“Well, he’s done it before, no problem. He comes in and files charges later. But this time, he never showed. I read Bludgeon his rights and let him make his phone call.” FitzGerald gestured at the dapper man examining the gold clasp of his briefcase. “Then twenty minutes ago, that guy shows up.”
“Wonderful.” Hand over her mouth, Rosemary stared at the ceiling as if waiting for inspiration.
The lawyer came up to them. “Excuse me, but my client would like to leave now.” The shade of his Armani was the precise gray of his hair. He had an unctuous smile.
“Well, Mr. . . .”
“Tulley, ma’am. Simon Tulley.”
“Mr. Tulley. There are a number of serious charges against your client.” Rosemary shook her head in concern.
“Oh?” said Tulley. “I was not aware that there were any charges against him.”
“I don’t think it would be in the public interest to release Mr. Bludgeon without thoroughly investigating this matter.”
Bagabond nodded in agreement.
Tulley frowned past Rosemary at Bagabond. “And who is this lovely lady?”
“An associate. Ms. Melotti.” Rosemary looked at Bagabond and then quickly back at Tulley. Bludgeon’s lawyer extended his hand. Bagabond stared down at it as if inspecting a piece of rotting meat.
“Charmed, I’m sure.” Tulley took a breath and shifted his attention back to Rosemary. “I don’t want to bring up false arrest as a potential problem, Ms. Muldoon, but you should seriously evaluate your position.”
“Mr. Tulley, as you so astutely have pointed out, your client has not been officially arrested yet.”
“False imprisonment, then. I am beginning to lose my patience.” Tulley looked down his long, aristocratic nose at Rosemary. “Where are the charge sheets?”
“The paperwork is undoubtedly a little slow today—the holiday and all. I’ve just had a little problem with that myself.” Rosemary shifted her hands and smiled innocently at Tulley. “I do have to consider the community’s welfare.”
“And I am here to protect my client’s. We are leaving now.” Tulley showed his teeth and pranced back toward Bludgeon.
“Tulley—” Rosemary started toward them.
“Show me a witness. Show me a witness’s statement. No? Then he’s mine or I’ll file against the city.” Tulley possessively grasped Bludgeon’s arm. The giant grinned at Rosemary and Bagabond.
“ ’Bye, now,” he said to them in a high-pitched voice ill-suited to his size. “I’ll see you again. Real soon, I hope.” Bludgeon watched for the women’s response. When he failed to get one, he glared and preceded Tulley to the gate. FitzGerald flattened himself against the wall as they passed.
Rosemary looked at Paul and laughed bitterly. “Say to yourself, ‘I love the Bill of Rights’ three times.” She lifted her right hand and massaged her temples. “You two go ahead. I want to ask FitzGerald a couple things. I’ll meet you out front.”
Bagabond and Paul were silent in the elevator. Paul looked depressed. Walking out into the sunlight was like coming up from deep water into the air. The lawyer sat down on one of the worn marble steps.
“I worked in corporate law for years—mergers, take-overs, leveraged buyouts, the whole routine. Then I decided I wanted to make a difference, to contribute. Payback, you know? So I got a job here.” He rapped the stone with his knuckles. “Some difference, huh? We’re trapped by our own strengths.”
“I realized that a long time ago.” Bagabond shrugged and watched the yellow torrent of passing cabs. Idly, she shifted a portion of her consciousness into the pigeons sitting on the roof of the Tombs and looked out across the crowds.
“But you’ve just got to give something back. There’s a responsibility.” Paul looked up at the woman staring blindly into the sky.
Bagabond started. “You’re the second person today to say that to me.” A pigeon swooped down almost to her shoulder, but she guided it away before it could land. “Maybe you’re right.”
Paul hesitated, then said, “I realize this is abrupt, but I have to say something.”
The woman focused her attention on him.
“You’re the most intriguing person I’ve met in this city . . .”
“Rosemary will be thrilled,” Bagabond said.
“Rose—Ms. Muldoon is my boss. Besides, she isn’t my type. A bit too conventional.” Paul stood up and faced her.
“I’m not conventional?” Bagabond was amused, wondering how “different” he thought she was.
“No offense, please. I was wondering if we could have dinner sometime.” The attorney watched people scale the steps behind her left shoulder. “Sorry. You make me very nervous.”
“Thanks, but I work most nights.” Bagabond was confused. A part of her actually wanted to do this.
“Okay, then. What about breakfast?”
“Breakfast?”
“Sure. I run six miles really early, about five. Then I go home and get ready for work. If I feel like it, I go get a big breakfast before coming in. It ruins the roadwork, but tastes great.” He smiled at her and cocked his head a little to one side. “Join me one day—just for the breakfast?”
“All right.” Bagabond nodded and then hesitantly smiled. For the first time, the smile was reflected in her eyes as well. “Yes, I might like that.”
“How about tomorrow?”
She stared at him, once again without expression.
“Don’t tell me you have another date,” Paul said.
“What time?”
“Seven. I can pick you up—”
“I’ll meet you. Where?” Bagabond concentrated on suppressing the thought that she was making a big mistake.
“The market, at Greenwich and Seventh.”
“You two look deep in thought.” Rosemary strode down the steps. “I know that Popinjay was trying to help, but there are times I wish aces wouldn’t get involved. It would make my life simpler. Yours too, Paul.” She shook her head ruefully. “Paul, go on back to the office. Work with Chavez. Suzanne and I have some business to take care of.”
“See you later,” he said to Bagabond, shaking hands with her.
As the two women watched Paul walk back toward the DA’s building, Rosemary looked at Bagabond speculatively. “He likes you, you know. Of course Jack’s a union man and undoubtedly makes a lot more money, but Paul has certain attractions.” Rosemary cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Great ass.”
“Twentieth-century Madonna?”
“That was a long time ago.” She changed the subject. “Where’s Jack?”
“Let’s go someplace quiet where I can concentrate. I need an alley.” Bagabond started to walk toward the corner.
“An alley,” said Rosemary. “You hang out in the classiest places. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to stay out of Manhattan alleys?” She caught up with Bagabond and they crossed Lafayette Street. “Places like that, people can get killed.”
The darkness in the confessional was somehow soothing. The air in the box smelled even more strongly of the sea and Father Squid’s bulk was a comforting presence on the other side of the frosted glass window. He made small sighing sounds as he considered Jennifer’s story.
“I believe that I know of the joker who is accosting you,” the priest finally said. “He is not of my children, but there are few jokers who have not come by at least once or twice to hear the Word. He goes by the name Wyrm. His reputation is not of the best.” Father Squid fell into a meditative silence that lasted for some minutes. “I am perplexed, but perhaps understanding will come. Come.” He rose to his feet, swept back the heavy drapery that curtained his side of the confessional, and stepped out of the box. Jennifer followed. “I must make some inquiries.” He held up a broad, spatulate hand and wiggled his long fingers to silence the question he saw on Jennifer’s face. “Never fear. I shall be most subtle and circumspect. Make yourself comfortable. Rest. You are as safe here as if you were in your own home. Perhaps infinitely safer if your suspicion
s are correct.”
His cheeks bunched again as if he were smiling, and Jennifer nodded. She watched as Father Squid waddled off, making faint squishing sounds on the flagstone flooring as he went with ponderous dignity to the rear of the church.
Roulette was approaching climax, and she tried to resist, the effort causing her thighs to cramp and nausea to wash about the tendrils of fire that filled her belly and groin. Tachyon with that damnable sensitivity fixed his pale eyes on her, and slowed his thrusts, his hands caressing her breasts, sweeping down her sides.
Release!
And as quickly as the command was given it was withdrawn. The tide sank back, growling its frustration in a voice that was the Astronomer’s.
Her mind and body were once more in harmony, no longer rent by her fear and indecision. Her passion rose, and she rocked in a frenzied rhythm, matching each thrust of his small, compact body.
The shrill ring of the front bell tore through the apartment. Beneath her hands she felt his muscles tighten and leap, and his cock slid free.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he whispered, urgently trying to fit himself once more into her. She reached down to help, and their hands bumped and tangled, sliding on the slick skin of his penis.
Ring.
He was finally in, but the ringing persisted, and he lay flaccid and inert atop her.
He sighed, briefly closed his eyes, and said, “I think the moment is ruined.”
“Yes.”
“Shall I answer the door?”
“I don’t think they’ll go away otherwise.”
“Wait here.”
He rose, and shrugged into an elaborate brocade dressing gown of black silk shot through with threads of silver and red. It was too long, and the hem whispered across the smoke-gray carpet. He was careful to close the bedroom door behind him, and she wondered if that was to protect her reputation or his.
Folding her arms beneath her head, she stared up at the ceiling and listened to the sounds of muffled conversation from the front room. A strange thumping sound followed by a crash brought her upright in the bed, sheet slithering to her waist.
And with a harsh rasp the bedroom window was forced up, and the delicate fabric blinds kicked aside. Roulette screamed, and the foot was withdrawn only to be replaced by the head and shoulders of a man. The wind chime rang wildly as he caught it. She came off the bed, bolting for the door, but in two strides he had caught her by the hair and thrown her into the dresser. She yelped as the beveled edge slammed into her side. Grimly she grasped a silver-backed hairbrush, and gave the intruder a ringing blow between the eyes as he moved in on her. He bellowed, and as if in answer a second man entered through the window. This one carried a gun.
Being naked and armed only with a hairbrush, she decided to opt for prudence. With a little shrug she dropped her inadequate weapon, and raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
“Get in the other room,” the second man ordered while her assailant gingerly rubbed his head and then inspected the damage in the mirror.
“May I put on some clothes?”
“Get her something.”
The man abandoned the mirror, but continued rubbing as he stepped into the closet and then emerged with one of Tachyon’s coats. It was too small, and she felt the shoulder seams split as she forced it on.
Both the men were Orientals. Chinese, she guessed from the high planes of their faces, and their size. Of the four men who stood threateningly over Tachyon in the front room two were Chinese, the other two jokers. The tall reptilian joker wasn’t too bad, but his four-foot-tall companion sent a cold shudder across her bare skin, and the hair on the back of her neck tried to climb for cover. Roulette had a horror of flying, stinging insects, and now she was faced with a human wasp. The body of the creature was vaguely humanoid, but the face was a triangular wedge complete with multifaceted eyes, and between the legs hung a long stinger. Transparent wings beat a frantic tattoo, filling the room with a low buzz.
A nervous little laugh erupted from her. “My God, when mysterious East meets homegrown grotesque, does that give us joker slavery?” she inquired brightly, and staggered as a hard blow from behind took her between the shoulder blades.
Tachyon came off the coach like a compact, redheaded whirlwind, dodged a blow from the left, and wriggled out of a second man’s grasp. There was a blur of motion, and the wasp jabbed its stinger into the back of Tach’s knee. The reptilian joker’s lips skinned back in a grimace of pleasure as the Takisian cried in agony and collapsed.
“It won’t kill you, Tachyon. Jusst hurtsss like hell. And he’s got unlimited sssstings sssso don’t try it again.”
The tall joker in a show of strength caught Tachyon by the nape of the neck, and set him on his feet. The alien touched the inflamed and swollen skin at the back of his knee, eyed the .38 pressed against Roulette’s throat, and the fighting tension leached from his body.
It was an outlandish picture they presented. Four burly Chinese in satin jackets and mirrored sunglasses; some with guns drawn, others with (what the sensational press called) suspicious bulges under their arms. A joker perched like an obscene bug on the back of the couch, and the reptile leaning nonchalantly against the piano, cleaning his long, sharp nails with a switchblade. Then there was Tachyon, tiny and rumpled, his hair tangling on his shoulders, gown gaping to reveal his pale chest, and the head of his cock peeking like a shy bird between the folds of material.
The joker by the piano gestured, and two of his men swung out straight-back chairs from the dining room table. “Dr. Tachyon, please, sssssit down. Then we can talk. Tommy.” One of the Chinese glanced up, alert, quivering like a dog on a scent. “Please tie the good doctor. I wouldn’t want him trying anything sssstupid. Then I might have to hurt the lady.”
Roulette and Tachyon were hustled to the chairs, and he gave her a concerned glance. She smiled with a confidence she didn’t feel, and said, “What a blow. Betrayed by popular culture yet again.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In the Fu Manchu books the yellow peril is always mysterious and exotic. Spoils it when the goons have names like ‘Tommy,’ and speak with flat Brooklyn accents.”
Snake-face’s long forked tongue lolled out, and he eyed her with hostility. “You want exotic, jussst keep it up, and I’ll let the bosss handle you. He’ll give you all the exotic you can ssstomach.”
Tachyon sat with relaxed elegance, but his lips were white and Roulette realized that the sting was still paining him. Tommy finished binding him to the chair with the belt of his dressing gown, and tilting back his head Tachyon drawled, “Of course, I am delighted to have your company, but might I know to what I owe this singular pleasure?”
Snake-face pulled out a chair with his foot, and straddled the seat, arms folded across the back. Roulette was free, but one of the thugs had placed a hand on her shoulder, and she was very aware of all those guns, and if there was one thing she had learned from her police-officer father it was Don’t fuck with a gun.
“Tachy, we’ve come for the book.”
The alien’s coppery, upswept brows climbed toward his bangs. “My good man, I have something in excess of a thousand volumes in this apartment. To which book do you refer?”
“Hit him,” came the flat reply.
Tommy swung, there was a sound like a dull axe biting into wood, and Tachyon spat out a mouthful of blood. Roulette noticed he was careful to aim the sticky glob onto the lap of his gown, and thus protect the white carpet.
“The book.”
“I’m not a lending library.”
This time Tommy moved to the front, gathered a fold of the gown in a fist, hauled Tachyon up against his bonds, and gave him several hard backhands. The Chinese was wearing a number of rings, and Roulette bit back a squeak as the metal dug into the alabaster skin. When he finished, the alien’s lip had split, his nose was bleeding, and one eye was blackening.
“Hiram will no doubt refuse me entrance tonight,” he murmured aro
und his rapidly swelling lip. “He does so like a gentleman to be point de vice.”
The forked tongue unrolled and flicked caressingly across Tachyon’s face licking up the blood. “Tachy, maybe you don’t underssstand. I’m going to have that book if I have to take you apart to get it.”
Tachyon dropped the affected, maddening tone, and said bluntly, “I truly don’t know what you’re talking about. What book?”
The joker stared implacably back at him. “It was ssstolen, I know you have it, and I’m going to get it back.”
The alien sighed. “Very well, please, search my home, but I assure you I have no stolen book.”
“Ssssearch it, tear the place apart.” Tachyon winced. “But tie her first. We don’t want to be distracted.”
Tommy pulled a thin cord from his pocket, and quickly bound her hand and foot to the chair. They scattered and began to ransack the apartment. The wasp continued to sit on the couch buzzing and chittering to itself. A cascade of books tumbled from an upper shelf hitting and shattering a delicate celadon bowl as they fell. Pain and anger flickered deep in Tachyon’s eyes, but his voice was level, almost conversational, as he said, “Twice in as many months. This is quite beyond everything. I can forgive the swarmling, it was a mindless monster and so destroyed without thought, but these thugs . . .”
“I thought you had powers. He—someone told me you did.” Roulette said in a low voice.
“I do.”
“Then, why didn’t you use them?”
“I began to, then I heard you scream, and I realized there were more than four. I can control three humans,” he whispered, “but the hold is weak, and if I should also have to fight . . .” He turned the full force of his beautiful eyes on her. “I was afraid you would be hurt if my powers proved less strong, or my reflexes less quick than pride would like me to admit. And that wasp is damnably fast.” An aggrieved grumble.
“So what do we do?”
“Wait, and pray for an opportunity. I wish you didn’t have shields,” he added fretfully. “I could keep contact with you telepathically. Ah well, no good mourning for a fled ship.”
Wild Cards III: Jokers Wild Page 21
