Wild Cards III: Jokers Wild

by George R. R. Martin

  “This is insane. A woman, a boy . . .” A jowly man with a five o’clock shadow, wearing a traditional black coat, shoved back his chair and stood. “I will return when you are ready to choose a new don.”

  Mazzuchelli blocked his way but, at a gesture from Rosemary, moved aside. The dissenter walked across the room in the sudden silence and threw open the door.

  Rosemary called out sharply, “Morelli!”

  The man who had just exited backed into the room again, eyes fixed on the muzzle of the Uzi that Morelli pointed at his chest. “Yes, Signorina?” said Morelli. “A problem?”

  “I think the problem has been solved. Do you agree, DiCenzi?” Rosemary watched the man across the room closely.

  Under the gun, DiCenzi nodded. “Si, Signorina. There is . . . no problem.”

  “Good.” Rosemary scanned the seated, staring men. “Does anyone else have a problem?”

  Ricardo glanced quickly at the men to either side of him. They were ostentatiously ignoring him. “No, there is no problem, Dona Gambione.”

  “Signorina will do nicely, I think.” She smiled a predatory smile at the capos. “Sit down, DiCenzi. Thank you, Morelli. Please have a seat.”

  Mazzuchelli was eyeing Morelli as he would a bad piece of steak.

  “Christopher,” Rosemary said, “you are too ambitious. I recognize it. Do not make any rash mistakes.”

  Mazzuchelli returned her look with a smile as lupine as her own. “You’re the boss.”

  Rosemary nodded and gazed around the restaurant. “Has anyone seen the manager?”

  “You want something to eat?” Ricardo was incredulous.

  “I suspect Signorina would like to find out how that bastard who stole the books got in here.” Mazzuchelli stared down at Ricardo. “Don’t you think that would be an interesting question?”

  Morelli stood and began walking toward the kitchen. “Signorina, he’s yours.”

  While Morelli prepared the terrified Vietnamese for Rosemary’s questions, the new head of the Gambiones called her contacts at the precincts and made inquiries about Cordelia. On the East Side, a patrolman remembered spotting someone looking a lot like the missing young woman walking downtown along one of the alphabet avenues. It hadn’t been long before.

  Bagabond wanted to enter the area on foot before she began an animal-by-animal search for the girl. Jack was ready to leave instantly, but Rosemary took the pair aside for a moment.

  “Listen, thanks for your help, both of you. This wasn’t exactly what I’d planned, but it wouldn’t have happened without you.” Her smile looked political.

  “Wasn’t it?” Bagabond stared straight at Rosemary.

  “Suzanne, I had no idea . . .”

  “Yeah. I’ll be in touch.” Bagabond started to turn away. Jack was already moving toward the door.

  “Suzanne, I’ll call you later. Let me know what happens with Jack’s niece.”

  Bagabond glanced at Morelli in the corner with the Vietnamese manager. In this light, the blood looked black. She shook her head slightly.

  Rosemary colored and drew herself up. “I can do some good here, you know. Exert some controls.”

  Bagabond kept moving.

  “Suzanne, I want to talk to you later about some ideas I had about the animals.”

  All the muscles of Bagabond’s shoulders and upper back tensed as she followed Jack out through the door. She tried not to listen, but thought she heard whimpered cries from behind them.

  Business was still hopping at the Donut Hole across the street from the Jokertown station. The sidewalks were filled right out to the gutters and every few minutes another black-and-white would drop off the latest load of drunk-and-disorderlies on the precinct steps.

  The Rolls had let Fortunato off a block away and crawled away through the traffic in search of a place to double-park. Fortunato elbowed his way to a back table and found Altobelli wearing a Brooklyn Dodgers cap and a jogging suit. “I practically had to kill to save you that chair. Wanna doughnut?”

  Fortunato shook his head. “Talk to me, Altobelli. I don’t have much time.”

  “You do look a bit peaked. Okay, okay. It’s Black, John F. X. Black, captain of the Jokertown precinct.”

  “I know the name.”

  “We leave Kafka here this afternoon. About an hour later I get a call from one of my guys. Black has ordered them off the Kafka watch. I drive over here to find out why and catch Black trying to take Kafka out in a squad car. He gives me a song and dance about a prisoner transfer. I say show me the paperwork. More songs, more dances. So I take Kafka away from him and bring him back uptown myself.”

  “You’re telling me Black’s dirty.”

  “You haven’t heard dirty yet. Right after that guy in the robe and glasses tries for Kafka I get a call from my snitch at the Jokertown precinct. He wants to tell me he saw this weird guy in a robe and glasses in Captain Black’s office not five minutes before.”

  Fortunato stood up. “Where is he?”

  Altobelli hooked a thumb at the station. “Every cop in Manhattan is working double shifts tonight. I’m supposed to be back up on Riverside myself.”

  “Get on up there. And let yourself be seen.”

  Altobelli had to stop for a second and think about it. Finally he nodded. “Okay.”

  “Anybody else know about Black?”

  “Just you and me. Fortunato?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nothing, I guess. This ain’t . . . it ain’t the way I’m used to doin’ things. I’m used to standing up for my own.”

  “He’s not one of your own anymore. He’s the Astronomer’s. And now he’s mine.”

  The address was on Central Park West. They took a cab; Hiram had no wish to involve Anthony or the Bentley in whatever unpleasantness might ensue.

  Inside the heavy glass-and-iron doors of the apartment building, a doorman sat at an antique desk. Behind him was a bank of security monitors. He was built like a linebacker, and there was an obvious silent alarm built into the top of his desk, an inch or so from his hand. He could hardly have expected any trouble from a fat man in a tuxedo and a nondescript fellow in a cheap brown suit. “Yes?” he asked them through the intercom when they approached the door.

  Jay Ackroyd made a gun out of his right hand, pointed at the doorman through the glass, and said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” The man disappeared with a pop of in-rushing air.

  Hiram rocked lightly on the balls of his feet, glanced around nervously. “Where did you—” he began.

  “The main stacks of the New York Public Library,” Jay said. “He looked like he needed to get caught up on his reading.” He took out his wallet, removed a credit card, and opened the door in the blink of an eye. “Never leave home without it,” he told Hiram as he slipped the card back into his wallet. They went into the lobby.

  Latham lived in the penthouse, just as Hiram had expected. Jay pressed the button for the roof.

  The embossed bronze plate above the doorbell said ST. JOHN LATHAM. Jay pressed it, and they waited in nervous silence by the elevator. He wasn’t home, Hiram thought, of course he wasn’t home, he was out somewhere, he was—then the door gave a soft buzz and swung open slowly.

  They walked into a small foyer, empty but for a bentwood hat rack and an umbrella stand. The kitchen was to the right, a closet to the left. Ahead was a huge living room with a sunken conversation pit, a wet bar, and a solid wall of floor-to-ceiling glass that opened on a roof garden, a magnificent view of Central Park and the city and stars beyond. A lavish bedroom suite and den both opened off the living room, their doors standing wide. Voices were coming from the den. Hiram walked lightly, small quiet steps, but Jay’s heels clicked loudly on the gleaming parquet floor as they crossed the room.

  “That’s fine. Yes. Yes, at all costs. Phone in when you have news.” The man touched a button; the speakerphone disconnected. The only light in the room came from a brass banker’s lamp with a green glass shade. Latham sa
t with a stack of maps under his left hand, his right hand working the keyboard of an IBM PC. He wore the vest and trousers of a gray chalk-stripe Armani suit, a perfect white shirt with the top button undone, and a dark foulard tie, the knot pulled down and to one side. He did not look up when they entered. “Do I know you?”

  “My name is Worchester,” Hiram said. “Hiram Worchester. My associate is Jay Ackroyd, a licensed private investigator—”

  “Who earlier today illegally detained a client of Latham, Strauss, violating his constitutional rights and causing him untold psychological distress, not to mention disorientation, damage to his good name, and fear for his life and safety,” Latham said. He still did not look up from the keypad. The screen displayed a grid of some sort. “An error in judgment that is going to cost Mr. Ackroyd a considerable sum of money, and probably his license.” He finished his entry, stored it, and wiped the grid off the screen. Only then did he deign to swivel his high-backed chair to look at them. “If you’re here to propose a settlement, I’m certainly willing to listen.”

  “A settlement?” Hiram was aghast. “You’re suggesting we pay money to that unspeakable thug who—”

  “I’d caution you aginst slander, Mr. Worchester. You’re in sufficient trouble already.” The phone rang. Latham didn’t bother to pick it up. He reached out, touched the speaker-phone button, and announced, “Not now, I have company. Call back in ten minutes.” The caller hung up without identifying himself. “Now, Mr. Worchester, what were you about to say?”

  “Your client is scum,” Hiram said clearly. “Frankly, I’m shocked that a distinguished man like yourself would even consider representing him.”

  “I’m a little curious about that myself,” Jay Ackroyd said. He slouched against the doorway, hands in his pockets. “Usually you’ve got a little more class than that.”

  “I seldom involve myself in criminal matters,” Latham said, “and I am not, in fact, the attorney of record in this case. But I make it a point to familiarize myself with all our pending litigation, even the most trivial, and Mr. Tulley briefed me on this matter only this afternoon.”

  “Who are you really working for?” Hiram demanded. Jay Ackroyd groaned. Hiram gave him a dirty look and then went on. “This is extortion, you know it and I know it. I want to know who’s behind it, and I want to know now.” He crossed the room, leaned over the desk, and stared in the lawyer’s face. “I warn you, I’m an ace, and not an inconsiderable one, and I’ve had a very bad day.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Worchester?” Latham asked in terms of polite interest.

  “I don’t feel so well,” Ackroyd whined from the door-way. Hiram looked back in annoyance. Ackroyd was clutching his stomach, and his features did have a slight greenish tinge, but maybe that was just the light. “I wouldn’t have eaten so much if I’d known I was going to get tear-gassed.” He belched. “Where’s the john?” he asked with some urgency.

  “Through the master bedroom, to the right,” Latham told him. Ackroyd bolted for sanctuary, and a moment later they heard the sound of retching. “Charming,” Latham said.

  Hiram turned back on him. “Never mind about him. Your client and his friends sent a decent, honest man to the hospital today. They broke his arm and two of his ribs, knocked out several of his teeth, and gave him a slight concussion. They also burned his delivery truck and vandalized his place of business. They poisoned my lobsters with gasoline, Mr. Latham.”

  “Did you see our client commit any of these alleged crimes? No? I thought not. Did Mr. Ackroyd?”

  “Damn it, Latham. I was there this morning, I saw what they were trying to do—”

  “Who?”

  “Them,” Hiram said. “His men. Three of them, they were called, ah, Eye and Cheech and, well, I don’t recall the other one’s name. Eye was the joker.”

  “I have no idea who you’re referring to,” Latham said. “In any case, Mr. Seivers is not a part of any gang.”

  “Mr. Seivers?” Hiram was momentarily confused.

  “I believe he’s sometimes known as the Bludgeon. If you’re going to persecute the man on account of his appearance, you might at least trouble yourself to learn his real name, which as it happens is Robert Seivers.”

  Both of them heard the toilet flush. Latham leaned back in his chair. “Your friend is finished. Unless you care to propose a settlement, I believe our business is finished too. As you can see, I’m quite busy.”

  Jay Ackroyd reentered the room, looking a bit pale, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief.

  “Get out,” Latham suggested coolly. “Both of you.”

  “You can’t just—” Hiram began.

  “Would you prefer I call the police?”

  As they waited by the elevator, Hiram glared at Jay in indignation. “A fat lot of good you were,” he said.

  “You’ve got a great touch for interrogation, Hiram,” Ackroyd said. “I didn’t want to spoil your rhythm.”

  The doors opened and they got inside the elevator. “That got us exactly nowhere,” Hiram said, pressing the button for the lobby with rather more gusto than required.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Ackroyd replied. He looked at his watch. “If Loophole’s as smart as I think, he’s searching his bathroom by now.”

  Hiram was lost. “Searching his bathroom?”

  “Bedroom too. I didn’t really expect him to buy my little tummyache,” Jay said. “He’s got to figure I ran to the john to plant some kind of bug.”

  “Ah,” Hiram said, “so he wastes time searching . . .”

  “I hope not. Hell, I didn’t hide it very well. It’s on the phone by his bed, how obvious could I get?”

  Hiram gaped at him. “You planted a bug, but you want it to be discovered. Why?”

  “Gives him something to find,” Ackroyd said. “Once he has it, he ought to be satisfied. He thinks we’re chumps anyway, and he’s got other things on his mind tonight.”

  “Where did you get a bug?” They’d reached the lobby. The doors opened, and they stepped out of the elevator.

  Ackroyd shrugged. “Oh, I carry a few around. They’re good for making people nervous. I get them real cheap at this place in Jokertown, this guy sells me all his broken ones, six for a dollar. Unless Loophole knows a lot more about micro-circuitry than I figure, he’ll never know the difference.” Ackroyd glanced at his watch again. “By now he should have found it, locked it up somewhere, and gone back to business, but let’s give him a few more minutes just to play it safe. Did you notice the computer?”

  “Eh? Yes, certainly, what of it?” Hiram opened the door and they walked outside.

  “Manhattan streets,” Jay said. “Times Square area. There were maps on his desk. Some kind of search is in progress, and our friend Loophole is coordinating it, I’d bet. Staying right by his phone, keeping everyone in touch with everybody else, charting the players on the computer. Real interesting.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hiram said.

  “Remember our little tête-à-tête at Tachyon’s place? Tall-green-and-scaly was looking for some kind of book, and he didn’t strike me as a real heavy reader. I think Loophole’s looking for the same thing.”

  “I don’t care a fig about stolen books,” Hiram said. “I want something done about Bludgeon.”

  “Maybe the same guy owns them both,” Jay said. He shrugged. “Or maybe not. Let’s find out.” He ambled back over by the building and began poking around in the shrubbery.

  Hiram crossed his arms and scowled. “What are you doing?”

  Popinjay looked back. “I’m going to hide in these bushes. I’m real good at hiding in bushes. It’s the first thing they teach you in detective school.”

  “How are you going to find out anything that way?”

  “I’m not,” Ackroyd said. He shaped his right hand into a gun and pointed a loaded finger. “You are,” he finished. Hiram never heard the pop.

  Fortunato’s black tie and long coa
t were a little out of place in the Jokertown station house. It was like a human garbage dump. The dominant smell was a blend of cheap wine and vomit and stale sweat. The main hall was standing room only, with a special section for hookers. The sight of their streaked makeup and stained, gaudy clothes was more than Fortunato could stand.

  It took him ten minutes to find Black’s office. The door was open and Black was on the phone. Black was good looking in a five-o’clock-shadow, rolled-sleeve, cheap-haircut sort of way. Fortunato waited in the hall until Black hung up. Then he stepped in and closed the door.

  “The name didn’t mean much,” Fortunato said. “But I recognize you now. It was seven years ago. I spent the night in a cell here while a woman I cared a lot about got her brain fried. You had a Sergeant Matthias and a guy named Roman interrogate me. They decided they weren’t interested and turned me loose. You probably don’t remember.”

  “Remember? I’ve never seen you before, or this bimbo you’re talking about.” Black was scared and not hiding it well. Fortunato liked that.

  “You’re going to tell me everything you know. I’m not going to fuck around, because I’m in a hurry. So you’re just going to tell me, right now.”

  It was easy. Black wasn’t an ace, just an ordinary guy. Fortunato was weak, but would never be ordinary again. Black leaned back in his swivel chair, tense but unresisting.

  “What do you want to know?” Black said tonelessly.

  “The Astronomer. He’s escaping tonight. He’s got a ship, some kind of spaceship. I need to know where it is.”

  “Spaceship? Like aliens from space? Like Dr. Tachyon and that kind of shit? You must be crazy.”

  Fortunato gave him another little jolt of power. He was starting to feel dizzy. “He must have been planning to take you with him. Otherwise he would have killed you.”

  Black looked puzzled. “Yeah, he was . . . but he decided to keep me here, keep me alive for ‘contingencies.’ ”

  “Like pulling the guards off Kafka?”