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“Call Darcy.”
The voice was faint but crystal clear, in exactly the way Mordecai Albert Jones sometimes imagined would presage the creeping onset of dementia. He paused in dismantling an Imperial LeBaron land yacht, straining to listen past the fading shriek of torn metal. But the scrapyard was quiet; he heard only the thrum of a chill spring wind and clinking of chains somewhere nearby. With a shrug, he tore the junker’s hood down the middle like a piece of tissue paper, extracting the mercury switch from the trunk light.
It was getting difficult to find spare mercury just lying around these days. Many of the heavy metals, really. Either they were valuable, and people stole them—like the platinum in old catalytic converters—or toxic, and over time manufacturers had stopped using them. He couldn’t begrudge a change from the old days that was so much better for the environment, but it meant a growing portion of his diet had to be ordered from sketchy suppliers in eastern Europe. For some reason, a lot of strontium had flooded the market after the horrific events in Kazakhstan. But he wouldn’t touch that stuff with a ten-foot pole. Never would.
“Gosh dang it. Call DAR-SEE.”
Mordecai paused again, his prize pinched between thumb and forefinger. That was definitely a voice. Louder this time. Actually, two voices. It sounded like somebody was having a conversation with a mentally challenged robot.
“Okay. Dialing the pharmacy.”
“No. DAR-SEE.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
The first voice started to giggle. “Doll Carcy.”
“Shall I search for car seats?”
Mordecai glanced at the glass bulb in his hand, its thimbleful of mercury gleaming in the sunlight. Consuming heavy metals was how his ace kept him strong, his bones unbreakable, his flesh impervious. The unusual diet had certainly never seemed to be deleterious to his health. Strontium was better, but increasingly difficult to get without a high tax in moral compromise. Mercury would do in a pinch. But now, listening to the faint surreal conversation unfolding around him, he remembered Alice in Wonderland. Lewis Carroll’s Mad Hatter was supposedly inspired by the mercury poisoning that commonly afflicted hatters of his era, something to do with making felt. Hmmm.
“Tall horsey—aww, nuts,” said the giggly voice. Something plopped to the dirt a few yards from Mordecai, kicking up a cloud of dust with a muted crack.
Okay, that wasn’t a hallucination. Or if it was, Mordecai was already too far gone toworry about it. He walked a few strides and picked up a phone. Fractures spiderwebbed the glass screen.
“Hey there, fella.”
Mordecai held the phone to his ear. “Yes?”
More giggling, but it didn’t seem to be coming from the phone. “Any chance you could call someone for me? It’d be real swell of you.”
That voice … there was something vaguely familiar about it. Which, Mordecai supposed, did nothing to rule out a delusion.
The wind kicked up, and with it, the creak and rattle of chains. “Oh, cripes.”
Aha. Yes. He’d definitely heard that voice before. It’d been a few years, but Mordecai remembered now. He looked up.
Wally Gunderson hung thirty feet overhead, splayed across the face of an electromagnet. The breeze had it swaying like a carnival ride. “Call my friend and tell her—” The metal man broke off in a giggling fit. “—tell her it hap, it, it happappenened again, would ya?”
He sounded drunk, which seemed a little out of character for the ace known as Rustbelt. Not that Mordecai knew him particularly well. They’d been on TV together, kind of, more than a decade ago.
Mordecai frowned. “Are you okay up there? Is that healthy for you?”
It was difficult to read the expression on the iron face. But something about the set of the steam-shovel jaw suggested mild relief.” Whew, you’re real. It sure gets confusing up here.”
Yeah … he didn’t sound right. Poor kid needed help.
“Hold on,” said Mordecai. He set the damaged phone on a stack of tire rims, and the mercury switch atop it. He leapt atop the crane arm holding the magnet, and shimmied to where Rustbelt hung helpless as a pinned butterfly. Mordecai flipped around so that hisknees were hooked over the chains, wedged his hands under Wally’s shoulders, then braced his feet against the magnet.
“Oh, they gotta cut the power or I’ll be up here all day, ya know.” Another gust set them twirling like a lazy pinwheel. “Wheee!” said Wally. “I’m kinda strong but—”
“Ready? One-two-three!”
Mordecai yanked on Wally’s shoulders. The joker-ace clanged free. Mordecai launched himself into a backward summersault and landed on his feet.
Wally face planted in the junkyard’s oily dirt. “Oof.” He lay there for a moment, silent and still, which Mordecai found unnerving. But then the metal man rolled over, saying, “Holy smokes. You’re really strong.” He winced, rubbing his shoulders. It sounded like two cast-iron frying pans scraping together. Wally now sported a pair of perfect handprints pressed into the metal.
Mordecai winced. “Should I take you to the hospital?”
Wally saw his frown. “Oh, don’t worry, fella. These bruises’ll go away in time. Tick tock.” Another giggling fit took him. “Hickory dickory dock.”
The stack of steel rims toppled over. The nearest bounced across the dirt to clunk against Wally’s legs. He laughed, pantomiming the exaggerated movements of steering a car. “Vrooom, vroom!”
More rimsfollowed. And an ominous creaking came from various piles of junk and scrap metal, as the taller ones began to sway toward the temporarily magnetized metal man like flowers seeking the sun.
“Let’s get you out of here.” Mordecai grabbed the broken phone and the mercury switch. “You said there’s somebody I can call for you?”
* * *
Wally lay sprawled on the concrete apron of a repair bay as if making a cement angel, belting out the Minnesota Rouser. Loose tools—wrenches, screwdrivers, and a cordless drill—dangled from his arms, chest, and face.
A pickup truck pulled up on the street adjacent to Mordecai’s motorcycle shop. The woman who emerged from the driver’s side stood practically half of Wally’s size; she cast a disapproving eye over the expired meters of the other cars on the street. Her passenger was clearly too young to drive. Mordecai didn’t have daughters, so it was hard to judge, but he’d put her at about twelve or thirteen.
“RAH, RAH, RAH, FOR SKY-U-MAH! RAH! RAH oh hi, Darcy.” Wally’s head lolled sideways as if his neck were pneumatically actuated and had sprung a leak. The look on his face (Mordecai decided most of the heavy lifti
ng was done by Wally’s eyes) went from a carefree looseness to something a little more focused, almost tender, when he looked at the tween. “Hiya, kiddo.”
“Hi, Wallywally.”
He reached up to touch her face. Mordecai winced, but the girl didn’t recoil from the iron fingers. Wally was surprisingly gentle despite his current state.
She asked, “Did you get stuck again?”
“Yeah.”
“Ugh, Dad.” She rolled her eyes.
Dad. Adoption? Wally definitely hadn’t been a father when he was on the show. If he had, then that other contestant, the winner (What was his name? Jamal … Norwood. He died in Kazakhstan. Mordecai had read about it in the paper. Very sad.) never would have gotten away with his claim against Wally. Not that a guileless kid like Wally ever really had a chance on that stupid show. (Unless the adoption was a response to the accusations on American Hero. Now that was an ugly thought. Also difficult to square with the young man who up and turned his back on TV to go defend helpless strangers halfway around the world. But…)
The tween said, “You have to warn people before you go wandering into scrap yards. Darcy told you.”
“Yeah, I did,” said the driver. “I feel like I was pretty clear on this.”
“Sorry, Darcy. I forgot.” Wally started giggling again, but then his demeanor turned on a dime and he looked ready to cry. “I broke the phone you gave me,” he sniffled.
The new arrivals shared a look. Darcy said, “Ohhh, super. It’s weepy Wally.”
“Guess he was up there a while,” said the tween. “Watch out for your credit cards.” She shrugged, pulled out her phone, turned slightly translucent, and floated out of earshot, her toes dangling a few inches from the pavement.
Darcy placed her hands on her hips and frowned at Wally moaning woozily on the ground. “You always know how to show a girl a good time on her day off, don’t you.”
Mordecai felt bad about not letting him inside, but it had been a job getting him to the shop, and it seemed a bad idea to bring Wally anywhere near the computers. He opened the screen door and stepped outside.
“You must be Darcy.” He smiled, extending a hand. “I’m Mordecai. I’m the one who called you?”
“Thanks for the call.” As she shook his hand, her gaze darted to the sign over the door. He could see the gears turning. And yet, she didn’t flinch from his handshake. Sometimes people did, even if they didn’t mean anything by it. Just a natural self-preservation instinct, he supposed, when you’re meeting somebody who is, quite possibly, the strongest ace in the world.
“Hey, are you—”
Mordecai shrugged. “Yeah. I’m him.”
“Wow.” Darcy nudged the metal man with the hard toe of her shoe, making a gong sound. It wasn’t a kick, really, and was perhaps even mildly affectionate. Or, at least, within arm’s length of affection. “Hey, dingbat. Do you even realize who rescued you?”
“My pal from the junkyard? He’s, really really strong.” Wally sniffled. “Do you think we’ll ever see him again?”
“Oh, for crying out loud—”
Mordecai said, “It’s fine. Will he be okay? I gather the magnet kind of…” He tapped his temple.
“Yeah, it always wears off.” She glared at the prone ace. “Eventually.”
Mordecai lifted Wally to his feet. Then the tween came back, slipped her phone in a pocket, and took one of Wally’s arms from Mordecai. It was touch and go for a moment, but she and Darcy managed to keep the metal man upright without getting crushed. The unlikely trio wobbled toward the pickup; Mordecai opened the tailgate for them. Loading unconscious Wally into the pickup bed was another job, owing to the magnetism. Mordecai wondered how Darcy and the tween would have managed on their own.
Wally’s eyes opened. His gaze cast about, and then he focused on Mordecai. “Harlem Hammer.”
Mordecai dipped his head in acknowledgment. He didn’t exactly love that title, but he’d let it slide. Poor kid had a scrambled brain.
“Thank you,” said the metal man.
* * *
Jube, the walrus-joker who had owned and run the corner newspaper stand in Wally’s part of Jokertown since long before Wally’s card turned, gave him a friendly nod. “Wally Gunderson. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been feeling kinda crummy the last few days.”
The day after his magnet misadventure, he still wasn’t feeling like himself, so he’d asked a favor of his friend Michelle. Ghost (Wally had given up using her real name, Yerodin, otherwise she bristled, and when she bristled she played with knives) was getting the better end of the deal, a sleepover with her friend Adesina, who could fly. It made him feel like a lousy parent, but then, in his addled state, if he’d tried to be a parent to Ghost just then, he would’ve done a real bad job, and felt even lousier.
“Sorry to hear it. How’s the little one?”
“Oh, gosh. She’s good. So good. Yeah…” Wally paused, looking for a natural way to turn the conversation. “Real good. Um, hey, speaking of all this stuff, do you happen to knowa real strong fella who’s got a motorbike fixin’ store up in Harlem?”
Juberaised his bushy eyebrows to the point it looked like they would disappear under his hat. Wally had asked him about it once, and remembered it was called a porkpie hat, though he still didn’t know why.
“Mordecai Jones? Of course I do.” Jube’s wire-brush mustache twitched into a frown. “Oh, Wally, tell me you’re not tussling with him. I know you can take care of yourself, but Mordecai, you’re not in his class. He’d ball you up like so much tin foil.”
“Tussling?” It was Wally’s turn to frown. “Oh, you mean fighting. Heck no! Gosh. No, he did something real swell and I want to say thanks,” said Wally, hoping Jube wouldn’t pry for details. If pressed, he’d end up telling the whole story. Truth, he often felt, was like steam. It always leaked out eventually. Especially from himself, who in that regard was little better than a rusted-out teapot.
Jube looked relieved. “Everybody knows Mordecai or, at least, knows of him. But hegenerally keeps a low profile. I recall he was a little more active back in the old days, though I think even back then he was never entirely keen on the adventuring ace thing.”
Jube paused to make change for a joker woman with kaleidoscopically shifting paisley patterns on her skin; she bought gum, cigarettes, and a copy of the Financial Times. Wally thought the pink newspaper was kinda neat.
“He’s never been a regular customer,” Jube continued, “not being a Jokertown resident. But I do see him once in a while. Loves the Times crossword puzzle, that one.”
Wally perked up. “Oh, that’s super. Thanks, Jube! I know the perfect thank-you gift. Heck, one time I even went in disguise as the president of a crossword puzzle club.”
Jube stared at him, unblinking. “I … How’s that?”
And just like steam, the story started leaking out. Wally was proud of this one; he considered it one of the more clever ideas he’d ever had. “It was back when all them folks were getting snatched. Remember that? Well—”
“Mr. Gunderson!”
A man in a tan suit waved at Wally across the street.
“Aw, nuts.”
Jube rubbed a sleeve of his Hawaiian shirt across one tusk. “Friend of yours?”
“Not really. But he sure acts like it sometimes.”
The man, who appeared to be a nat (though Wally tried not to judge people on their looks), dodged traffic to join them. He was quick on his feet; despite crossing against the light, he didn’t get a single horn honk or finger. Wally hadn’t known that was possible.
“Mr. Gunderson. I wonder if you’ve given any more thought to my suggestion?”
“Uff-da.” Wally sighed, running a hand across his face (grind, clang). “Look, fella, it’s nice of you to think of me, honest, but I’m just not the kind of guy for politics.”
Wally got more than his share of politics with his work for the Committee. So much so that sometime
s he wanted to quit and spend that time at home with Ghost—the large amount of time he spent out of the country had been a knock against him during the adoption process. But he never did quit the Committee because it was kinda his fault it existed in the first place. And sometimes it did good things.
Though it wasn’t entirely steady work. As he’d once told his friend Jerusha before she died, the only thing he was really good for was wrecking stuff. Which is why he had been so glad to get the offer to do demolition work for Mr. Matthews’s company, Aces in Hand. That wasn’t steady, either—it wasn’t every day somebody needed a building torn down—though it had picked up recently.
Jube’s eyebrows did that thing again. “Politics?”
Tan-suit man gave him a wide smile, nodding like his neck was one of those paint-can shakers at the hardware store. “Morlock-and-Eloi is stepping down from the city council. There’s going to be a special election to fill the empty Jokertownspot.”
Jube, who knew the neighborhood better than anybody, shook his head. “This is news to me. Why’s she quitting?”
Tan suit shrugged. “Illness, I gather.” He looked down, shaking his head the tiniest bit, the way people do when they hear that the friend of a friend’s cousin’s pet died and don’t want to seem callous.
“You seem to know a lot about J-town politics.”
“Randall McNath, Joker Anti-Defamation League.” Tan suit gave Jubea vigorous handshake. “A pleasure. Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Jube.” Jube chuckled. “You’re clearly already acquainted with Mr. Gunderson. So you don’t need me to tell you that he’d be a fine representative for the people of Jokertown.”
He always said things like that. It was nice and all, him being so concerned about the neighborhood, and a member of the Joker Antidefathingy, and not even a joker himself. But just because it was flattering didn’t mean it was true or, frankly, very well thought out.
“Well, it’s real swell of you to say such nice things, but I tell ya, buddy, I wouldn’t be a good fit.” Wally looked at Jube for support. The walrus-man was staring at Wally hard, his eyebrows low over his eyes. “Right, Jube?”
Hammer and Tongs and a Rusty Nail Page 1
