousand? Would his heart burst before or after those long, wiry legs shattered under the weight of his body? Hiram could find out. Just make a fist, a tight hard fist.
He hadn’t done it, of course. Hadn’t done it because he realized something, as he listened to Fortunato’s voice. It was nothing the man said; he was not the sort to make such admissions. Yet it was in his tone, and in the look of those dark eyes snug in their epicanthic folds: Fortunato had loved her too. Had perhaps loved her more than Hiram, who had his father’s large appetites and wandering eye. And so he’d relaxed his half-made fist, and instead of hate, Hiram had felt a strange bond to the sharp-tongued sorcerer-pimp.
Afterward, he had tried to put it all behind him. He made no pretensions to heroism, whatever powers he might have. Crimes were the domain of the police, justice a matter for gods; his business was feeding people well, and making them a bit happier for a few hours.
But as he remembered Eileen and Kid Dinosaur and the Howler, and worried about Gills and sweet young Water Lily and Dr. Tachyon and the other names on the Astronomer’s death list, Hiram Worchester could feel the rage building once again, the way it had risen inside him that night in 1979.
This Astronomer was an old, old man, Fortunato said. He probably wouldn’t be able to take very much weight at all.
Hiram regarded his cold luncheon plate for a moment, and then lifted his knife and fork and methodically began to eat.
Spector kept his eyes closed when he came to. He knew he was in the Astronomer’s limo. He could feel a person sitting on either side of him. The one on the left had bony elbows; the old
man, he figured.
“Don’t play possum on me, Demise. It won’t do you any good.” The Astronomer jabbed his elbow into Spector’s ribs.
He opened his eyes. There was a middle-aged woman on his right. Her facial features looked like a caricature of someone beautiful, and she wore no makeup. Her dress was white cotton with padded shoulders and a narrow waist. She avoided looking directly at him.
“Nothing to say? But then you never were the talkative type.” The Astronomer put a hand on his left arm. “I trust I have your undivided attention.”
Spector looked into the Astronomer’s dilated eyes. He tried his power; maybe this time it would work. No go. He slid his hand inside his coat, reaching for the Ingram. Both the gun and holster were gone.
The old man shook his head. “I took it away. It’s pathetic, your being reduced to carrying a gun. You’re lucky I found you again.”
“The Turtle’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” The Astronomer rubbed his palms together. “It’s so easy when you know what’s going to happen and they don’t.”
“How’d you set it up?” Spector asked.
“Our good friend Captain Black arranged to send out a misleading distress signal over the police band.” The Astronomer put a finger to his wrinkled forehead. “You just have to outthink your enemies. That’s all.”
“Imp was lucky to get that close.” Spector pushed back into the soft upholstery and sighed. He didn’t have any cards left to play.
“Hardly luck. Turtle was having blood-sugar problems, right, my dear?”
“Rather severe ones,” the woman said. “Even worse than what I did to Mr. Spector.”
“Demise, my dear. Call him Demise.” The Astronomer tightened his grip on Spector’s arm. “Say hello to Insulin, Demise. She’s my new star pupil.”
“Hello, sugar,” he said sarcastically. She still wouldn’t look at him. “I’m alive. You must want me for something if I’m still alive. Who do you want me to kill?”
“All that’s being taken care of by my more trustworthy associates. No, I’m keeping you alive for another reason. This Fortunato—” the Astronomer made a fist with his free hand, “I want him to suffer before I kill him. He has women. You and I are going to entertain some of them tonight. You always did enjoy that, didn’t you, Demise?”
“Yeah. What time?” Spector didn’t believe it was going to be this easy. The old man still had hold of his arm.
“Late. Very late.”
“Fine.”
“Still, I must punish you for trying to hide from me. You need to be reminded of your place.”
“No,” he said, trying to pull away.
The Astronomer grabbed his arm with both hands and twisted. The bones in Spector’s forearm snapped; grinding pain shot up his arm into his shoulder. He clawed at the old man, tearing flesh from his cheeks and knocking his glasses off. The Astronomer held the broken bones together at an oblique angle.
“Any power you have, Demise, I can use against you. I can brainwipe everything but the memory of your death, and I can mutilate you until you look like something from a joker’s worst nightmare.”
Spector could feel the bones knitting together. His arm looked like a third, frozen joint had been added to it. He tried to pull away, but the Astronomer held him fast.
“I think he’s all better now, Insulin. He won’t cross us again.” The Astronomer turned his arm loose.
“Look what you fucking did to me,” Spector screamed.
The Astronomer picked up his glasses and propped them back on his nose. “There are much worse things waiting if you disappoint me again. Driver, stop the car.”
The limo pulled over to the curb. Insulin opened the door. She looked at his twisted arm and smiled.
Wait’ll he gets pissed at you, Spector thought, crawling over her and stepping out onto the sidewalk. I hope he turns you inside out.
“Tonight. Be ready. I’ll come for you when it’s time,” the Astronomer said. Insulin closed the door. The limo pulled out into the traffic.
Spector looked up. People were pointing at him, laughing like it was some kind of joke. Others turned away. The Pan Am Building was a few blocks away, down Park Avenue. They would have to drop him in the middle of mid-town. He rubbed his arm; he couldn’t rotate his wrist anymore.
A helicopter took off from the top of the Pan Am Building. Spector wished he was on it, then shook his head. There was no place on the planet where anyone was safe from the Astronomer. He walked quickly down the street, wishing he had time to kill each and every person who looked at him funny.
CHAPTER 10
3:00 p.m.
The bedroom continued the maroon motif, but with highlights in gray rather than white. More books, more flowers, and on the dresser the photo of a sad-eyed woman in the dress of the 1940s. An enormous walk-in closet filled with clothes, a riot of color. Tachyon, seated in a chair by the window, eased off one high-heeled boot. The air conditioner set the crystal and silver wind chime above his head to ringing.
“Let me.” She knelt before him, and pulled off the second boot noting how small his feet were, contrasting it with Josiah’s size-twelves.
“I should be undressing you.”
She dropped the boot. “How about we move things along, and undress ourselves.”
“I am either flattered that you’re so eager, or worried because you’re simply anxious to have the deed done.”
Her fingers froze on the buttons of her blouse, and she watched in the mirror while the color drained from her face leaving behind that strange gray quality that affects black skin. She hurriedly stripped off her clothes, and stared at the slender reflection in the glass. The crystals in her braids gave back the light, sparkling against the ebony hair.
“Madam, you are beautiful.” He made an ivory and carnelian figure next to her. His head with its tumbled red curls just topping her shoulder.
Her lips skinned back from her teeth in a travesty of a smile. “Come on. I’ll thank you in bed.”
The mattress gurgled and swayed as they settled beneath the coverlet. He reached for her, then rolled away and unplugged the bedside phone. With a wink and a leer he snuggled against her, his hands and lips played expertly across her body finding the pleasure points, dissolving her nerves into a wash of sensation. This time it was not an obligation to be bitterly endured. He was an accomplished lover, seeming almost to worship her with his body. His fingers swept aside the moisture-matted hair of her mons, and his tongue teased along the lips of her, tantalizing her clitoris. She tangled a hand in his hair, and pulled him closer. For a moment past and future were forgotten in the all-enveloping sensation of the moment.
He wriggled up the length of her, his penis hot, stiff, and moist against her thigh. The head of his cock probed like a nuzzling foal at her mons; she sighed, spread wide welcoming him. But he continued to tease, his arms rigid on either side of her body, teeth worrying at her nipples, the maddening almost-penetration a hot presence against her clit. She growled, and jerked him down to her, capturing his mouth as he slid smoothly into her.
And she sensed several things simultaneously: the feather-like brush of his mind sliding harmlessly off the shields that had been erected by the Astronomer to prevent just this sort of penetration, and the surging weight of the poison advancing like a questing hunting dog with tiny half starts and halts, waiting for permission.
A permission that she withheld, justifying the decision in a half-formed thought that she would toy with him, promise him love, so the betrayal would be all the more devastating for him. Her arms and legs twined about him, and she met each thrust with an uplift of the hips. His cries were punctuated with gently murmured endearments, but she bit back any sound, as if by silence she could deny the pleasure. He came, semen fountaining within her, gave a harsh cry, and collapsed across her chest, crushing her bosoms between them.
“Roulette, I think you’re an ace.” The words punctuated by pants.
; “No!” She pushed him aside, and he lay blinking bemusedly up at her.
“Your shields are not the inchoate shields formed by normals. These are very sophisticated.”
She knelt, swaying on the bed, hands clenched between her thighs, the sweat growing clammy on her bare skin. “I can’t explain it.”
“If you will permit me to probe I might be able to explain it.”
“No, no! It frightens me. I don’t want you to! I won’t let you!” The shrill tones drilled through her, sending a stabbing pain behind her eyes.
“All right. All right.” His hands soothed her as one would a restive horse. “Your body and mind are yours to command. I would never violate you.”
She flung herself down next to him, burying her face against his side, tasting the salt sweat, inhaling the scent of man, and sex and aftershave. “Hold me. I don’t want to think anymore.”
“Hush, hush. You’re safe with me.”
And he again stared in confusion as her laughter filled the room, mad splinters of sound that seemed to cut at her throat, and fill her chest with pain.
“Suzanne!”
“I’m cool. It’s okay.” Bagabond had sat back and taken a deep breath. “So strong . . .”
“What is it?” Rosemary’s voice had been filled with genuine concern.
Bagabond looked back at her. “He’s got the books—I think. The notebooks.”
“Jack? How?” Rosemary spread her hands in confusion.
“He ate them.”
“Then, they’re mine.” Rosemary’s eyes shone and she bit her lip in thought.
The conversation stopped abruptly as four men walked into the office and Rosemary was pulled into a quick conference with the NYPD’s Organized Crime Task Force on where hot spots were likely to develop. To Bagabond, the men were cyphers, administrative types.
With the police already spread thin, no one needed a major gang war. It was all too possible, according to Rosemary. The other Families were likely to strike at the Gambiones, but they would move slowly, testing for the Gambiones’ strength and leadership. The Immaculate Egrets were the greatest danger, outdistancing the Colombians, the bikers, and even the Mexican Herrera family. The Egrets were not known for caution, restraint, or patience. If the Gambiones did not reestablish their power very quickly, they would be destroyed. None of the men liked the Gambiones, but they all feared the alternative.
Wild Cards III: Jokers Wild Page 18
