When Jack finally managed to find Freakers, he understood why it wasn’t the kind of all-night dive that advertised itself strenuously. Those who needed to know where it was, found out. Looking at the moving neon woman astraddle the door, Jack thought that maybe some people arrived here simply by following their darkest instincts.
The neon seared his retinas like a branding iron. This hour of the early morning, there was no one guarding the door. Presumably this was the time of day when only the most dedicated clientele showed up.
Ignoring the swooping, glowing lines above him, Jack pushed open the door and entered. Smoke, muted conversational noise, geometric patterns in neon primaries—these were what he noticed first.
Across the main room, an obviously tired stripper desultorily went through the motions on a cylindrical revolving stage. Bathed in a rose spotlight, she undulated to a slow beat Jack couldn’t even hear. He squinted, trying to focus in the smoke. He realized the stripper’s abdomen was covered with what looked like pairs of vertical lips. She was down to her last G-string.
Jack turned away, scanned the tables. He headed toward the cheap, plank-hewn bar. Then he saw the row of booths at the back. There was a girl in one of them—a young woman with black hair falling straight along the sides of her thin face. She was dressed in a startling, clingy blue dress. She stared directly at him.
There was a nondescript man in a brown suit standing over the booth, talking to the young woman. He straightened as Jack approached. Jack faltered, then walked up to them. Ignoring the man in brown, Jack looked down at the woman. She started to smile.
“Uncle Jack?” The malachite eye in the silver alligator hanging from her left earlobe flashed as it caught light from the follow-spot clicking off on the stage.
“Cordelia!”
She was instantly out of the booth and holding onto him as though she were traveling steerage and he had the only life preserver on the Titanic. They stayed that way for long seconds.
The man who had been talking to Cordelia said, “Hey, you want that, maybe you should rent a room.” It seemed to be spoken without real malice. Jack looked up across Cordelia’s shoulder at him. The man’s suit jacket was rumpled. He wore no tie. To Jack, he looked as one might imagine a cashiered, down-at-the heels FBI agent on the skids. The man offered a wry grin. “Hey, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try. No offense.”
“Do I know you?” said Jack.
“The name’s Ackroyd,” said the man. “Jay Ackroyd, PI.” He put out his hand.
Jack ignored it. The two men looked each other in the eye for a few seconds. Then Ackroyd smiled. “It’s over, man. For now, at least. Everybody’s dead-butt tired. Truce.” He gestured around the bar. “Besides, nobody’d do anything while Billy Ray’s nursing his beer.” Jack followed the line of Ackroyd’s finger. He saw a guy wearing a white stretch fighting suit sitting alone at a table. The man’s features were mismatched, asymmetrical. His jaw looked inflamed and he was sipping his beer through a straw. “Pride of the Justice Department. Baddest of bad-asses,” said Ackroyd. “Listen, cool out, have something to drink, visit with your niece.” He stepped away from the booth. “I gotta get some fresh air anyway.” Ackroyd headed for the door, weaving just a little in his scuffed brown loafers.
“Sit down, Uncle Jack.” Cordelia tucked him onto the seat beside her in the booth.
“What are you drinking?” He touched the glass.
“7-Up.” She giggled. “I wanted RC, but they don’t have any up here.”
“We’ve got it,” said Jack. “You can get anything in Manhattan. You’re just in the wrong neighborhood.”
A barmaid in satin top and shorts, her visible skin showing a stitchwork of granular tumors, came over to the booth. “Something to drink?” Jack ordered a beer. Iron City. That was the sort of imported brew you could order in a place like this.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said. “Bagabond—my friend—and I have been looking all day for you. I saw you at the Port Authority—you got away before I could get through the crowd. You were with someone who looked like a pimp.”
“He was, I guess,” said Cordelia. “There was a man named Demise . . . He saved me.” She hesitated. “ ’Course then he helped try to kill me. This is a confusing town, Uncle Jack.”
“I owe him,” said Jack. “One way or the other.” For a split second, his face started to alter and his jaw to deform. He took a deep breath, settled back, felt his teeth resume their human size. “Why are you here? Your folks are going crazy.”
“Why are you here, Uncle Jack? I always heard things from Mama and the relatives about how you ran away and why you came to this place.”
“Fair enough,” said Jack. “But I could take care of myself.”
“So can I,” Cordelia said. “You’d be surprised.” She hesitated. “You know what all’s happened today?” The young woman didn’t wait for Jack to shake his head. “I can’t even tell you what all. But some of it is this: A slaver tried to kidnap me, I was rescued, I’ve met some really strange and some really fabulous people, I found the most fantastic man—Fortunato—I almost got killed, and then . . .” She paused.
Jack shook his head. “And then what, for God’s sake?”
She leaned close to his face, looked him straight in the eyes, and said seriously, “Something incredible happened.”
Jack wanted to laugh, but didn’t. He accepted her seriousness and said, “What’s that, Cordelia?”
Even in the neon-lit dimness, he could see that she was blushing. “It was like when I started my periods,” she finally said. “You know? You probably don’t. Anyhow, it was when I was up there in this penthouse and this old guy was about to kill me? Something just changed. It’s hard to describe.”
“I think I know,” said Jack.
She nodded soberly. “I think you do. It’s why you left the parish all those years ago, isn’t it?”
“I expect so. You—” It was his turn almost to stammer. “You changed, didn’t you? Now you’re not the same person you were.”
Cordelia nodded vehemently. “I still don’t know what it is I’m becoming. All I know is that when that Imp guy tried to grab me—he was going to help the old guy rip out my heart or something like that—there was this feeling inside like things were really tight and then . . .” She shrugged expressively. “I killed him. I killed him, Uncle Jack. What really happened was it felt like I could use something down deep in my brain I didn’t know how to use before. I could do things to the men who were trying to hurt me. I could make them stop breathing, keep their hearts from beating—I don’t know what all. Anyhow, it was enough. So I’m here.” She put her arms around his neck again. “I’m really glad.”
“You’ve got a way of understating things,” Jack said, grinning. “Listen, are you ready to come home?”
“Home?” She sounded puzzled.
“My place. You can stay with me. We’ll get things settled. Your folks are sweating toad spit.”
She drew back. “I’m not going back, Uncle Jack. Not never.”
“You’ve got to talk to your folks.”
She shook her head. “And the next thing, you’ll be putting me on a bus. I’ll get off at the next stop. I’ll run away. I swear it.” She turned away from him.
“What’s the matter, Cordelia?” He felt confused.
“If I go back, there’s Uncle Jake. Granduncle Jake.”
“Snake Jake?” Jack started to understand. “Did he—?”
“I can’t go back,” she said.
“Okay. You don’t go back. But you’ve still got to talk with Robert and Elouette.” To his amazement, she was crying.
“No.”
“Cordelia . . .”
She wiped away the tears. There was something hard now in the fragile features of her face, a toughness in her voice. “Uncle Jack, you’ve got to understand. Things have happened today. Maybe I’m going to be one of Fortunato’s geishas, or serve drinks in a place like this, o
r go to Columbia University and be a nuclear scientist, or something. Anything. I don’t know. I’m not who I was. I don’t know what I am—who I am now. I’m going to find out.”
“I can help you,” he said quietly.
“Can you?” She was staring at him hard. “Do you know who you are, really?”
Jack didn’t say anything.
“Yeah.” She moved her head slowly. “I love you very much, Uncle Jack. I think we’re very much alike. But I’m willing to find out who I am. I’ve got to.” She hesitated. “I don’t think you admit much to yourself or to the folks around you.” It was as if she were looking inside him, shining a searchlight around inside his head and his mind. He was uncomfortable with both the uncompromising glare and the shadows.
“Hey!” The shout came from Ackroyd, ducking his head past the front door. “You gotta see this! All of you.” He retreated back outside.
Cordelia and Jack looked at each other. The young woman joined the others heading for the door. Jack hesitated, then followed.
Outside, the night retreated. Dawn was breaking over the East River. Ackroyd stood out in the street and pointed toward the sky. “Will you look at that?”
They all looked. Jack squinted and at first didn’t realize what he was staring at. Then the details coalesced.
It was Jetboy’s plane. After forty years, the JB-1 soared again above the Manhattan skyline. High-winged and trout-tailed, it was indisputably Jetboy’s pioneering craft. The red fuselage seemed to glow in the first rays of morning.
There was something wrong with the image. Then Jack realized what it was. Jetboy’s plane had speed lines trailing back from the wings and tail. What the hell? he thought. But for the moment, he was as transfixed by the vision as everyone else around him. It was as though they were all collectively holding one breath.
Then things came apart.
One wing of the JB-1 started to fold back and tear away from the fuselage. The plane was breaking up.
“Jesus-fucking-jumping-joker-Christ,” someone said. It was almost a prayer.
Jack suddenly realized what he was seeing. It wasn’t the JB-1, not really. He watched bits of aircraft rip loose that were not aluminum or steel. They were fashioned of bright flowers and twisted paper napkins, two-by-fours and sheets of chicken wire. It was the plane from the Jetboy float in yesterday’s parade.
Debris began to fall slowly down toward the streets of Manhattan, just as it had four decades before.
Jack saw what had been masked within the replica of Jetboy’s plane. He could make out the steel shell, the unmistakable outline of a modified Volkswagen Beetle.
“God bless!” Someone said it for all of them. “It’s the Turtle!”
Jack could hear cheering from the next block, and the block beyond that. As the last bits of the JB-1 replica sifted down toward the city, the Turtle snapped into a victory roll. Then he swept around in a graceful arc and seemed to vanish in the east, occulted by the sun now edging above the tops of the office towers.
“Can you beat that?” said one of the refugees from Freakers. “The Turtle’s alive. Fuckin’ terrific.” The grin on his face echoed in his voice.
Jack realized Cordelia was no longer standing beside him. He looked around in confusion. From just behind his shoulder, Ackroyd said, “She said to tell you she had things to do. She’ll let you know how things work out.”
Jack spread his hands helplessly. “How will I find her?”
Ackroyd shrugged. “You found her this morning, didn’t you?” The man hesitated. “Oh yeah, she also said to tell you she loves you.” He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Come on, I’ll buy you a brew.” He turned toward the neon woman. She had paled now in the breaking daylight. Back over his shoulder, the detective said, “I’ll give you my card. Worst comes to worst, you can hire me.”
Jack hesitated.
Ackroyd said, “Also I’ll introduce you around. I heard you started to change in there. I don’t know you, but I’ve got a feeling there are quite a few of our colleagues you don’t know either. It’s about time you made their acquaintance.”
Billy Ray had overheard. “Fuck you, Ackroyd,” he said.
Ackroyd grinned. “Those Justice boys have a thing about us gumshoes.”
Before Jack followed him into Freakers, he looked one more time into the east. In the sun-glare, he couldn’t see the Turtle.
It was a new morning. But then they were all new mornings.
It had taken Spector the better part of an hour to track down a cab in Jokertown. He sat in the back seat, thumbing through the early edition of the Times. Except for the Astronomer, all the dead aces had their pictures on the front page, surrounded by a black border. There was a question mark next to the Turtle, but he was obviously still alive and kicking. Spector was almost glad. But he couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t dead too. He’d always managed to survive. Most losers did.
“Yesterday was a hell of a day, I’ll tell you,” the cabbie said.
“Yesterday?” Spector shook his head. Too much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. It was like a long, bad dream.
“Yeah. It would suit me fine if all those aces killed each other off. I got no use for them.”
Spector ignored him and pulled out the sports section. He wondered if the Nets would be any better this year.
“What about you?”
“Huh?”
“What do you think about aces?”
“I don’t. Why don’t you just shut your mouth and drive.”
It was several minutes before the cabbie spoke again. “Here we are. What the hell do you want down here?”
Spector opened the door and got out, then handed the cabbie a hundred-dollar bill. “Wait here.”
“Fine. But I can’t sit around all morning.”
Spector walked down to the chain-link fence. It was time to visit Ralph again. Maybe he’d be too tired to kill. The king of the garbage dump really didn’t deserve it.
A young black man wearing a green windbreaker and red cap met him at the fence. “You need something?”
“Yeah, there was a bunch of barges full of garbage here last night, and a guy named Ralph. Where are they?”
The man turned around and pointed out to the river. “They’re halfway to Fresh Kills by now. Just garbage, though.”
“Right. Thanks.” Spector watched the man walk away, then looked out across the water. “You get to live, Ralphie. Unless you say something stupid.”
The cabbie honked his horn. One thing Ralph had been right about. There’s no substitute for being your own boss. Doing work for the Astronomer and Latham had gotten him shot, broken, bitten, and zapped to the top of the scoreboard in Yankee Stadium. He was sick of it. No more being a loaded gun who some big wheel pointed at someone else. From now on he’d decide who he killed and when.
Another honk. “One more time, shithead,” Spector muttered. “Just one more time.”
The sky was beginning to brighten, but the light brought no warmth. The docks were already alive. Most people were waking up or downing their first cup of coffee. Spector was going to go to bed and sleep for a week. The talk about this Wild Card Day probably wouldn’t die down for a week or even a month.
“Yessir, Ralph, you showed me the way. From now on, I look out for number one. No more cleaning up after other people’s shit.”
There was a third long honk. Spector turned slowly. “You asked for it moron.” The endless pain hummed through him like a fresh papercut.
It was going to be hell finding another cab.
Even in that darkest hour that comes before the dawn, Manhattan never truly sleeps, but Riverside Drive was motionless and empty as Hiram Worchester climbed from his cab. It was almost eerie. He tipped the driver, found his keys, and climbed the stoop to his own front door. Nothing had ever looked as welcoming.
Inside, Hiram climbed the stairs wearily, without bothering to turn on the lights. He undressed while he trudged upward, hanging hi
s jacket on the wooden acorn at the foot of the polished banister, dropping his tie and shirt on the steps, abandoning his shoes on the first landing and his trousers on the second. The maid could pick them up tomorrow, he thought. Except that it was already tomorrow, wasn’t it? No, he decided. No, no matter what the calendar might say, this was still Wild Card Day, and it would be until he got to sleep.
His third-floor bedroom looked out over the Hudson. Hiram went to the window and opened it wide, taking a deep breath of the chill night air. The western sky was black satin, and over in Jersey the lights were beginning to come back on. But the most beautiful sight in the room was his king-size water bed, its pillows plumped and ready, its covers turned back on clean flannel sheets. It looked so warm and comfortable. Hiram lay down with a sigh of gratitude, feeling the water slosh gently beneath him. He slid under the blankets and closed his eyes.
Somewhere the Howler laughed, and Hiram’s dreams shattered into crystal shards. Kid Dinosaur swooped through Aces High, dropping pieces of his body onto the dinner plates. A maniac with a bow aimed an arrow at his eye, but Popinjay sent it away with an off-color quip. Faces turned toward him, bruised and bleeding, eyes full of pain: Tachyon, Gills, an old joker woman who walked like a snail. Water Lily smiled, the moisture running off her naked skin as if she had stepped fresh from a shower, her hair gleaming in the soft light of the chandelier, and she walked outside to look at the stars, climbing up on the edge of the parapet, straining toward them, reaching, reaching. Hiram tried to warn her, shouted that she needed to be careful, but her foot slipped, and as she began to fall he saw that it was not Jane after all, it was Eileen, Eileen who reached out her hand for help, but Hiram was not there, and she fell away from him screaming. In dreams you fall forever.
Then he was in his kitchen, cooking, stirring a great pot, and in the pot was a thick liquid that bubbled slowly and looked like blood, and he stirred frantically, because they would be here soon, the diners would be here soon, but the food wasn’t ready, it wasn’t any good, they wouldn’t like it, they wouldn’t like him, he had to get it ready, had to make sure everything was perfect. He stirred faster, and now he heard footsteps, growing louder and louder, heavy pounding footsteps on the stairs, someone coming closer and closer . . .
Wild Cards III: Jokers Wild Page 42
