Jokers Wild

  Dr. Tachyon himself still lay on the carpet, groaning, a hand to his forehead. Roulette knelt beside him. Blood was seeping through his fingers, dripping onto the front of his tunic. Hiram moved toward him, and almost tripped over a jagged piece of Modular Man’s torso, which looked as though it had been opened with a chain saw. “I’m sorry, Hiram,” Tachyon said when he approached, averting guilty lilac eyes. Roulette helped the short man to his feet, but he looked none too steady. “I’ve got to go after Fortunato. He’ll need my help.”

  “He’s already left,” Hiram said.

  “Where?” Tach demanded in an agonized tone. He took his hand away from the deep gash in his forehead and stared at the blood that covered his fingers.

  “He didn’t say. He left with Peregrine.”

  “I have to find him,” Tachyon said.

  “I don’t think you’re in any shape to be finding anyone,” Hiram told him. “You ought to go to a hospital. Look at you!”

  “Useless,” Tach muttered. “I’m useless.”

  Hiram heard a trumpeting sound behind him, and turned to see Elephant Girl lurch to four unsteady feet. A moment later, there was a blinding flash of white light as she released her excess mass as energy. Tachyon cried aloud and Hiram covered his eyes. When they could see again, a shivering, naked Rahda O’Reilly stood where the elephant had been. Her companion, a handsome Egyptian knife-thrower from her circus, borrowed Mister Magnet’s long chain-mail cloak and covered her with it.

  He turned back to Tachyon and Roulette. The Takisian looked half dead. “Get him down to the Jokertown clinic,” Hiram said to Roulette. “That gash needs to be looked after before it becomes infected. He ought to be X-rayed as well. He may have a concussion, or worse.”

  “But Fortunato . . .” Tach began.

  Hiram tried to look stern. “You’d only be a liability to him, the shape you’re in. Damn it, are you that anxious to add your name to the list of victims? You need treatment and you know it.” He raised a hand. “If Fortunato calls, I’ll tell him to contact you at the clinic. You have my word on it.”

  Dr. Tachyon nodded reluctantly and let Roulette guide him toward the door.

  The restaurant was almost empty now. Hiram went back toward his office, and found Cap’n Trips on the floor outside the rest room. He was kneeling over a jumble of broken glass and colored powders, pinching the powder with the fingers of one hand and dropping it into a carefully cupped palm. “This is no time to be doing drugs, damn it,” Hiram snapped at him.

  Trips looked up at him through pale, watery eyes. “I just wanted to help, man,” he burbled. “I was running to get one of my friends, but I tripped, and like, when I fell, everything must have gotten smashed.”

  “Just go home,” Hiram said. Peter Chou appeared at his side. “Peter, help the Captain here find a cab before he cuts himself on that broken glass, will you?” Chou nodded.

  Curtis intercepted him en route to his office. “There’s a phone call for Fortunato. It’s the police. What should I tell them?”

  “He left with Peregrine,” Hiram said. “I believe she’s got a cellular phone in her car. Give them the number.”

  He pushed by Curtis and entered his office. Water Lily was sitting in his chair, still pale and shaken. Rivulets of water ran down her face as she looked up at him. Jay Ackroyd sat on the edge of Hiram’s desk, holding Modular Man’s head. “Alas, poor silicon chip, I knew him well,” he was saying. Jane gave a small laugh that sounded to Hiram like incipient hysteria. Ackroyd tossed the head lightly from one hand to the other. The skullcap had fallen off, and Mod Man’s radar dome was cracked.

  “Put that down,” Hiram said. He collapsed wearily into a chair, and looked at Water Lily. “I’m very glad you’re all right. I don’t think I could have endured another death today. Certainly not yours.”

  “What about him?” Jay said, placing the head on the desk. Mod Man’s blind eyes stared out at Hiram.

  “I’m sorry about Modular Man, but he wasn’t precisely alive and he isn’t precisely dead. His creator will probably build another one.”

  “Ladykiller Mark Four? Another in the Silicon Valley’s gift-to-women series?” Jane said. She gave another small ragged laugh. She put one hand over her mouth. He could hear her breathing unsteadily against it.

  Hiram said, “Jane, if you have no objections, I’d take it as a favor if you’d stay here for a while. The Astronomer was gone by the time Peregrine returned with you, so with luck he thinks you’re dead. Let’s not disabuse him. He has a long list, after all.” He ran a hand over his scalp. “I’m going to ask Peter and his staff to remain on duty. I know that’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Water Lily nodded and took her hand away from her face. “All right. I couldn’t take much more tonight.”

  Hiram forced a smile he hoped was comforting. “I hadn’t intended your first flying lesson to be quite so traumatic.”

  She straightened in the chair, seemingly trying to shake off the aftermath as much as she could, and looked at him in that searching way again. “What about you?” she asked.

  Hiram Worchester folded his hands neatly atop his stomach. He looked a mess, he realized. He laughed, a short little humorless bark of a laugh. The shock was finally wearing off, but strangely, Hiram was not afraid. Instead he was conscious of a gnawing hunger, and a cold steady rage that was building within him. He thought of Eileen.

  “Hiram?” Popinjay asked, breaking his reverie.

  “I’d kill him if I could,” Hiram said, more to himself than to them. “Perhaps I might have, but then Jane would have died. I’m not sorry I made that choice.” He looked at her fondly, then turned to Ackroyd. “Jay, I believe I’ll need to engage your services once more.”

  “Real good,” said Ackroyd. “We going after the old guy?”

  “Gladly,” said Hiram, “if I only knew where to find him, or even how to begin the search.” He made a short, impatient gesture with his right hand. “No, that’s futile, and Fortunato made his feelings clear, so we’ll leave those heroics for him. Still, there are other scores that require settling tonight. Call me quixotic, but after what happened here this evening, I cannot sit by passively and do nothing.” He grimaced. “I feel strangely like righting a wrong.”

  “Take two aspirin and lie down,” Jay said. “The feeling will pass.”

  “No,” said Hiram. “I think not.” He stood up, reached in the pocket of his tux. The slip of paper with Loophole’s address was still there. “Start your meter. We’re going to talk to a lawyer.”

  He felt rough hands chafing his wrists. Spector opened his eyes and put his hand over his mouth. The highly sea­soned beef he’d eaten at the Haiphong Lily was threatening to come up. He could see the silhouette of someone kneeling beside him. Spector groaned.

  “You’re not dead. Knew it when I dragged you out. Lucky I was here. You’d have suffocated.”

  Spector could tell by the voice the person was old and male. He felt around with his hands. He was still lying in garbage.

  “Where the fuck am I?”

  “On a barge filled with garbage, friend. I might ask you how you got here, if you were of a mind to tell me.” The old man flicked a lighter and lit a cigarette. He was completely bald with brown eyes and thin lips. His wrinkled skin had a slight orange tint. His lumpy body reminded Spector of the Michelin man. The lighter went off.

  “Some crazy assholes beat me up and threw me in a dumpster. That’s all I remember until you brought me to.” It was as good a lie as any other he might tell. He reached into his coat for the notebooks. They were gone. “Any way we can get some light here? I want to see what those bastards left me with.”

  The lighter’s small flame came on again. Spector checked his pockets and began looking through the garbage at his feet. He wanted those notebooks back. They’d give him the leverage to make the Shadow Fist boys help him take out the Astronomer. A few men with automatic weapons could make all the difference if the
old man was as tired as Spector thought he might be. “What did you say your name was?” he asked, trying to divert attention from his search.

  “I didn’t. My name’s Ralph. Ralph Norton.” The old man held the lighter lower. He was wearing a blue long-sleeve shirt and matching navy vest and pants. The clothes were stained and rumpled. “You must have lost something, right?”

  “Yep.” He threw aside a plastic bag and dug into the garbage by his side. “Where did you get me out, anyway?”

  “Down at the end of the barge, where they dumped you off.” The old man pointed. “You tell me what you’re lookin’ for and I’ll help. Got nothing better to do right now.”

  Spector looked at his injured foot. It was pink and pulpy, but still growing. He stood slowly, his knees wobbling as his feet sank into the refuse. His foot was like a bucket of coals at the end of his leg, but he’d have to live with it. “No thanks. But I’ll buy that lighter from you.” He reached into his pocket. The money was still there and he pulled out a bill.

  “No need. You’re welcome to it.” Ralph handed the lighter over. “It’s got plenty of fluid.”

  Spector took the lighter and flicked it, then began strug­gling to the other end of the barge. The lights of Manhattan were directly in front of him, but they didn’t make him feel any better. He had to find those notebooks before the Astronomer came calling.

  “Walk slow,” Ralph said. “Otherwise you’ll wind up on your face.”

  “Right.” Spector was breathing heavily. “What the hell were you doing here anyway?”

  “It’s my taxi back home.” Ralph laughed. “I live over in Fresh Kills on Staten Island.”

  “Fresh Kills?”

  “The largest landfill in the country. Maybe in the world. They’ll be taking these four barges over tomorrow morning. I only came over because some relatives of mine were in town for Wild Card Day. Wanted me to show them the town.”

  Spector plowed forward. “You live in a garbage dump?”

  “Sure do. You’d be surprised the things people throw away. Perfectly good stuff. Sanitation workers tried to run me off a couple of times, but I always come back. The rent’s too cheap to pass up.” Ralph put his hand on Spector’s shoulder. “Do you know any aces?”

  Spector stiffened. “Not personally. Why?”

  “Because I’m one. I’ve got power.”

  Spector was too tired to keep going, and sat down. “You’re an ace and you live in a garbage dump. Do I look like an out-of-towner or something?”

  Ralph smiled and picked up a milk carton, paused dramatically, then took a bite out of it. He chewed for a mo­ment and swallowed. “I can metabolize anything. That’s what that Dr. Tachyon said. What’s garbage to most folks is food on my table.”

  Spector laughed. “You can eat garbage. That’s your power? Bet everybody stays out of your way.”

  Ralph crossed his arms. “Go ahead. Laugh your head off. You know what I save in a year on food and rent alone? And I’m my own boss. Nobody tells me what to do. Nobody tells me when to come or go. That’s more power than most people ever get to have.”

  “You got a point. Look, I’m pretty tired. Maybe you could help me. I’m looking for some notebooks wrapped in plastic. There’s money in it for you.”

  “All right. But we’ve got to do better than a cigarette lighter or we’ll never find them.” He tapped his thumbs together thoughtfully. “Sparklers ought to work. Got plenty. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Sparklers?”

  “Yeah. I got a bunch of fireworks I was going to set off at midnight. Sort of my own little celebration. You wait here.” He pushed through the garbage toward the other end of the boat.

  Spector stuck his fingers through a couple of the bulletholes in his jacket and chewed his lip. If he managed to survive today, he wouldn’t get out of bed for a week.

  CHAPTER 17

  10:00 p.m.

  The Rolls was only a couple of blocks from Aces High when the phone started ringing. Fortunato looked at Peregrine, who shrugged and picked it up. “It’s for you,” she said.

  “This is Altobelli,” the voice on the phone said. “I made Hiram cough up your number, there. It’s about Kafka.”

  “Fucking hell,” Fortunato said, closing his eyes. “He’s dead.”

  “No,” Altobelli said. “Still alive. But it was close.”

  “Tell me.”

  “About fifteen minutes ago some weirdo in a white robe just appeared in the middle of the holding cell. But I believed you and I had a SWAT team there, and when he went for Kafka they opened up with everything they had.”

  “And?”

  “They didn’t hurt him. But the bullets kept knocking him down and each time he was a little slower getting up. Then he just disappeared again.”

  “You were lucky. He’s weak right now, or nothing you threw at him would have stopped him.” Fortunato didn’t say anything about how weak he felt himself.

  “This guy, whoever he was, had more than luck on his side.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not over the phone. You remember that place we met last month? Don’t say the name, just say yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you meet me there? Like right away?”

  “Altobelli . . .”

  “I think we’re talking life or death here. Mine.”

  “I’m on my way,” Fortunato said.

  When he hung up the phone Peregrine said, “The Astronomer.”

  Fortunato nodded. “I’ll take a cab. You go back to Aces High, where you’ll be safe.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’m safer with you. And there’s no point in taking a cab when you can go in style in a chauffeured Rolls Royce.” She raised one eyebrow. “Right?”

  After shooing out the few remaining regular customers, the Gambiones had moved their meeting into the main din­ing room and scooted several tables together. Guns and wariness were much in evidence. Rosemary stood at one side, watching the men argue. Bagabond saw an undecipherable smile on her face. The bag lady sat with Jack at a banquette along a side wall.

  “I want to start looking for Cordelia. It’s been hours—much more time than I promised Rosemary.” Jack glared across the room at the assistant district attorney.

  “Until this is finished, she can’t make the calls.” Bagabond glanced sympathetically at Jack, who was tugging at the stained sleeve of his too-small white waiter’s jacket. “Now eat.”

  Squeezing the lime over his soup, Jack shook his head and picked up the chopsticks. He pulled a mass of rice noodles and shrimp out of the bowl in front of him. “What’s she going to do without the books?” He jabbed the chopsticks toward Rosemary.

  “Don’t know. She’s made her choice now. She’ll manage.” Leaning her head back against the booth, Bagabond closed her eyes. “I’m going to find out if anyone has seen Cordelia. Quiet.”

  Jack eavesdropped on the Mafia maneuverings as he ate and refilled his bowl.

  Two men were the faction leaders. The older man, black hair slicked back and dressed in a charcoal-gray double-breasted suit, stressed the sublime importance of continuing Don Frederico’s plans in the interest of stability. A younger man, his dark brown hair expensively trimmed in what Jack would have described as a modified punk cut with a rat tail, pointed out that the Butcher had not been particularly ef­fective in ending encroachments on their territory. The other men listened without comment.

  “Not one of the other Families has ever challenged our authority.” The older man leaned back in evident satisfaction.

  “Christ, Ricardo. Of course, they haven’t.” The new-wave Mafioso rolled his eyes toward heaven. “They’ve all been busy with the real threats. The Vietnamese. The Col­ombians. The jokers. Jesus, can’t you see that Jokertown’s turning into a nickel-plated disaster area, man?”

  “Respect, Christopher, please.” Ricardo inclined his head sympathetically toward Rosemary.

  “Thank you, Ricardo Domenici
.” Rosemary stepped toward the tables.

  “She’s heard worse, Ricardo. Even in the DA’s office, I’m sure she’s heard much worse.” Christopher Mazzuchelli shook his head exasperatedly. “The point is that we must have as a leader someone who can face the new threats. You know, evolve.”

  “Mazzuchelli’s right.” The stares of all the Gambione capos pivoted toward Rosemary. “We must have new blood to lead us, or the Family will be destroyed. It’s that plain.”

  The older man sounded placating. “Signorina Gambione, this is a serious issue. It is for us to decide. It would be better perhaps—”

  “Yes, Ricardo, I am a Gambione. The last.” Rosemary caught each man’s eyes in turn. “This is my Family. I have a right to speak.”

  “Maybe she wants her father’s job.” Christopher Mazzuchelli grinned until her gaze returned to him.

  “Maybe I do.” Rosemary smiled a thin and enigmatic smile. “Donatello is dead, and likewise Michaelangelo, Raphael and Leonardo. Four dons. You understand what we face, but not what to do. Ricardo sees only the past.”

  “Wait a minute.” Mazzuchelli’s mouth hung slightly open in surprise.

  “Who better?”

  “You’re a fucking district attorney!”

  “Yes.” Rosemary smiled as she appeared to consider the possibilities. “I couldn’t protect us completely, but I could make a difference. And the information would be invalu­able. My identity as a Gambione would have to be protected. No one outside this room must know. Omerta.”