Jokers Wild

  Journeying through Jack’s mind was a trip defined by smell. The city, its people, Bagabond herself, were all denoted by their individual scents, not by sight or words. Those came much later in the chain of consciousness.

  Coming to a smell of swamp, rotting death and decay, and darkness, Jack stopped. Bagabond met his fear of never returning from the swamp with her reassuring consciousness. She was there. She would not abandon him. But it was the strength of her will that forced him back through the dark space and smell that lay at the core of his reptile self. As Jack’s conscious mind was subsumed into the other, Ba­gabond fled back through his brain as it imploded into the reptile consciousness. The miasma of the swamp and the bellowing challenge of a bull alligator followed her like a riptide.

  As she returned to her own body, the reaction flung Bagabond’s head back against the side of the porcelain sink and jerked her hands away from the alligator whose head lay heavily in her lap. The reptile flipped over onto his feet again and roared the challenge Bagabond had just heard. Gasping quick, deep lungfuls of air, she entered the crea­ture’s mind and calmed him. Tail-tip twitching, he backed slightly away from her, cramped for space in the small rest room.

  Bagabond looked up when she heard Rosemary’s voice raised outside. The rest room door opened sufficiently to reveal the worried face of the Vietnamese maître d’. His eyes widened and his hand rose to his mouth before slamming the door on the impossible scene.

  She looked back down at the alligator and began to search through his mind for the trigger to force him to vomit up the books. Bagabond directed the alligator toward the stall as she uncovered the memory of poisoned meat.

  The psychic feedback almost did the trick for her too.

  The alligator vomited the contents of his gullet onto the floor and into the stool. The stench of half-digested food shook even Bagabond, inured to most aspects of life and death. Calming the agitated reptile, she got up and gingerly fished for the plastic-wrapped books. Thankfully, it didn’t take long. She rinsed off the package in the sink. The alli­gator whipped his tail, smashing the stall partition into kindling. He growled deep in his throat, a discontented, hungry rumbling.

  Reaching out to the alligator brain, Bagabond began the process of separating Jack’s humanity from the reptile mind. In little more than a minute, Jack lay shivering on the cold tile floor where the gator had been. She handed him his clothes as he curled up fetally against the smell and the memory.

  “It had to be done.” She moistened a paper towel and gently wiped his forehead.

  “Each time, I think I will never be human again.” Jack stared at the wall. “When that finally happens, perhaps it will be for the best.”

  “Not for Cordelia.” Nor for herself, but that thought remained unspoken.

  “Cordelia. Yeah. Okay.” His voice was flat. “Let’s get this thing done.” Dressed now, he pushed open the door. Baga­bond followed him. Across the room, Rosemary stood with two older men who had joined the group.

  “Rosa Maria, we have only the greatest respect for your late father, but we cannot allow you to interfere with the business of the Family.” The taller man spread his hands and regarded her paternally.

  “The Family business is my business.” Rosemary glanced over at the approaching Bagabond and Jack. “I am a Gambione.” She took the slightly damp packet that Bagabond handed her. The two older Mafiosi exchanged exasperated looks. It was obvious to Bagabond that this conversation had been going on for some time while she’d been in the rest room.

  “I have a proposition for the Family,” said Rosemary. She held the books upright on the table, leaning on them slightly as she spoke. “All the capos should hear me.”

  The taller man said, “You are a woman.”

  “Roberto, let her speak. We must make decisions and this is delaying us.” The smaller, heavyset capo touched his companion’s arm. Resignedly, the other man nodded.

  Morelli opened the door. Rosemary started in, followed by Bagabond and Jack. Morelli held out his hand to bar Rosemary’s companions. She stared at the capos until they nodded. Morelli dropped his hand in a gesture for them to enter.

  The private dining room was long and narrow, almost filled by the single table surrounded by the capos of the Family. They were angrily debating the proper method of exacting retribution for Don Frederico’s death. The black crepe bands were ubiquitous.

  Halfway down the white-linened table, one man stood listening to the discussion around him. He raised his eyes as Rosemary, Bagabond, and Jack entered. “These are the people with the notebooks?”

  “Yes, Don Tomaso,” said the tall capo who had questioned them outside. Rosemary moved to the near end of the table. Without releasing the books, she placed them on the tablecloth. Bagabond stood beside her. Jack wandered to the far end of the room and peered out the window at the dark alley.

  “Thank you, Rosa-Maria.” Don Tomaso’s voice held an oily, unctuous tone. “Thank you for bringing these to us.” Bagabond tensed and narrowed her eyes. This was one human she knew she especially did not like. Should it become necessary, his throat would be the one she’d spring at. She wrinkled her nose. The aroma of fish sauce made her realize she was hungry too.

  “Signorina Gambione, if you please, Don Tomaso.” Rosemary’s fingers tightened on the books. She met his gaze across the table. Bagabond sensed the growing tension on both sides and felt her muscles echo the tautness. A garbage truck’s hydraulic whine and the crash of an upturned dumpster came from outside. The moment of silence in the dining room stretched. It was Don Tomaso who finally inclined his head in acquiescence.

  “The books are not a gift,” said Rosemary. “They are mine. I decide who has access to their information.”

  “Then you speak as one outside the Family.” Don Tomaso shifted his eyes toward a man to his right. Bagabond followed the slight motion. She again wished she had the claws and teeth of the cats.

  “I speak as one who has seen the near destruction of the Gambione Family. We are threatened on all sides, yet you sit here debating revenge upon an enemy you cannot even name.” Rosemary surveyed the room angrily and shook the books at Tomaso. “If you follow the ways of the Butcher, the Gambiones are doomed!”

  Behind them, there was a cry of pain and the door crashed open.

  “Uh oh,” said Jack.

  As Bagabond reached for Rosemary, she was shoved to the floor by the thin diner who’d burst into the room. He was fast. The gaunt man grabbed the books from Rosemary, tripping her as he sped past.

  “Stop or die!” It was Don Tomaso.

  As Bagabond struggled to catch Rosemary, she saw Don Tomaso draw a well-polished Beretta and aim at the fleeing thief. To her amazement, the man laughed hoarsely and halted. Mouth twisting, he turned and stared at the don, who convulsively fired once and then plunged heavily to the tabletop. It was a signal for the stunned capos to fire at the thief, who was now moving toward the window. The impact of the shots seemed barely to slow him down. Capos who tried to intercept him fell before his gaze as though their bullets were being deflected.

  “Jack! Move! Now!” But even as Bagabond shouted her warning, she saw Jack face the killer. As the man caught Jack’s eyes, the shapechanger’s face grew scaly and the snout extended, teeth sharp and prominent. For an instant the thief hesitated, allowing the capos’ bullets to slam into him. Then he attempted to bound over the giant alligator that now barred his path to the window.

  As he leaped, the alligator’s head swiveled up and clashed jagged-toothed jaws on the killer’s foot. Screaming in shock and pain, the man pinwheeled in midair, blood spraying into the room from his truncated ankle. He crashed through the glass backward, still clutching the books to his chest as he curled up like a wounded snake.

  Outside there was a thud and the groaning of transmission gears. The Mafiosi ran to the window and fired futile shots after the accelerating garbage truck.

  “Bastard fell right into the truck!” The shooter at th
e window turned back to the room. “Don Tomaso, what do we do now?” he said off in the direction of the dead man.

  The corpse said nothing.

  The shooter did a little dance to avoid the alligator, which rumbled and swallowed contentedly.

  Hiram had shifted a few guests around to make room for the refugees at his own table. With Water Lily on his left, Peregrine on his right, and beef Wellington, potatoes Hiram, white asparagus, and baby carrots in front of him, it was a delightful meal.

  “Tuna?” Jane said in amazement. “This is tuna?”

  “Not merely tuna,” Hiram said. “White-meat albacore, flown in direct from the Pacific.” No doubt she’d just eaten more than her share of chunk light meat out of cans. Tuna casserole, tuna surprise, tuna croquettes. He shuddered in­wardly and covered another roll with butter. Food always made him feel better, even when the circumstances were dire. The thoughts of danger, death, and violence had receded into memory, smoothed away by fine wine, beautiful women, and an excellent hollandaise. Behind their table, the doors to the balcony were wide open, and a cool evening breeze moved through Aces High, perhaps gentled by Mistral’s invisible hand.

  “Well,” Water Lily said, “this is wonderful.”

  “Thank you,” Hiram said. She was bright, no doubt of it, but her innocence was astonishing. She had a great deal to learn about the world, this Jane Lillian Dow, but he suspected she would be a quick and enthusiastic student. He found himself wondering if she were a virgin.

  “You’re no New Yorker,” Peregrine said to Water Lily.

  “Why do you say that?” She looked bewildered.

  “A native would never say Hiram’s food was wonderful. That’s to be expected, after all. New Yorkers are more sophisticated than anyone on Earth, so they have to find something to dislike. That way they get to complain, and demonstrate their sophistication. Like this.” Peregrine turned to Hiram and said, “I enjoyed the vichyssoise, really I did, but it just wasn’t quite up to Parisian standards. But you know that, I’m sure.”

  Hiram glanced over at Jane, who looked as if she were afraid she’d committed some faux pas. “Don’t let yourself be corrupted,” he told her with a smile. “I remember when Peri first came to town. That was before the fashion shows and the perfume and Peregrine’s Perch, before she had her name changed, even before the Playboy centerfold. She was a sixteen-year-old from—where was it, Peri? Old Dime Box, Texas?” Peregrine grinned at him, saying nothing, and Hiram went on. “The flying cheerleader, that was what the press called her. They were having a national cheerleading competition in Madison Square Garden, would you believe it? Peri was so sophisticated she missed the finals. She de­cided to save a little money by flying there herself instead of taking a cab, you see.”

  “What happened?” Water Lily asked.

  “I had a street map,” Peregrine said amiably, “but I was too shy to ask directions. “I didn’t think I’d be able to miss a big place like Madison Square Garden. I must have flown over Madison Square a hundred times, searching for it.” She turned and raised an eyebrow, and her gorgeous wings stirred the air behind her. “You win, Hiram,” she said. “The food is wonderful. As ever.”

  “Flying must be wonderful too,” Jane said with a glance at Peregrine’s wings.

  “It’s the second best feeling there is,” Peregrine said quickly, “and afterward you never have to change the sheets.” It was said glibly; a familiar answer to a question she’d been asked a thousand times before. The rest of the table laughed.

  Jane looked slightly taken aback. Perhaps she’d expected something other than Peregrine’s offhand wit, Hiram thought. She looked so fresh and young and lovely in the gown he had bought for her—no, loaned her, he corrected himself, because that was so important to her. He leaned forward, put his hand lightly on her bare arm. “I can teach you to fly,” he said quietly. He could not give her true flight, of course, it was more a matter of floating, but no one had ever complained. How many men could make their lovers as light as a feather, or lighter than air itself?

  Water Lily looked up at him, startled and beautiful, and drew back a little. Her eyes seemed to search him for something and he wondered what it was. What do you look for, Water Lily? he thought, as tiny droplets of moisture began to bead on her smooth, cool skin.

  The raw nerve endings from his severed foot screamed white-hot into his mind. It was even worse than his death pain, which, after months of living with it, he could now manage to keep humming along in the back of his mind. Until he needed it. Luckily, Spector had stopped bleeding almost immediately. He hoped that damned fucking animal choked on it. Pain lanced through his leg every time the truck hit a bump or pothole. He shoved the notebooks into the front of his pants. They were his now. He could name his own price. He hurt too much to read them, even if the light was good, which it wasn’t. Maybe it was just as well he couldn’t though. He’d had more trouble than he could handle in a single day.

  The truck slowed to a stop. Spector tried to crawl through the garbage toward the edge. No good. His stump hurt like hell every time he so much as twitched. He heard the hydraulic arms start, and looked up. The dumpster went up and over, dropping several hundred pounds of refuse on him. Spector took a deep breath before he was completely covered. Something heavy landed on his raw ankle. He tried to ignore the pain and claw his way up to the top, but suddenly felt himself moving backward. Bottles, cartons, paper, chicken bones, half-eaten TV dinners, all being com­pacted together and into him. He folded up with the garbage and tried to tuck his stump under his other leg. The pressure stopped. He heard the crash of the dumpster being set back down. The truck lurched and began moving again.

  “Fuck,” he said, and was rewarded with a mouthful of soggy coffee grounds. He dug frantically through the gar­bage toward the open air, trying to ignore the pain. He hoped the truck didn’t have any more stops before heading to the dump.

  CHAPTER 16

  9:00 p.m.

  He was too exhausted to try crawling out of the truck; re-generating was taking all his energy. Spector lay atop the garbage as the vehicle bounced down the street. He looked down at his bad foot. Flesh was sticking out several inches beyond the ragged edge of his pants leg. He was growing a new foot. Nothing like this had ever happened before and he’d been figuring he’d have to get some kind of prosthetic foot. His regenerating ability was even more powerful than he’d dreamed. His system was taking tissue from the rest of his body to build the new foot. No wonder he was so ex­hausted. It itched like hell. He shoved his hands in his pock­ets to keep from scratching it. He watched the buildings roll by and tried to figure out where he was. Dock area, maybe. There was some traffic, but the truck was still making pretty good time.

  He pulled the plastic-wrapped notebooks out of his pants. He couldn’t see much while the truck was moving; the illumination from the streetlights was too irregular. Lucky he’d heard the girl talking about them. They’d better be the right ones after all the grief they’d cost him. No way he could have figured on a guy turning into an alligator. All the aces were supposed to be at Fatman’s for the eve­ning.

  The truck slowed and he couldn’t see buildings anymore. This was probably the end of the line. He tucked the books away and grabbed the rim of the steel wall with both hands. Spector pulled and kicked with his good leg. His muscles trembled for a moment, then failed him entirely. He settled back into the garbage, completely drained.

  The truck stopped. Spector heard a metal chain being undone and the creak of a gate. He couldn’t even manage to sit up. The truck moved slowly forward for a few moments, then stopped again. He knew what was coming next.

  “Stop,” he said. His voice was too weak for the driver to hear.

  Hydraulic arms lifted the steel box of garbage off the truck and into the air. It began to tilt down. Spector covered his face and rolled into a ball. He caught his breath as he began to fall and pulled the notebooks to his chest. He landed on his head and shoulders and black
ed out.

  When the dessert carts started making their stately rounds, Hiram’s table was, of course, served first.

  He was feeling so relaxed and pleased with himself by then that his appetite had quite returned. He accepted a piece of the amaretto cheesecake from one of the new waiters, a wizened little man with a large head and thick glasses. He added a slice of chocolate mango pie for good measure. The cheesecake was up to the lofty Aces High standards, and the pie was exquisite, its top covered with thin shavings of bittersweet chocolate.

  Peregrine had chosen the pie as well. Chocolate, she had explained to Water Lily with that famous smile, was the third best thing there was.

  Jane was staring at the waiter with a strange blank look on her face. “Is something wrong, dear?” the old man asked her.

  She blinked slowly, and shook her head, like someone waking from a dream. “No. I mean . . . I don’t remember.” She shivered suddenly. “I feel funny.”

  “Chocolate cures all ills,” Peregrine suggested.

  But Jane selected the cherries jubilee. “Because,” she told Hiram and Peregrine with a smile of her own, “I’ve heard that when choosing between two evils, you should pick the one you’ve never tried before.” Hiram found himself laughing out loud at her unexpected Mae West intonations. The wizened little waiter laughed too, a shrill thin giggle that went on too long, as if he was amused by some private jest as he wheeled the dessert cart around the table.

  All around them, attentive waiters were pouring fresh-brewed coffee from slender silver pots, and setting down little pitchers of heavy cream. Bottles of a delightful sweet wine were opened at tableside for who those who cared to imbibe.

  After dessert, the seats would begin to empty, as the guests accepted brandy snifters and tiny glasses of liqueur and began the annual ritual of table-hopping. Modular Man had already gotten a head start; the android had bypassed dessert and was field-testing some Courvoisier.