Wild Cards: Death Draws Five

by John J. Miller; George R. R. Martin

  The Angel shook her head again.

  “I have no idea,” she said, guiding the van down the mountain like a toboggan down a snowless hillside.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Peaceable Kingdom: The Angels’ Bower

  Though Ray hadn’t exactly lied to Creighton, he had let him and Ackroyd both make unwarranted assumptions that he didn’t want to explain at this time. With Sascha on the scene, he decided he’d better split before the eyeless ace picked something awkward out of his mind. He had to report to Barnett anyway, and see exactly what the Hell was going on with Angel and the kid.

  Ray made his excuses and dashed off, trying to diffuse any probes from Sascha by keeping a picture of Angel foremost in his thoughts. It wasn’t difficult. She had real eye appeal, even when she was being grumpy. Which was almost always. He couldn’t help but wonder what she’d be like in the sack. Wonder what that body looked like under all the leather. Maybe framed, for a change, with lace.

  On second thought, Ray thought, screw the lace. He had the feeling that she was a woman who looked best naked. Or maybe wearing only a thin, slippery sheen of sweat.

  “We’re here, sir,” the cabby said, interrupting the most pleasant thought Ray had had in months.

  Ray tossed the driver a couple of twenties. He slung his bag over his shoulder, jumped out of the cab without waiting for change, and took the steps up and into the lobby. He went straight to the elevator bank and whisked himself up to the penthouse. To the tip of the great glass pyramid that was the headquarters of the huge entertainment complex Barnett had designed to separate the suckers from their money. The elevator came to a smooth stop, chimed softly, and let him out into a corridor that ended in closed double doors guarded by men in nicely tailored suits and dark sunglasses.

  He went down the corridor with the jauntiness of a mastiff approaching a couple of Pekinese.

  “Billy,” one said, stepping aside. “President Barnett is expecting you.”

  He opened the door and Ray entered the antechamber where Sally Lou was playing at receptionist. She looked at Ray with the gleam of a hungry tigress in her eyes. “We heard you got shot,” she said.

  “I got better,” Ray said briefly. He still hadn’t forgiven her for her prior treatment, but if she kept on looking at him like that he figured that eventually he’d forgive her for damn near anything. Angel was on his mind, but Sally Lou was definitely in reach. “Barnett—”

  “—is waiting for you,” Sally Lou interrupted. “Go right in.”

  Ray paused for a moment. “Later?” he asked.

  Sally Lou looked at him coyly. “Maybe.”

  Ray went by her desk to Barnett’s office door. He didn’t like games. It looked like Sally Lou did. He could put up with it for awhile if the end result was worth it, and it looked like Sally Lou might be. In the meantime, though, there was still a kid somewhere on the loose in the wilds of America in a van with Angel at the wheel.

  Leo Barnett didn’t look too concerned about the still-missing John Fortune and the now-missing Angel, but then he rarely looked concerned about anything. He was on the phone when Ray came into his office, sitting behind his big desk of dark wood, cigar in hand, nodding expressively as he talked.

  “I know talent is scarce right now, Sammy boy, but I tell you what—” He made some kind of face at Ray that the ace couldn’t interpret and gestured broadly for him to sit in the chair before his desk. Ray did. “You find me some boys who know how to do a job and will keep their mouths shut. Sure. Sure. Of course.” Barnett rolled his eyes. He hung up the phone and looked at Ray, smiling but shaking his head.

  “I’ve got to find me some good boys, Ray. Boys like you who know how to take orders and keep their traps shut. Boys who have a little extra juice, you know what I mean?” Ray nodded. “Whatever happened to that Mechanic fellow?”

  “Belew?” Ray shook his head. The Mechanic had led the first operation that Ray had ever been on—the failed attempt, through no fault of their own, to extract the American hostages from Iran, way back in the Carter Administration. “We haven’t crossed paths in years.”

  “He’s a stud I’d like to have on our side when the Allumbrados come to town. How about that Straight Arrow?”

  “Nephi Callendar? He’s a desk jockey now.”

  “George Battle? He was just an ordinary joe, but tough as the dickens.”

  “Uh.” Ray didn’t really want to get into much detail about Battle’s fate. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  “Pity.” Barnett looked up to the ceiling. “Oh Lord, see me through these trying times.” He looked back at Ray. “What can I do for you, son?”

  Ray remembered something Barnett had just said. “The Allumbrados are coming to town?” he asked. “Contarini’s outfit?”

  “Of course, son. Of course. We’ve got the baby Jesus. They’re going to come after him sure as Satan is frying souls in the Fiery Pit right this very minute.”

  Ray nodded. That was good. He’d like to get his hands on Butcher Dagon again. This time he’d bite the bastard’s tail off at the root and strangle him with it. Still...“They’ve got a whole cadre of credenti and believers and shit working for them,” Ray said. “Some tough ass mercs. Some aces.”

  “Don’t I know that? That’s why I’ve been on the horn all day trying to beef up my forces.”

  “Who do you have?” Ray asked.

  Barnett looked at him. “Well, there’s you.”

  Ray nodded impatiently. “Yes.”

  “And Angel, of course.”

  Ray pursed his lips. “I don’t know about her.”

  Barnett leaned forward, pointing his cigar at Ray. “Well, son, she got the baby Jesus. You got bubkiss. Besides,” he leaned back in his chair, took a deep pull on the cigar and blew smoke towards the Heavens, “she said the same thing about you.”

  “What exactly did she say?” Ray asked with narrowed eyes.

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist, son. I know she can be difficult. But if you handle her right, she’ll eat right out of your hand.”

  Ray frowned. “Well, who else do we have?”

  Barnett put his cigar in his mouth, his hands behind his head, and his feet on his desk. “Well, there’s Sally Lou. But she’s not much use, unless we want to screw the Allumbrados to death.”

  “She can do that?” Ray asked, startled. There was an ace... years ago. But she had disappeared.

  “Don’t be so damn literal,” Barnett said. “Maybe she couldn’t really screw those boys to death. But she could tire them out some.”

  “Oh,” Ray said. He waited for Barnett to go on, but when he didn’t he finally said, “That’s it, then?”

  “Oh, there’s Alejandro. And we got boys with guns. Plenty of those. But so has the Cardinal. And this battle won’t be won with guns, I don’t think. I’ve got some guys on the line who might be useful.”

  Ray nodded. He agreed with Barnett. It didn’t seem to be shaping up in Barnett’s favor, but long odds never made Ray run from a fight.

  “Well, what about Angel and the boy?” he asked. “Are they okay? Are they almost here?”

  Barnett sighed. “She’s out there somewhere with the boy in tow. I expect she’ll be reporting in sometime soon.”

  “She’s out there somewhere?” Ray asked. “That’s the best you can do?”

  Barnett poured himself a couple of fingers from the decanter that sat on the side of his desk, added some ice, and took a long drink from his tall glass, the ice cubes tinkling merrily against its side. “You’ve seen her. She’s a big, strong girl. She can take care of herself.”

  I hope so, Ray thought. I really, really hope so.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Branson, Missouri: The Angels’ Bower

  “A suite of our own,” Digger Downs said. “Pretty sweet, huh?”

  Fortunato looked around the spacious living area with sofa, loveseat, wide-screen television and mini-bar. It was somewhat more luxurious than the quarters he
’d shared with five score monks the past sixteen years or so. The angel decor, though, was not exactly to his taste.

  “Does it have to be this... colorful?” he asked.

  “Well...”

  The room was done in pastel shades of green, blue, and pinkish-red that, despite their muted tones managed to be quite garish when taken together. The bathroom was black, pink, and white faux marble tiles which were laid in swirling patterns that hurt Fortunato’s eyes. He hadn’t been in Digger’s bedroom, but his had a round, bean-bag shaped bed that was enshrouded with gossamer thin fabric that looked like puce colored mosquito netting. Worse yet, there were photos and paintings, and even relics of all sorts all over the damn place

  “It’s the best we could do on short notice.” Digger shrugged. “The place is crowded even by their usual standards. There’s some kind of big convention that’s taking a lot of the rooms.”

  “Barnett seems to have brought himself a license to print money with this place,” Fortunato said.

  Digger shrugged again. “Barnum was right, but we have our own fish to fry. What’s the plan?”

  Fortunato roused himself. “Angel was bringing the boy here for some reason. Suppose we poke around a little and find out why?”

  “All right,” Digger said, sensing another intriguing story line. “Anything specific we should look for?”

  Fortunato shook his head. “I don’t know. You’re the investigative reporter.” Fortunato looked thoughtful. “A talk with the head man himself might be in order.”

  “Barnett?” Digger asked. “Yeah. Go straight for the top, I always say.”

  “Could you swing it?” Fortunato asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “One thing, though,” Fortunato said. “ I need to find some way to recharge my batteries.”

  “If you’re looking to put hookers on the company charge card—” Digger started.

  Fortunato grimaced. “It may come to that. Maybe. But I think I’ve moved beyond that. To something new.”

  “Like what?” Digger asked, plainly intrigued.

  “It’s all so new,” Fortunato said, “that I’m still not sure about it. But I’ll probably know it when I see it.”

  “Probably?” Digger asked.

  “Hey, man,” Fortunato said, “that’s the best I can do.”

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Peaceable Kingdom: The Manger

  “Is this a non-smoking room?” Mushroom Daddy asked.

  Jerry, Mushroom Daddy, and Sascha were in the living room of their suite trying to figure out what to do next. It was furnished in a sort of 1950ish style that Jerry kind of liked, though the Naugahyde sofa was slippery and the orange carpet was a little bright.

  Sascha looked at Daddy curiously. “No. You can light up if you want. Do you happen to have some decent cigars on you?”

  Daddy shuddered. “Tobacco? Never touch the stuff, man. It’s, like, a killer.” He looked thoughtful. “Except of course for those groovy organic Cuban cigars that teenaged senoritas roll up on their soft, creamy thighs. Those are okay, every now and then.”

  Jerry frowned. “What are you talking about, then?” A sudden thought struck him. “Not—”

  Daddy nodded. He reached into an inside vest pocket and pulled out a baggie packed with rich green weed.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jerry groaned. “You bought that with you on the plane?”

  “Sure,” Daddy said. “I always take some weed along when I travel. It’s the best, man. Here, try some. Um, you don’t happen to have a water pipe on you? I couldn’t bring mine ‘cause I didn’t bring any luggage.”

  Jerry collapsed on the Naugahyde sofa. I guess its true, he thought. God does take care of drunks, little children, and idiots. Sometimes, at least.

  Sascha looked as amused as an eyeless man could. “No. I’m afraid I left my bong at home.”

  “Oh, that’s okay, man,” Daddy assured him. “I brought some rolling papers.”

  He sat down next to Jerry on the sofa and bent over the glass and chrome coffee table in front of it and dexterously rolled a fat joint.

  “Got a light, man?” he asked Jerry.

  Jerry shook his head. “No. I don’t smoke.”

  “Here,” Sascha said. He tossed him a book of matches.

  “Thanks, man.” Daddy carefully lit the joint and took a long toke. “Want some?” he asked, offering the jay to Jerry.

  Jerry closed his eyes and shook his head. What the Hell, he asked himself. Why not? He accepted the joint and took a tentative pull. The smoke roiled down his throat and into his lungs. It was warm, but without harshness. Not a cough in the carload, as the old saying went. He looked at Mushroom Daddy in surprise.

  “Smooth, huh?” Daddy said proudly. “It’s my own. I grow it organically. Totally chemically free. Nothing in it but good old Mother Nature’s goodness, man.”

  “Let me have a hit of that,” Sascha said, crossing over to the sofa.

  “Sure!” Daddy said. “You dudes can split that one while I roll another.”

  Jerry took another hit and passed it to Sascha. He held the smoke deep in his lungs, then let it out in a fragrant cloud. It smelled great, Jerry thought. He could already feel himself starting to relax.

  Sascha took a long hit. “Not bad,” he said in a choked voice as he held the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible. He finally let it out in a long whoooosh. “In fact, pretty good.”

  Daddy was rolling a second joint when someone knocked on the door, and the three looked at each other, trepidation in at least two sets of eyes.

  “Sascha, you get the door,” Jerry said. “Daddy, get your shit out of sight. I’ll turn up the air conditioner.”

  There was another knock. It sounded loud and impatient. What, Jerry thought, his panic growing unaccountably, if it was the cops? They probably had some mean ass cops in Branson. He didn’t even want to think of what they’d do to someone caught smoking dope in the Peaceable Kingdom.

  “Coming,” Sascha called out. He went up to the door and stood before it.

  “Who is it?” Jerry asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sascha said. “I can’t see.”

  “Well,” Daddy said, “ask him.”

  “Who is it?” Sascha asked the door.

  “It’s me,” a voice called out gruffly. “Billy Ray. Sascha, that you? Open the goddamned door.”

  “Dammit,” Jerry said. “The Feds.”

  “Oh, man,” Daddy said. “The man. Oh, man.”

  “Just a minute,” Sascha said.

  “Open the windows—” Jerry said.

  “Oh, man,” Daddy said. “Busted, man. Who’s going to take care of all my plants if they send me to the slam?”

  “Can’t,” Sascha said. “Hotel windows. Can’t open them.”

  The door rattled ominously.

  “Are you guys in trouble in there? I’ll break the door down—”

  “He will, too,” Sascha said.

  Jerry made a helpless gesture with his hands.

  “Open it. Open it. Maybe he won’t smell anything.”

  Sascha nodded. He took the door off the chain and threw it open. Ray stood out in the hallway, hand up and ready to pound on the door again.

  “Hello, Ray,” Sascha said with a smile. “Come on in, Ray.”

  Ray entered the room suspiciously. “What the Hell is going on in here?”

  “Nothing,” Sascha said.

  “Nothing,” Jerry said.

  “Nothing, man,” Daddy said, trying to shove the baggy full of weed further between the sofa cushions.

  Ray stopped, sniffed the air, and frowned thunderously. “Are you guys smoking pot?”

  Sascha, Jerry, and Mushroom Daddy looked at each other.

  “Us, uh—” Jerry began.

  “You’re holding out on me, you bastards?” Ray said. “I haven’t gotten high since I did some hash with a bunch of Afghani warlords. I had to smoke with them, of course. Had to put them at their ease.”

/>   “Well,” Daddy said, “if you like Afghani hash, you’ll love—”

  ”Daddy—” Jerry began.

  “It’s all right,” Sascha said, as if suddenly remembering that he could read minds. He sank down gratefully into the loveseat across the coffee table from the sofa. “He’s cool.”

  “Of course I’m cool,” Ray said, sitting down next to Daddy. “What, you think I’m a narc just because I work for the Feds?”

  “Course not,” Jerry said as Daddy produced the baggy of pot and an already rolled joint that he handed to Ray.

  “Thanks,” Ray said. He lit up and took a toke. “Of course,” he said in a strangled voice, “if I was my old boss, that tight-ass Nephi Callendar,” he paused to blow smoke and take another hit, “your asses would all be headed for the nearest federal slam, right now. Hey. Very nice.”

  Daddy nodded happily. “I grow it myself.”

  Ray looked at him. “So, what’s the story, man, are you some kind of burned-out hippie, or are you an ace?”

  Daddy shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is that I can grow things. They taste good, and they do good things for your body and your head.”

  “Maybe,” Jerry suggested, “you should call yourself the Green Thumb.”

  Ray frowned, and then started to laugh. Within moments they were all giggling like hopeless fools. It felt good, Jerry thought. Really good. Ray handed Daddy the joint. He took a toke and passed it on to Jerry.

  They sat together, smoking, talking, and laughing for the next hour. Ray turned out to be a fount of surprisingly amusing stories about foreign and domestic diplomats. Every now and then Jerry would just say, “Green Thumb,” and they’d all laugh again, though Jerry had the feeling that Mushroom Daddy didn’t see anything particularly funny in the name and was maybe seriously considering it.

  They finally polished off their fifth or sixth joint and Ray looked at them all, seriously.

  “I’m hungry,” he said. “Room service, or buffet?”

  They all thought about it for a moment, and then as one man said, “Buffet!”

  Daddy gathered up his paraphernalia, but Ray made him leave it all in the suite. Together they descended in the elevator, to wreak havoc on the first buffet that they could find.