Hiram Worchester, Fatman, looked harried. Probably the strain of orchestrating the dinner, Jennifer thought. She recognized Fortunato, even though he was an ace who had never sought publicity. He was talking to Peregrine. He looked earnest, she looked amused. She felt the playing card that she’d tucked into her back pocket, but was hesitant to go up to him and present it. It looked like he had his own worries, and besides, she could take care of herself.
She snagged a glass of champagne from a tray of a waiter circulating around the room, and drained it, washing down pâté de foie gras and cracker.
“I knew it, I just knew it.” The voice was masculine and drawling, with an undercurrent of excitement in it. “I just knew she’d show up here.”
Jennifer turned, champagne glass in one hand and half a cracker smeared with pâté in the other. Hiram was standing behind her. With him was the man she had seen get out of the cab, the man in the white battle suit.
“Are you talking to me?”
“You bet your sweet butt, honey,” the man in white said. There was something wrong with his face. He looked her over with an annoying intentness that made Jennifer feel naked, but that was only part of what made Jennifer feel uncomfortable. His features, individually, were all right, perhaps even handsome, but taken together were utterly unmatched. His nose was too long, his chin too small. One of his intense green eyes was higher than the other. His jaw was canted, as if it had been broken and then healed crookedly. He licked his lips in an agitated, excited manner.
Hiram sighed. “Are you sure, Mr. Ray?”
“She’s the one, I know she is. I knew she couldn’t stay away from this goddamn party. Damn if I wasn’t right.”
“Very well then. Do your duty.” He sighed again and made wringing motions with his hands, as if he were washing them of the matter. The man he called Ray nodded, then turned to Jennifer.
“My name’s Billy Ray. I’m a federal agent and I’d like to see some ID.”
“Why?” Jennifer asked with a sinking feeling.
“You look like someone who robbed the home of a prominent citizen this morning.”
Jennifer looked at the fragment of cracker she still held in her hand. She hadn’t even begun to take the edge off her appetite.
“Damn,” she said, and the cracker and champagne glass slipped through her hands as she ghosted through the floor.
Ray moved like a cat on speed. He leaped upon her, but only grasped her shirt which was crumpling to the floor.
“Ah, Jesus, Worchester,” Jennifer heard him say before she slipped entirely through the floor, “you should’ve let me coldcock the bitch.”
Tachyon’s small form had vanished into the milling aces in search of alcohol. Alcohol she badly needed. The rumble of voices, the tinkle of ice in crystal glasses, and the energetic efforts of a small combo all combined to form a drill that was digging ever deeper into her head.
Ice sculptures of various of the more prominent aces dotted the room. Peregrine had taken up a position near her statue, and her beautiful wings threatened to overset the frozen replica.
Captain Trips, a glass of fruit juice clutched in a bony hand, tried to negotiate the room, but his amazing stovepipe hat kept tumbling to the floor. The Harlem Hammer, looking decidedly uncomfortable in his best suit, retrieved the hat. The contrast between the immensely powerful black ace, his bald pate shining under the lights, and the weedy Captain was startling.
The Professor and Ice-Blue Sibyl lounged near the bar. Sibyl with her blue, sexless naked body could have doubled for one of the ice sculptures. She even gave up a faint chill to those standing near her. Her companion created a stir by his own peculiar sense of style. With his whiskers, balding head, wire-rimmed spectacles, and belching pipe, he looked like someone’s kindly old uncle. But no uncle of Roulette’s would ever have worn a sky-blue tux with scuffed sandals.
Fantasy, the ABT’s prima ballerina and one of New York’s more public aces, waved a rose before Pit Boss’s nose while Trump Card looked on indulgently.
So many, and which of you will survive this night? Not many, I think, with my master seeking you.
The problem with being a genial host was the necessity to be polite to boors. Hiram sipped at a champagne glass full of Vernors ginger ale (he liked to have a drink in hand, to promote the atmosphere of conviviality, but he had too many responsibilities to allow himself to get tipsy) and tried to feign a great interest in what Cap’n Trips was saying.
“I mean, it’s like elitist, man, this whole dinner, on a day like this it ought to be aces and jokers all getting together, like for brotherhood,” the gangling hippie with the long blond hair and weedy goatee told him.
The Aces High staff had barred a dozen groupies and pretenders, including the fishwoman with her bowl of telepathic goldfish, an elderly gentleman in a cape who time-traveled in his sleep, and a two-hundred-pound teenaged girl who wore only pasties and a G-string and claimed to be immortal. That one was tough to disprove, admittedly, but Hiram had turned her away nonetheless. He found himself wishing he’d been similarly resolute with Trips, whose powers seemed equally elusive, if in fact he had any at all. If only Dr. Tachyon had not arrived just when he did . . .
Hiram sighed. It was spilt milk now. He’d admitted the Captain, and a few minutes later, while making his rounds of the party, mingling and smiling, he’d made a second mistake and asked Trips how he was enjoying himself. Since then he’d been trapped by the ice sculpture of Peregrine, while the tall man in the purple Uncle Sam suit explained earnestly that, like alcohol was poison, man, and he really ought to be serving some tofu and sprouts because the body is like a temple, you know, and wasn’t the whole idea of the Wild Card Dinner like, uh, politically incorrect.
It was no wonder Dr. Tachyon had vouched for him, Hiram thought, gazing at Trips’s prominent Adam’s apple and purple top hat: they obviously shopped at the same boutique. Hiram’s smile was so frozen he hoped that frost wasn’t forming in his beard. His attention wandered across the room and he noticed a number of diners taking their drinks out onto the balcony, where the sun was sinking behind New Jersey, turning the sky a deep, robust red. That gave Hiram an inspiration. “It looks to be a magnificent sunset tonight, Captain,” he said. “That’s a sight you really shouldn’t miss, since you don’t get to visit us too often. Sunset from Aces High is quite special, I’m sure you’ll agree. Quite, ah . . . quite far out.”
It worked. Cap’n Trips craned his head around, nodded, and started to take a step toward the balcony, but somehow those long pipestem legs managed to get tangled up in each other, and he started to trip. Before Hiram could step forward and catch him, Trips had thrown out a hand to steady himself, grabbed hold of the ice sculpture, snapped off the end of Peregrine’s wing, and fallen flat on his face. His hat flew ten feet and landed at the feet of the Harlem Hammer, who picked it up with a look of disgust, carried it back to Trips, and pulled it down firmly onto the Captain’s head. By then Cap’n Trips had gotten to his feet, an icy wingtip still in his hand. He looked very abashed. “I’m sorry, man,” he managed. He tried to fit the missing piece back on the end of Peri’s wing. “I’m real sorry, it was beautiful, man,” he said, “maybe I can fix it.”
Hiram took the ice away from him and gently turned him around. “Never mind,” he said, “just go watch the sunset.”
Jack leaned heavily against Bagabond as they came up out of the subway. Rosemary followed, scrutinizing the crowd. She took Jack’s free arm tightly, lending support as the trio negotiated 23rd Street toward the Haiphong Lily.
No one paid any heed to them as the three moved slowly down the sidewalk. “In here.” Bagabond steered them into a dark, narrow courtyard, ill-lit by two flickering streetlights on the block.
“I smell something good,” Jack said miserably, raising his head.
“Rosemary, this is your scene.” Bagabond helped Jack support himself against a bent steel railing leading up to a long-unrestored brownstone. She t
urned back toward the assistant district attorney. “How do you want to play it?”
Rosemary peered down the street toward the next dim pool of light. “What I want to do is use the notebooks to exert some control on the Gambiones. From there, maybe I can reach the rest of the Families.” The regret was evident both in her look and in her voice. “Sorry to put you through this, Jack, but unless we de-escalate this war among the crime powers, the city will be in a state of siege.” Her voice firmed. “By holding onto the books and releasing just enough information to maintain the balance, I want to influence the selection of the new don and his attitude toward the Families and the new gangs.”
“Piece of cake,” Jack said through gritted teeth.
“You really believe you can do that?” Bagabond was unconvinced that Rosemary could carry off the farfetched plan.
“Hell of a nice speech,” said Jack.
“Rosa Maria Gambione can do that.” Rosemary faced Bagabond.
“But what will they do when they find out who the assistant DA really is?” Bagabond frowned at the other woman. “You might as well step in front of an IRT.”
“It’s my choice. It’s my heritage.” She shrugged eloquently. “How else will I be able to make up for my father’s acts?”
“A hundred Hail Marys,” Jack said, weaving slightly. “Sorry about that.”
“Your father chose to be what he was. You are not guilty of his sins.” Bagabond grasped Rosemary’s upper arm hard enough to hurt. “Your responsibility is to yourself.”
“I don’t see it that way.” She pried Bagabond’s hand from her arm and held it for a moment. “What I don’t like is putting you and Jack into danger.”
“Hey, we’re used to it. We’re aces, right?” Bagabond looked at Jack, who was swearing softly in French. Even in the poor light, they could see his skin starting to turn gray.
“How much longer?” Jack said.
“Just give it a little more time,” Rosemary said reassuringly.
“Yeah, sure.” Jack winced. “Damn, it hurts.”
He froze when he saw the limos parked in front. Spector took a deep breath and a moment to calm himself. It wasn’t the Astronomer, couldn’t be, not yet. What did he expect Mafiosi to arrive in, Hondas and Yugos?
He saw the neon lily and knew he was in the right place. He stepped inside and walked up the creaky wooden stairs. A large man blocked his way at the top. The goon was over six feet high and built like a defensive lineman, obviously mob muscle. He would have been nothing more than a side of beef to Spector, except that he wore mirrored sunglasses.
“Reservations?” he asked, like it was the only word of English he knew.
“Yeah.” Spector tried to slide past, but the man grabbed his bad wrist.
“Hold on.”
Spector gritted his teeth. “You got some kind of problem?”
“We got a private party here tonight.”
“Excuse me.” An Oriental man put a hand on the hired muscle’s shoulder. He looked at Spector, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. “This gentleman is not with your party, but he does have a reservation.”
“Will he stand for a frisk?” the big man addressed the question to the Oriental, then looked over at Spector.
“No problem.” Spector unbuttoned his coat and raised his arms. The man frisked him in a quick, professional manner. “You Secret Service or something?” Spector asked.
“Okay. Do what you want with him.” The big man took a step back toward the stairs.
The Oriental, Spector figured him for a manager, hustled him to a table near the entrance to the private room. He handed Spector a menu and smiled weakly. “No trouble,” he whispered. “They told me there would be no trouble.”
“Only if the food’s bad.”
“Food is excellent.” The manager signaled a waiter and turned away, seeming relieved.
The menu was hand-printed in gold and silver on some kind of fancy card stock, not laminated like he was used to. Spector opened it and sighed. Bad to worse, not only was everything written in Vietnamese, but there were no numbers next to the entrées. It would be hard enough trying to find something edible without having to pronounce it, too.
“Excuse me, sir. Would you like some tea?”
Spector looked up at the waiter. “Sure.” A little caffeine would be good for his reflexes when the time came.
The waiter turned over his cup with a white-gloved hand and filled it. “Would you like a few more minutes before you order?”
“Yeah. Come back in a while.”
The waiter nodded, set the white china teapot on the table, and walked away.
Spector picked up the cup and blew the steam away from the surface of the tea. It looked a little greener than what he was used to. He took a tentative sip. The tea was almost too hot to be drinkable, but it was strong enough to do the job. He’d let it cool for a few minutes and then put away as much as he could. Spector smelled meat and vegetables cooking in hot oil. His stomach burned. He needed to get something solid into it soon.
Two people entered the restaurant. One was young; the other had to be pushing seventy. Both were wearing dark suits and hats. They talked briefly to the guard at the door, then disappeared into the private room.
Spector could hear their voices, but wasn’t able to pick out enough words to follow the conversation. It didn’t really matter. Most of them would be sleeping with the fishes before too much longer.
He turned back to the menu. If he ordered a beef dish, he could at least eat the meat.
Another group walked past the guard into the meeting room. Hello, he thought, I’m Demise. I’ll be killing your asses stone-cold dead tonight.
His waiter wandered back over. “You ready now, sir?”
“Yes. I’d like something with beef in it. You understand. Plenty of hot stuff, too.” The waiter nodded and left.
Spector checked his watch. 7:45. He picked up his cup and sipped at the tea. When he was sure everyone was there he’d make his move.
The cocktail hour was drawing to a close, and Curtis and his attentive staff were beginning to escort the guests to their tables when Jay Ackroyd finally showed up, with Chrysalis on his arm. Popinjay was in the same brown suit and loafers that he’d worn all day, tieless and a little rumpled. Chrysalis was wearing a glittering floor-length gown of metallic silver. It covered both breasts and one shoulder, but the slit up the side was high enough to make it perfectly apparent that she had decided to do without underwear. Her long legs flashed as she strode across the floor, muscles moving like smoke beneath transparent skin, the eyes in her skeletal face scanning the room as if she owned it.
Hiram met them by the bar. “Jay is as tardy as ever,” he said. “I really ought to take him to task for delaying our meeting. I’m Hiram Worchester.” He kissed her hand.
She seemed amused. “I’d guessed as much,” she said in cultivated public-school tones.
“You’re British!” Hiram said with a delighted smile. “My father was British. He fought at Dunkirk, you know. A male war bride, but not the kind who wore white.”
Chrysalis smiled politely.
Ackroyd’s smile was more cynical. “You two probably want to talk about Winston Churchill or Yorkshire pudding or something. I think I’ll get a drink.”
“Do that,” Hiram said. Jay took the hint and wandered off to chat with Wallwalker. “I believe you have some information for me,” Hiram said to Chrysalis.
“I might,” she said. She glanced around. In a room full of celebrities and attractive women, she was drawing more than her share of glances. “Here? It seems rather public.”
“In my office,” Hiram said.
When the door was shut behind them, Hiram sank gratefully into a chair and gestured her to a seat. “May I?” she asked, producing a cigarette from a small handbag. He nodded. She lit up, and Hiram watched the smoke swirl inside her nasal cavities when she inhaled. “Let’s dispense with the foreplay,” Chrysalis sug
gested. “The sort of information you want is dangerous and expensive. How much are you prepared to spend?”
Hiram slid open his drawer, took out a ledger-sized checkbook, and began to fill out a check. She watched him carefully. He ripped it out and slid it across the desk.
Chrysalis leaned forward, picked up the check, looked at it. The ghostly musculature of her face worked as she raised an eyebrow. She folded the check in half and tucked it into her handbag. “Very good. That buys you a lot, Mr. Worchester. Not all, but a lot.”
“Go on.” He folded his hands on the desk. “You told Jay that Bludgeon was a part of something bigger. What?”
“Call them the Shadow Fist Society,” Chrysalis said. “That’s the name you hear on the street. It’s as good as any other. It is a large and powerful criminal organization, Mr. Worchester, made up of many lesser gangs. The Immaculate Egrets in Chinatown, the Werewolves in Jokertown, Bludgeon’s motley group along the waterfront, and a dozen others. They have allies in Harlem, Hell’s Kitchen, Brooklyn, all over the city.”
“The syndicate,” Hiram said.
“Don’t confuse them with the Mafia. The Shadow Fist Society is waging a very quiet war against the Mafia, in fact, and it is winning. It has fingers in a good number of pies, everything from drugs to prostitution to the numbers, as well as some legitimate businesses. Bludgeon and his protection racket are one of the smallest and least significant parts of this operation, but a part nonetheless. If I were you, I’d be very careful. Bludgeon himself is cheap muscle, but his sponsors are ruthless and efficient people who brook no interference. If you annoy them, they’ll kill you as easily as you might swat a fly.”