Dead Man's Hand

by George R. R. Martin

  “George Kerby,” Jay repeated. The name sounded vaguely familiar. “When was this flight?”

  “Today,” Elmo said.

  “Shit,” Jay said. “Shit shit shit.” He glanced at his watch. His time was almost up. “Maseryk will be here in a minute to chase me out, we need to hurry. Tell me about Yeoman.”

  “Yeoman? He’s history,” Elmo said bluntly. “He’s been gone for, what, a year now? Nobody knew where, not even Chrysalis. She tried like hell to find him. I think she was afraid the Fists had iced him. There was bad blood between Yeoman and the Fists. But it couldn’t have been him. He was only a nat.”

  “The Oddity?” Jay asked.

  Elmo shrugged. “If they had dealings, it wasn’t anything she told me about.”

  “Who else?” Jay asked. “Enemies, rejected lovers, greedy heirs, anyone who had a reason to want her dead?”

  “She had a silent partner,” Elmo told him. “A joker named Charles Dutton. He helped her buy the Palace, way back when she started. I guess the joint is his now.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Jay promised. “Anything else?”

  Elmo hesitated.

  “C’mon,” Jay urged. “Spill it.”

  “I don’t know what it means,” Elmo said, “but last year, in the spring, I had to get rid of a body.”

  “A body?” Jay said.

  Elmo nodded. “A woman. Young, dark-skinned, might have been pretty once, before, but not when I saw her. She’d been butchered, cut all to hell. Her breasts cut off, her face sliced to ribbons, one arm flayed, it made me sick. I’d never seen Chrysalis so scared as she was that night. It was my night off, but she found me, called me back. When I got there, Digger Downs was dry-heaving in the men’s room, and Chrysalis was in her office, just sitting there smoking and staring at that body. Her hand was trembling, but she couldn’t seem to look away until I covered it up with a sheet. She told me to clean it all up. So I did. I didn’t ask no questions and she didn’t tell me nothing. After, she never spoke about it.”

  “What did you do with the body?” Jay asked.

  “Put it in a garbage bag and left it in the basement. The next morning it was gone. The neighbors—”

  They both heard the footsteps at the same time.

  “The neighbors?” Jay prompted.

  “Next door,” Elmo started to say as a key turned in the lock. “Any bodies we left for them. They were good at stuff like that.” He shut up and looked sullenly at the floor.

  The cell door swung open. Next to Maseryk was Captain Ellis herself, puffing on a cigarette and bouncing from heel to heel. “Get the hell out of there.”

  “I was just leaving,” Jay said. He gave Elmo a reassuring pat on the arm as he walked past. The dwarf didn’t even look up.

  “I want you to know that Maseryk made this little arrangement without my permission,” Ellis snapped. “But now that it’s done, you damn well better deliver that name, and it damn well better pan out, or you and your friend Elmo could be sharing a cell.”

  Jay couldn’t even work up the energy to sass her. “Daniel Brennan,” he said.

  Maseryk shot him a look like someone had just slipped an ice cube down his pants. Ellis just snorted, and wrote down the name. “Have a nice day,” Jay told them, walking out.

  There were no walls, fences, or other barriers to keep Brennan off the grounds of 8800 Glenhollow Road. A few trees had posted signs on them, prohibiting hunting, fishing, or any other trespass under the full extent of the law, but Brennan didn’t let them stop him. He moved cautiously through the trees, as quietly and carefully as if he were back in Vietnam and the forest was crawling with the enemy.

  He finally broke through the screen of trees and found himself facing a rolling lawn that was as smooth as a putting green. Past the beautifully manicured lawn was an extensive flower garden. Past the flower garden was a high hedge. Past the hedge was a house, two stories. The first floor was hidden by the hedge, but four windows on the second floor looked directly upon the lawn.

  Brennan took a deep breath and sprinted across the open lawn, feeling completely naked and vulnerable to anyone who might be watching from the house. He hurtled the first row of flowers, landing lightly in a crouched position, and caught his breath and listened. Nothing. He looked around. Nothing but flowers.

  He scuttled into the garden in a crouch, keeping out of sight of the second-story windows, recognizing many of the flowers as he moved through the garden. There were roses and chrysanthemums, snapdragons and sunflowers, but planted side by side with them were poppies, like those he had seen growing in plantations in Vietnam and Thailand, and datura, which he recognized from his boyhood days in the Southwest, and, in cool, deep-shaded bowers, mushrooms of a dozen colors and shapes, none of which looked suitable for sautéing and eating with steak.

  The innocent-looking flower garden, Brennan realized, was a drug chemist’s dream with enough raw material to concoct almost any kind of stimulant, depressant, or hallucinogen. But, Brennan noted with a professional landscaper’s eye, it was also a place of beautiful serenity, laid out with an eye toward the perfect blending of colors, shapes, and textures. Even the occasional ornaments interspersed between the rows of plants were pleasing and harmonious, if at times a little outré.

  Like the four-foot-high concrete mushroom and the hookah-smoking caterpillar curled up on it. Not your typical garden ornament, certainly, but it fit the theme of this one.

  Brennan smiled, and then the caterpillar turned and looked at him. Its cheeks puffed out and blew a hazy cloud of smoke, which engulfed Brennan before he could shut his mouth. He sucked in a deep lungful of sweet-tasting smoke, turned, and managed to stagger three steps. His head was swimming in unstoppable circles and his eyes were rolling up in back of his head as he fell heavily on the thick grass. It felt cool on his cheek as the caterpillar spoke in a naggingly familiar voice through mechanical lips.

  “Welcome to the magic kingdom,” it said as Brennan’s eyes closed.

  8:00 P.M.

  The cops had the funeral home staked out to hell and gone. Jay spotted the first one selling franks from a pushcart on the corner, two more sitting in a parked car halfway down the block, a fourth on a roof across the street. Either they weren’t completely convinced that Elmo was their man, or they were hoping for Yeoman to show up and pay his last respects.

  Cosgrove’s Mortuary was a sprawling three-story Victorian monstrosity that looked like a shipwreck from another time. It had a great round turret in one corner, a tall Gothic tower in another; a wide wooden porch that girdled the entire house, jigsaw carpentry everywhere. Chrysalis would have loved the place.

  He was climbing the steps when the door banged open and Lupo came stalking out. “A bloody farce, that’s what it is,” he snarled when he saw Jay. His ears were flat against his skull in anger. “Who the hell does he think he is?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Jay shrugged and went on in.

  The foyer was darkly papered and full of antiques. The daily directory, in a glass case mounted on the wall, announced three viewings. Wideman was in the East Parlor, Jory in the West Parlor, Moore upstairs in the Round Room. Jay realized that he didn’t know Chrysalis’s real name.

  “Oh,” said a soft voice beside him. “Mr. Ackroyd, it’s so good of you to come.”

  Waldo Cosgrove was a round, soft man in his seventies, bald as an egg, with tiny moist hands. Waldo dressed impeccably enough to please even Hiram, smelled like he’d bathed in perfume, looked like he’d been rolled in talcum powder. Jay had done some work for him the year before, when a pair of particularly grotesque joker corpses had been stolen from the mortuary. The whole thing had upset Waldo dreadfully, and Waldo wasn’t used to being upset. Mostly Waldo was sorry. He was better at being sorry than anyone Jay had ever met. “Hello, Waldo,” Jay said. “Which one is Chrysalis?”

  “Miss Jory is laid out in the West Parlor. It’s our nicest room, you know, not to mention the largest, and she had so many friends. I w
as so sorry to hear about this dreadful business.”

  The words were right, but Jay had heard Waldo sound a lot sorrier. Something was upsetting the senior Cosgrove. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Why was Lupo so pissed off?”

  Waldo Cosgrove tsked. “It’s not our fault. Mr. Jory was quite insistent, and after all, he was her father, but some people are taking it the wrong way. I don’t know what they expect us to do. I assure you, we’ve spared no expense.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Jory will realize that, too, once he gets your bill,” Jay said. “Have I gotten any phone calls?”

  “Phone calls? For you? Here?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach Hiram Worchester down in Atlanta,” Jay explained. “I’ve been leaving messages with his hotel. If he calls, let me know.”

  “Oh, certainly,” Waldo Cosgrove said. Another group of mourners was leaving. Jay recognized a hostess from the Crystal Palace. She didn’t look too happy either. He decided to see what was going on.

  The West Parlor was a long, somber, high-ceilinged room full of flowers. So many floral arrangements had been sent that some of them had been crowded out into the hall. A sign-in book had been placed by the door. Yin-Yang stood beside it, expressing condolences to a big, robust man in his sixties who could only be Chrysalis’s father. Jory wore a white shirt and a black suit, and there was something about him that made you think, yes, this was definitely a black-and-white kind of man. Right now he looked uncomfortable. Maybe it was the suit. Maybe it was the occasion. Maybe it was Yin-Yang, both of whose heads were talking at once, as usual.

  When the joker finally shuffled into the parlor, Jay stepped up and offered a hand. “Mr. Jory, I’m deeply sorry about your daughter,” he said. “She was an extraordinary woman.”

  “Yes,” Jory replied. He had a firm handshake and a distinct twang in his voice that was utterly at odds with his daughter’s carefully cultivated British accent. “Debra-Jo was a fine girl. Did you know her well, Mister…?”

  Jay ignored the question. Jory would undoubtedly recognize the name, and they’d get into the whole thing about how he found the body, a can of worms Jay didn’t especially care to open. “Not well enough to know her real name, I’m afraid.”

  “Debra-Jo,” Jory said. “She was named after my great grandmother. Real pioneer stock, she was, a genuine sooner.”

  “You from Oklahoma?”

  Jory nodded. “Tulsa. New York’s not much to my taste.”

  “Chrysalis loved the city,” Jay said quietly. “I knew her well enough to know that much. It was her home.”

  “Her home was Tulsa,” Jory said stiffly, “and no offense, sir, but I’d thank you not to call her by that name.” He turned at the sound of footsteps, and Jay saw the revulsion in his eyes as they beheld Jube Benson waddling through the door, a stack of newspapers under one arm. Then his manners got the better of his distaste, and Jory forced a smile and extended a hand.

  Jay went inside the parlor.

  There were enough folding chairs to accommodate a hundred people. A third were occupied, while another dozen mourners milled around, talking in soft whispers in the corners of the room. Eight out of every ten faces belonged to jokers. Yin-Yang knelt beside Mushface Mona at the casket. The Floater bobbed against the ceiling, talking quietly with Troll, whose huge green hands brushed lightly against the chandelier when he gestured, making the crystals ring like wind chimes. Hot Momma Miller wept copiously, her hands smoking as she clutched a lace handkerchief, her small face wrinkled as a prune. Beside her, Father Squid murmured consolations. Another plainclothes cop, out of place as a grape in a box of raisins, sat by an ashtray, smoking a cigarette.

  The Oddity was seated in the last row.

  Jay thought that was real interesting. He stared, glimpsed motion beneath the black cloth. It looked like some animal under there squirming to get out, but it was only the joker’s body reshaping itself, a metamorphosis that never ended. The hooded face turned, until Jay looked straight into the steel-mesh fencing mask. He could feel eyes looking back from beneath the mesh.

  Jay crossed the room to where Chrysalis had been laid out. Yin-Yang was just getting up. Jay stopped in shock.

  The casket was open.

  That can’t be, he thought wildly.

  Then he saw Cosmo seated in a folding chair, back in the shadows of the alcove where the casket had been placed, so still and quiet that he was almost invisible in the riot of funeral wreaths, and suddenly Jay understood.

  Three Cosgrove brothers had inherited the family mortuary. Waldo, who was very sorry, was the front man. Titus, who was never seen, was the embalmer. Cosmo, the youngest, was the family joker. He was a frail, thin man in his fifties, bald as his brother, but patches of grayish fungus grew all over his skin and clothing and anything he touched, and even a daily scraping couldn’t quite keep the growth in check. But Cosmo had a power, too, a little deuce that made Cosgrove’s the preeminent mortuary in Jokertown. He made the dead look good. He made them look better than they had in life.

  Jay stepped up to the casket and looked down at her.

  Sleeping beauty, he thought, and knew why Lupo and the others had been so upset.

  She wore a simple dark dress, demure but stylish, an antique cameo fastened at her throat. Her hands were folded just under her breasts, clasping a Bible. She was lovely. Long blond hair spread out across a satin pillow, eyes closed peacefully in sleep, a hint of blush on her smooth pink cheeks. Chrysalis had been on the downhill side of thirty-five, Jay knew; she looked ten years younger now. Her skin looked as soft as the lining of the casket, so alive that you wanted to touch it, to caress it with your fingertips, to feel the warmth you knew was there.

  But you didn’t want to do that. Cosmo could fool the eye, but not the hand. Reach down into the casket, try to stroke that blushing cheek, and God knows what your fingers would find. Not even the Cosgroves could make a head out of chunks of bone and brain.

  “A sad day,” Father Squid said as he stepped up beside Jay. The pastor of Our Lady of Perpetual Misery made a liquid squishing sound when he walked. “Jokertown will be a different place without her. A darker place, I fear. Do you realize it was a year ago that Xavier Desmond passed away?”

  “Almost to the day,” Jay agreed. “But when Des was in here, the line of mourners went clear around the block.”

  “Chrysalis was well respected in the community,” Father Squid said. “Even feared. Des was loved. He wore his heart on his sleeve. She guarded hers jealously.” He put a hand on Jay’s shoulder. “The talk is, you hunt her killer.”

  “Might as well,” Jay said, “can’t dance. Tell me, Father, how much do you know about our pal the Oddity over there?”

  “Three tortured souls in search of salvation,” the priest replied. “Surely you do not think—”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Jay said. Waldo Cosgrove was standing in the door and gesturing at him. “Excuse me, Father, I have to take a phone call.”

  Waldo let Jay use his office in the back of the mortuary. It was dark, quiet, private. He waited until Waldo had closed the door before he picked up the receiver. “Hello, Hiram?”

  The other end of the line was very noisy, but Hiram Worchester was a big man with a big voice. “Popinjay? The hotel said you’d called six times. Might I ask what could possibly be so urgent?”

  “Hiram, we got big trouble. Where are you? It sounds like you’re having a party.”

  “I’m phoning from Senator Hartmann’s campaign trailer,” Hiram said. “This platform fight is dragging on and on. The least you could do is watch the convention on television. It’s only the future of the country that’s at stake.”

  “Don’t give me a hard time,” Jay said. “I’m dressed real nice, how much more do you want? Listen, I’m poking around trying to find out who killed Chrysalis—”

  “I thought that was settled,” Hiram interrupted. “It was that ace-of-spades fellow. The psychopath who tried to steal those stamps
from us that night in the Crystal Palace.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think it was him,” Jay said.

  Hiram cleared his throat noncommittally, then said, “You’re the sleuth, but I think you’re wasting your time.”

  “It won’t be the first time,” Jay admitted. “Hiram, listen to me, and be careful what you say. Little politicos have big ears. Before she died, Chrysalis hired an assassin to kill Leo Barnett. He’s probably in Atlanta already.”

  For a long moment there was nothing on the phone but the sound of Hartmann staffers shouting strategy into walkie-talkies. Then, in a hoarse voice, Hiram finally managed, “Barnett? Are you sure?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Jay said. “Barnett’s the candidate who wants to put jokers in concentration camps. Chrysalis was a joker. Last time I looked, two plus two still added up to four.” Or did it? Assassinate Barnett and you might just guarantee the triumph of Barnett’s ideas. Hadn’t Chrysalis been more subtle than that? Maybe two plus two equaled … what?

  Hiram was talking. “… Barnett’s done everything he can to emasculate the jokers’ rights plank. I deplore everything the man stands for, but assassination can’t be tolerated. Jay, you have to go to the authorities.”

  “Oh, that’d be real good,” Jay said. “Just tell them that two jokers conspired to send an assassin, who’s probably an ace, to knock off Leo Barnett because they didn’t like his politics. Once the press gets wind of that, you might as well just inaugurate the fucker, save us from all those campaign commercials.”

  “God,” Hiram swore. He was whispering now. “You’re right, of course. Jay, what are we going to do?”

  “Somehow we have to keep Barnett alive without blowing the lid off this story. I’ll leave the details up to you.”

  “Thanks,” Hiram said dryly. “Ever so much.”

  “Get help,” Jay said. “Someone you can trust. Tachyon, maybe. Be subtle, but be careful, too. See if you can come up with some way to tighten security around Barnett.”