Wild Cards V: Down and Dirty

by George R. R. Martin

  They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Brennan nodded.

  “I’d better be going, then.”

  “Your whiskey?”

  Brennan let out a long sigh. “No.” He looked at the body at his feet. “Drink brings memories, and I don’t need any tonight.” He looked back at her. “I’m going to be … indisposed … for the next few weeks. I probably won’t see you before you leave. Good-bye, Chrysalis.”

  She watched him go, a crystalline tear glistening on her invisible cheek, but he never looked back, he never saw.

  II

  The Twisted Dragon was located somewhere within the nebulous boundary of an interlocking Jokertown and Chinatown. One of Brennan’s street sources had told him that the bar was the hangout of Danny Mao, a man who had a moderately high position in the Shadow Fist Society and was said to be in charge of recruitment.

  Brennan watched the entrance for a while. The swirling snowflakes that missed the brim of his black cowboy hat caught on his thick, drooping mustache and in his long sideburns. A fair number of Werewolves—they were wearing Richard Nixon masks this month—were going into and out of the place. He’d also seen a few Egrets, though for the most part the Chinatown gang was too picky to hang out in a joint frequented by jokers.

  He smiled, smoothing the tips of his mustache in a gesture that had already become habitual. Time to see if his plan was a stroke of genius, as he sometimes thought, or a quick way to a hard death, as he more frequently thought.

  It was warm inside the Dragon, more, Brennan guessed, from the press of bodies than the bar’s heating system, and it took a moment for him to spot Mao, who was, as Brennan’s source had told him he’d be, sitting in a booth in the back of the room. Brennan threaded his way between crowded tables and the shuffling barmaids, staggering drunks, and swaggering punks who crossed his path as he headed toward the booth.

  A girl, young and blond and looking vaguely stoned, sat next to Mao. Three men crowded the bench across the table from him. One was a Werewolf in a Nixon mask, one was a young Oriental, and the one in the middle was a thin, pale, nervous-looking man. Before Brennan could say anything a street punk stepped in Brennan’s path, blocking his way.

  He was a lean six four or five, so he towered over Brennan despite the cowboy boots that added an inch or two to Brennan’s height. He wore stained leather pants and an oversize leather jacket that was draped with lengths of chain. His spiked hair added several inches to his apparent height, and the scarlet and black scars crawling on his face added apparent fierceness to his appearance, as did the bone—a human finger-bone, Brennan realized—that pierced his nose.

  The scars that patterned his cheeks, forehead, and chin were the insignia of the Cannibal Headhunters, a once-feared street gang that had disintegrated when Brennan had killed its leader, an ace named Scar. Gang members not slain in the bloody power struggle after Scar’s demise had for the most part gravitated to other criminal associations, such as the Shadow Fist Society.

  “What do you want?” The Headhunter’s voice was too reedy to sound menacing, but he tried.

  “To see Danny Mao.” Brennan spoke softly, his voice pitched in the slow drawl that he remembered so well from his childhood. The Headhunter bent lower to hear Brennan over the cacophony of music, manic laughter, and half a hundred conversations that washed over them.

  “’Bout what?”

  “’Bout what’s not your business, boy.”

  Brennan saw out of the corner of his eye that conversation in the booth had stopped and that everyone was watching them.

  “I say it is.” The Headhunter smiled a grin he fondly thought savage, showing filed front teeth. Brennan laughed aloud. The Headhunter frowned. “What’s so funny, asshole?”

  Brennan, still laughing, grabbed the bone in the Headhunter’s nose and yanked. The Headhunter screamed and reached for his torn nose and Brennan kicked him in the crotch. He fell with a choking moan, and Brennan dropped the bloody bone he’d ripped from his nose onto his curled-up body.

  “You,” Brennan told him, then slid into the booth next to the blond girl, who was staring at him in stoned astonishment. Two of the three men sitting across the table started to rise, but Danny Mao waved a negligent hand and they sat back down, muttering at each other and staring at Brennan.

  Brennan took his hat off, set it on the table in front of him, and looked at Danny Mao, who returned his gaze with apparent interest.

  “What’s your name?” Mao asked.

  “Cowboy,” Brennan said softly.

  Mao picked up the glass in front of him and took a short sip. He looked at Brennan as if he were some kind of odd bug and frowned. “You for real? I ain’t never seen a Chinese cowboy before.”

  Brennan smiled. The epicanthic folds given his eyes by Dr. Tachyon’s deft surgical skills had combined, as he had known they would, with his coarse, dark hair and tanned complexion to give him an Oriental appearance. This slight alteration of his features, his newly grown facial hair, and his western manner of speaking and dressing all added up to a simple but effective disguise. It wouldn’t fool anyone who knew him, but he wasn’t likely to run into anyone who did.

  And the irony of his disguise, Brennan thought, was that every aspect of his new identity, except for the eyes given him by Tachyon, was true. His father had been fond of saying that the Brennans were Irish, Chinese, Spanish, several kinds of Indian, and all-American.

  “My Asian ancestors helped build the railroads. I was born in New Mexico, but found it too limiting.” That, too, was true.

  “So you came to the big city looking for excitement?”

  Brennan nodded. “Some time ago.”

  “And found enough so that you have to use an alias?”

  He shrugged, said nothing.

  Mao took another sip of his drink. “What do you want?”

  “Word on the street,” Brennan said, his intense excitement buried under his southwestern drawl, “is that your people are going to war with the Mafia. You’ve already hit them once—Don Picchietti was assassinated two weeks ago by an invisible ace who shoved an ice pick in his ear while he was eating dinner at his own restaurant. That was certainly a Shadow Fist job. The Mafia will undoubtedly retaliate, and the Shadow Fists will need more soldiers.”

  Mao nodded. “Why should we hire you?”

  “Why not? I can handle myself.”

  Mao glanced at his erstwhile bodybuard, who had managed to drag himself to a hunched position on his knees, his forehead resting on the floor. “Fair enough,” he said thoughtfully. “But do you have the stomach for it, I wonder?” He looked at the three men crowded together on the bench across the table, and Brennan, too, looked at them closely.

  The Werewolf sat on the outside and the Oriental, probably an Immaculate Egret, was on the inside. The man they sandwiched, though, didn’t look like a street tough.

  He was small, thin, and pallid. His hands looked soft and weak, his eyes were dark and bright. Many street toughs had a streak of madness in them, but even on first sight Brennan could see that this man was more than touched by insanity.

  “These men,” Danny Mao said, “are going on a mission. Care to join them?”

  “What kind of mission?” Brennan asked.

  “If you have to ask, maybe you’re not the type of man we’re looking for.”

  “Maybe,” Brennan said, smiling, “I’m just cautious.”

  “Caution is an admirable trait,” Mao said blandly, “but so is faith in and obedience to your superiors.”

  Brennan put his hat on. “All right. Where’re we headed?”

  The pale man in the middle laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “The morgue,” he said gleefully.

  Brennan looked at Mao with a lifted eyebrow.

  Mao nodded. “The morgue, as Deadhead says.”

  “Do you have a car?” the Werewolf asked Brennan. His voice was a mushy growl behind the Nixon mask.

  Brennan shook his head.

&
nbsp; “I’ll have to steal one,” the Werewolf said.

  “Then we can go to the drive-up window!” the man called Deadhead enthused. The Asian sitting next to him looked vaguely disgusted but said nothing. “Let’s go!” Deadhead pushed at the Werewolf, urging him out of the booth.

  Brennan lingered to glance at Mao, who was watching him carefully.

  “Whiskers,” Mao said, nodding at the Werewolf, “is in charge. He’ll tell you what you need to know. You’re on probation, Cowboy. Be careful.”

  Brennan nodded and followed the unlikely trio onto the street. The Werewolf turned and looked at Brennan.

  “I’m Whiskers,” he said in his indistinct growl. “This is Deadhead, like Danny said, and this is Lazy Dragon.”

  Brennan nodded at the Oriental, realizing his initial assessment of the man had been wrong. He wasn’t an Egret. He wasn’t wearing Egret colors, and he didn’t have the demeanor of a gang member. He was young, maybe in his early twenties, small, about five six or seven, and slender enough so that his baggy pants hung loosely on his lean hips. His face was oval, his nose slightly broad, his hair longish and indifferently combed. He didn’t have the aggressive attitude of the street punk. There was a reserve about him, an air of almost melancholy thoughtfulness.

  Whiskers left them waiting on the corner. Lazy Dragon was silent, but Deadhead kept up a constant stream of chatter, most of which was nonsensical. Lazy Dragon paid him no attention, and neither did Brennan after a while, but that seemed to make no difference to Deadhead. He burbled on and Brennan ignored him as best he could. Once Deadhead reached into the pocket of his dirty jacket and pulled out a bottle of pills of different sizes and colors, shook out a handful, and tossed them into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed noisily and beamed at Brennan.

  “Take vitamins?”

  Brennan wasn’t sure if Deadhead was offering him some or asking if he took vitamins himself. He nodded noncommittally and turned away.

  Whiskers finally showed up with a car. It was a dark, late-model Buick. Brennan hopped into the front seat, leaving the back for Deadhead and Lazy Dragon.

  “Good suspension. Smooth drive,” Whiskers commented as they pulled away from the curb. Brennan looked into the rearview mirror and saw Lazy Dragon nod and reach into his pocket for a small clasp knife and a block of soft, white material that looked like soap. He opened the knife and began to whittle.

  Deadhead kept up a stream of running chatter that no one listened to. Whiskers drove smoothly, cursing potholes, spotlights, and other drivers in his muffled voice, continually glancing in the mirror to follow Lazy Dragon’s progress as he carefully carved the small block of soap with delicate, skillful hands.

  Brennan didn’t know where the morgue was or what it looked like, but the dark, forbidding structure that they finally stopped before met all of his expectations.

  “Here it is,” Whiskers announced unnecessarily. They watched the building for a few moments. “Still looks busy.” Occasional lights illuminated scattered rooms throughout the multistoried structure, and as they watched, people occasionally entered or left by the main entrance.

  “Ready yet?” Whiskers growled, glancing into the mirror.

  “Just about,” Lazy Dragon said without looking up.

  “Ready for what?” Brennan asked, and Whiskers turned to him.

  “You gotta take Deadhead to the room they use for long-term body storage. It’s in the basement. Deadhead will take it from there. Dragon will go first and scout. You’re muscle in case anything goes wrong.”

  “And you?”

  Whiskers may have grinned under his mask, but Brennan couldn’t be sure. “Now that you’re here, I just wait in the car.”

  Brennan didn’t like it. This wasn’t the way he liked to do things, but he was obviously being tested. Equally obviously, he had no choice. He made one more try for information.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Deadhead knows,” Whiskers said, and Brennan heard a disquieting titter from the backseat. “And Dragon knows the general layout. You just deal with anyone who tries to interfere.” He glanced back into the mirror. “Ready?”

  Lazy Dragon looked up. “Ready,” he said calmly. He folded his knife, put it away, and stared critically at what he had carved. Brennan, mystified and curious, turned around for a better look and saw that it was a small but credible mouse. Lazy Dragon studied it carefully, nodded as if satisfied, set it on his lap, settled back comfortably in his seat, and closed his eyes. For a moment nothing happened, then Dragon slumped as if asleep or unconscious, and the carving began to twitch.

  The tail lashed, the ears perked up, and then, creakily at first but with increasing fluidity, the thing stretched. It stopped for a moment to preen its fur, then it leaped from Dragon’s lap to the shoulder of the driver’s seat. Brennan stared at it and it stared back. It was a goddamn living mouse. Brennan glanced back at Lazy Dragon, who seemed to be sleeping, then looked at Whiskers, who was watching impassively beneath his Nixon mask.

  “Nice trick,” Brennan drawled.

  “It’s okay,” Whiskers said. “You carry him.”

  Lazy Dragon, who seemed to be vitalizing and possessing the little figurine he’d carved, climbed up on Brennan’s shoulder, scurried down his chest, and popped into his vest pocket. He peeked out, holding the pocket-top with his little clawed paws. This was, Brennan thought, more than passing strange, but he had the feeling that things would get stranger before the night was over.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.” Whatever it was.

  They entered the morgue through an unlocked service entrance in a side alley and took the stairway to the basement. Lazy Dragon popped out of his pocket, ran down his vest and pant-leg, and scurried down the poorly lit corridor in which they found themselves. Deadhead started after him, but Brennan held him back.

  “Let’s wait until the mou—until Lazy Dragon gets back.”

  Deadhead’s eyes were shiny and he was even more jittery than usual. His hands shook as he took out his pill bottle, and he dropped a dozen capsules on the floor as he gulped down a mouthful. The pills scattered on the concrete floor, making loud skittering noises. He grinned maniacally and the corner of his mouth kept twitching in a torturous grimace.

  What the hell, Brennan thought, am I doing in a morgue corridor with a madman and a living mouse carved out of soap?

  Lazy Dragon came scampering back before Brennan could think of a satisfactory answer to this disturbing question, his tiny feet moving as if he were being chased by the hungriest cat in the world. He stopped at Brennan’s feet, dancing with excitement. Brennan sighed, bent over, and held out his hand. Lazy Dragon jumped up on his palm, and Brennan, still hunkered down, lifted the mouse close to his face.

  Lazy Dragon sat up on his haunches, his beady eyes bright with intelligence. He drew his tiny right front paw over his throat repeatedly. Brennan sighed again. He hated charades.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Danger? Someone in the corridor?”

  The mouse nodded excitedly and held up his paw.

  “One man?” Again the mouse nodded. “Armed?” The mouse shrugged a very human-looking shrug, looked doubtful. “Okay.” Brennan let the mouse down, then stood up. “Follow me.” He turned to Deadhead. “You wait here.”

  Deadhead nodded a jittery nod, and Brennan went off down the corridor, Lazy Dragon scurrying at his heels. He had no confidence in Deadhead and wondered what part in the mission he could possibly play. It’s hard, he thought to himself, when your most dependable man is a mouse.

  Around the bend of the corridor a man was sitting in a metal folding chair, eating a sandwich and reading a paperback. He looked up as Brennan approached.

  “Can I help you, buddy?” He was middle-aged, fat, and balding. The book he was reading was Ace Avenger #49, Mission to Iran.

  “Got a delivery.”

  The man frowned. “I don’t know nothing about that. I’m the night janitor. We usually get deliver
ies during the day.”

  Brennan nodded understandingly. “This is a special delivery,” he said. When he was close enough, he reached behind his back and drew the stiletto he carried in a belt sheath under his vest, touching the tip of its blade lightly against the janitor’s throat. The janitor’s lips made a round O of astonishment and he dropped his book.

  “Jesus, mister, what are you doing?” he asked in a strangled whisper, trying to move his throat as little as possible.

  “Where’s the long-term storage room?”

  “Over there, over that way.” The janitor made little jerking motions with his eyeballs, afraid to move even a muscle.

  “Go get Deadhead.”

  “I don’t know no one with that name,” the fat man pleaded, sweat beading his forehead.

  “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the mouse.”

  “O Lord.” The janitor started to mumble an incoherent prayer, sure that Brennan was a crazed maniac who was going to murder him.

  Brennan waited patiently until Lazy Dragon returned with Deadhead.

  “Anyone else on this floor?” he asked, urging the janitor up with a slight flick of his knife wrist. The janitor, catching on quickly, stood immediately.

  “No one. Not now.”

  “No guards?”

  The janitor looked as if he wanted to shake his head, but the proximity of the knife to his throat stopped him. “Don’t really need them. No one’s broke into the morgue for, jeez, months now.”

  “Okay.” Brennan eased the knife away from the janitor’s throat and the man visibly relaxed. “Take us to the storeroom. Be quiet and no funny business.” By way of emphasis Brennan touched the tip of the janitor’s nose with the tip of his knife, and the janitor nodded carefully.

  Brennan squatted and held out his palm, and Lazy Dragon climbed onto it. He put the mouse in his vest pocket, holding back a smile at the janitor’s bug-eyed stare. He looked as if he wanted to ask Brennan a question, then thought better of it.