Jokers Wild

  “Not in person.” Jack squinted through the glass. “Just in performance videos like this. I also heard she’s been writing a lot of new stuff lately, songs for Nick Cave, Jim Carroll, people like that. I read in the Voice that Lou Reed’s even considering one of her songs for a new album—and he never does covers.”

  “I wish she was doing concerts again,” Bagabond said, voice almost wistful.

  Jack shrugged. “Maybe. I guess she can’t deal with more than maybe two people at one time. I think she’s finally getting better.”

  “If she’s recording now,” said Bagabond, “then she’s getting better.”

  “I bet Cordelia’d like to meet her,” said Jack.

  Bagabond smiled. “Cordelia’s sixteen. Maybe C. C. knows Bryan Adams.”

  “Who?” said Jack.

  “Come on.” She took his arm and led him away from the display window. The lyrics followed them:

  You can sing about pain

  You can sing about sorrow

  But nothing will bring a new tomorrow

  Or take away yesterday

  In the neighboring cubicle, screened only by a thin cloth curtain, someone was puking. Noisily, energetically, vigorously, a real tour de force of puking.

  “So I sez to him, I sez, I’m gonna smear your ugly nat face all over—”

  But where the beery-voiced joker had been going to smear the face was lost in the lonely cry of sirens and a loud aggrieved “Ow!” from Tachyon.

  “Stop sniveling,” ordered Dr. Victoria Queen, who looked as if thirty-six years of living with her improbable name had permanently soured her disposition. The frowning expression was at odds with her lovely face and lush body. She took another stitch in the alien’s forehead.

  “What are you using? A knitting needle?”

  “Where’s all this Takisian stoicism? To bear pain without flinching, to laugh in the face of vicissitude.”

  “You have a terrible bedside manner.”

  “I see you found him,” the doctor said, ignoring Tachyon. Roulette felt a stab of anxiety. “Was he in a bar?”

  Tachyon, rightly reading an insult, seized upon the remark without realizing its import. “I am not always in a bar. I wish you would stop telling people that.”

  There was the sound of growing confusion from beyond the cubicle. “Stay here!” ordered Queen, and twitched aside the curtain.

  Tachyon tugged his bangs down over the half-opened gash, the needle still thrust through the white skin, and slid off the gurney. Roulette put out a hand.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To help.”

  “You’re hurt, you’re a patient.”

  “It’s still my hospital.”

  She was too tired, and too obsessed with the images passing behind her eyes to argue. She followed him into the emergency room of the Blythe van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic.

  Every available chair and sofa was taken. Jokers of every description huddled, and hacked, and moaned, and mewed, and followed the overworked doctors with pleading eyes.

  A three-legged joker was waddling after Dr. Queen. “I’ve been waitin’ here for three fucking hours!”

  “Tough!”

  “Cunt!”

  “You’ve got a broken wrist. There are others here with worse problems. We’ll take you when we can. And I have no sympathy. Personally, I think Elmo should have broken your fucking neck.”

  Tachyon was examining a comatose old man on one of the gurneys, seemingly oblivious to the shouting match behind him. But when the joker took a swing at the woman doctor, the haymaker continued so he hit himself in the face, and then collapsed snoring on the floor.

  “Nice work, Doc,” called a huge scaly joker in a security guard’s uniform. “Hey, you look like shit.”

  “Thank you, Troll.”

  “What do you want me to do with him?” He nudged the sleeping troublemaker with a toe.

  “Have Delia set his wrist while he’s sleeping.” A quick smile. “Saves on anesthetic.”

  Another wailing ambulance disgorged its load. A gur­ney squeaked past, carrying a nightmare figure. Seven feet tall, head blunt like the head of a hammer. One ferocious red eye, and one bright blue eye glaring from beneath a heavy ridge of bone. Boils dotted his scalp in place of hair. Some had broken open and were oozing pus. The man looked as if someone had danced on his face with a jack-hammer.

  Roulette wrapped her arms about her stomach, trying to shut out the pain, the smells, the sounds. Queen discovered Tachyon administering a shot to a snuffling five-year-old, and chivied him back into the cubicle. When they reemer­ged, she was leading the tiny doctor by the wrist like an outraged school mistress with a recalcitrant student.

  “Take him home.” A sharp shove between the shoulder blades. “Give him these. Make him sleep.”

  “I’m all right. I’ll stay.”

  “You’re never here on Wild Card Day. Usually because you’re face down in a puddle of cognac. Why break with tradition?”

  Queen didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps she didn’t care, that Tachyon had been well and truly hurt by the remark. Roulette took his arm, and led him out the side door of the old brick building.

  “I’m going after Fortunato,” he abruptly announced.

  “And do what?”

  “Help him search for the Astronomer.” His lips were pressed into a thin line.

  “Tachyon, he must know after attacking the restaurant that every ace in Manhattan is after him. He’d be a fool to stay in New York.”

  “He’s a madman. He won’t care.”

  He shrugged off her hand, and closed his eyes. A great struggle seemed to be taking place, though it showed itself only through the increasingly haggard expression on his narrow face, the sweat that matted in the whorls of his side-burns, and the bright white points studding each knuckle. Suddenly he whirled, and slammed his fists against the wall of the hospital.

  “He’s blocking me!”

  “Who?”

  “Fortunato. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.” Head thrown back, he screamed to the sky. “You’ve held me in contempt for years, you arrogant son of a bitch. Faggots from space. Well, fine! Handle it yourself, then, and be damned to you.”

  “Why worry? Maybe the Astronomer will come after you, and then you can handle it.”

  But he was already walking, head hunched forward, hands thrust deep into his pockets, and so missed the bitter irony in her words.

  CHAPTER 19

  12:00 Midnight

  “Damn,” Brennan muttered as he cradled the phone.

  “Who were you trying to call?” Jennifer asked.

  “Chrysalis.”

  “Still?”

  “Yes. And she’s still out.”

  “Who’s Chrysalis, anyway?”

  “She runs a bar called the Crystal Palace,” Brennan said, looking out the window. “She’s the information broker who put me on your trail. She knows just about everything worth knowing, so she’d probably know where Latham’s apartment is. But she isn’t available, and Elmo’s getting annoyed by my constant calling. Damn,” he repeated, hitting his left palm with his clenched right fist.

  “There isn’t much more we can do,” Jennifer said, “than cruise around the better parts of town, like we’ve been doing, looking for some dude named Demise who’s carrying a bag of books.”

  Brennan grinned sourly. “I know. It seems pretty hopeless, but let’s stick to it for a while.”

  Jennifer shrugged. “Sure.”

  He was right, of course.

  It was no wonder Demise had had trouble getting a cab.

  He’d been shot a dozen times. The bullets had left holes in the front of his cheap gray suit, and his shirt was covered with powder burns and blood. He smelled of garbage, and his trousers had been soiled. As he opened the taxi door, a shudder ran all along the length of that scrawny body. Demise put one foot on the ground, supported himself on the rear door, pulled the other foot out after him. It was a twisted
little thing, shoeless, sockless, pale under the streetlamp, soft and small like the foot of a child, growing from a ragged stump that was crusty with dried blood.

  Hiram swallowed and looked away.

  The cabbie was upset. “You motherfucker,” he screamed. “I pick you up looking like that, and you stiff me!”

  Demise grinned nastily. “You want to be stiffed, you come to the right place. You’re lucky I’m in a hurry, you jerk.” Gingerly, he lowered his raw new foot to the sidewalk, winced as it touched the pavement.

  “Motherfucker!” the cabbie yelled. He peeled out so fast the force of his acceleration swung the rear door closed, and it caught Demise on the hip. He went sprawling in the gut­ter, and screamed. Something fell out of his pocket.

  Books, Hiram saw.

  They were in a plastic bag. Demise scrabbled for them, hugged them to his chest, got unsteadily to his feet. Then he hobbled toward the building, half-limping, half-hopping, trying to keep his weight off his new foot. His eyes were turned inward, on his own pain. The precious books were clutched tight, both hands wrapped around the bag. He didn’t seem to wonder why the doorman was wearing a tuxedo. Hiram opened the door, almost feeling sorry for the wretch.

  Jay stepped out of the bushes, finger pointed, thumb cocked. “Yo,” he said loudly.

  Demise looked back.

  Hiram made a fist. Suddenly the books weighed something on the order of two hundred pounds. They slipped from Spector’s fingers, crashed down on top of his foot. Hiram heard the tiny half-formed bones crack, saw the soft white skin split. Demise opened his mouth to scream.

  And suddenly he was gone.

  Hiram stooped, returned the book bag to its normal weight, gathered it up. He was drenched with sweat. “We could have died just then,” he said to Popinjay.

  “My mother could have been a nun,” Ackroyd said. “Let’s get out of here fast.”

  They caught a cab at the corner. It was the same one Demise had just gotten out of, and the cabbie was still com­plaining about his last fare. “Where to?” he finally asked.

  Ackroyd’s smile was faint and fast. “Times Square,” he said.

  “Well,” Peregrine said. “This is it. Humble but mine own.”

  Fortunato closed the door and didn’t say anything. The penthouse was a single wide room, the walls and carpets all different shades of gray. Each area was on its own level, each a step or two up or down from the ones around it. The furniture was steel or glass or upholstered in gray cotton, all of it long and low and expensive. One wall was nothing but windows, looking down on Central Park. The highest point in the apartment was an elevated king-size water bed in the far corner. There was no bedspread, just rumpled gray satin sheets.

  “Can I get you a drink or something?”

  He shook his head. Peregrine went to the bar and poured herself a snifter of Courvoisier. “Don’t be so grim. We saved Water Lily, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, you did. You were very impressive.”

  “I can be when I have to be. I don’t like being pushed around.” She rested her hip on the edge of the bar and took a long pull at the cognac. Her wings fluttered a little as it burned its way down. Her sensuality was integral and un­forced; her legs naturally turned to show off her long, rounded calves and lean thighs. “Which isn’t to say I don’t appreciate a certain amount of aggressiveness, in the right circumstances.”

  “A while ago you accused me of making a ‘lame approach.’ ”

  “I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I?” Her eyes were glit­tering again. They didn’t look away from him or hold anything back. “I mean, how was I to know you were telling the truth? Besides, all I complained about was the style. I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.”

  As Fortunato crossed the room she put down her glass and stood up. His left arm slid between her wings, his right around her waist. Her mouth was soft and tasted of cognac and opened immediately under his. Her tongue moved expertly across his teeth and then reached deep into his mouth. Her legs moved apart and her wings folded around him and he felt like they’d merged into a single organism. He could feel the heat of her pelvis through his pants leg and her wild card power roared through her body and into his like a nuclear explosion.

  She broke the kiss, panting for air. “Jesus,” she said. He picked her up and carried her toward the bed.

  “You don’t weigh anything at all.”

  “Hollow bones,” she said in his ear, then ran her tongue around the edges of it. “Hollow, but strong as fiberglass.” She tightened her arms around his chest, just for a second, to prove her point, then bit him on the neck.

  He found the bed by instinct. The rest of his senses were out of control. He searched Peregrine’s dress for a zipper and she said, “Forget it, I’ll buy another one, I want you to fuck me, fuck me now.” Fortunato grabbed the cups that covered her breasts and tore the dress down the middle. Her breasts spilled out, pale and perfectly rounded, the nipples broad and only a little darker than the skin around them. He took one in his teeth and she clawed at his tux shirt, popping the studs loose to bounce and clatter across the floor. She ripped off his cummerbund and pulled his trousers down to his knees. She gripped his penis in both her hands and it would have hurt if it hadn’t already been so swollen and aching that he’d thought it was going to split length-wise like an overripe fruit.

  Underneath the velvet dress she had on nothing but a garter belt and black silk stockings. Her wings pulsed in time with her breathing. Her pubic hair was thick and soft as lambswool. She lifted her feet, still in their black pumps, onto Fortunato’s shoulders and reached up to grab him around the neck. “Now,” she said. “Now.”

  When he went into her it was like plugging into an electric socket. Hot, bright purple lines of energy pulsed around their bodies. He’d never felt anything like it in his life. “Jesus, what are you doing to me?” she whispered. “Don’t answer. I don’t care. Just don’t ever stop.”

  After the initial moment of vertigo Spector had almost fallen, but managed to grab hold of the catwalk railing before he went over. His foot felt like it had been stuck into molten lava. He sat down and tried to figure out where they’d sent him. He was up high and could see a street packed with cars in front of him. He stood and hobbled to the end of the catwalk, using the cold railing for support. He stared out into the deserted darkness of Yankee Stadium. The little shit who did this to him was going to pay. He should have recognized Fatman at the door. Should have been more careful all around. Now the books were gone and he’d have to deal with the Astronomer on his own.

  “Fucking assholes. Sent me to the goddamn Bronx.” He wiped his nose and looked for a way down. After a few minutes he found a ladder. It was a good fifty feet to the concrete walkway below. He lowered himself carefully, holding his leg away so that his injured foot didn’t touch anything. A gust of wind whipped his dirty hair into his eyes and sent pain humming through the tissue that was trying to become toes. It took him ten minutes to reach bottom.

  Spector looked around for something to use as a crutch, but came up empty. There was nothing on the other side of the chain link fence but a nasty drop. He struggled around the edge of the walkway toward the stands. It was the only way he was sure would get him out.

  He hauled himself over another fence. Spector figured he was under the right field bleachers. He tripped over a box filled with bags of peanuts, and went to the ground screaming.

  The light hit him almost immediately. “Hold it right there, buddy.” A voice came from behind the flashlight.

  Spector heard a snap being undone. Safety strap on a revolver, probably. “Help. I need a doctor. Point your light at my foot.” He had to get the guard close enough to see his eyes.

  The watchman shifted his light to Spector’s feet. His bad foot was black and purple where the books had landed on it. “Jesus. What the hell happened to you?”

  He was close, but his eyes still weren’t visible. Spector pulled the lighter out of his pocke
t and flicked it. The watch-man’s eyes were ice blue, pretty in the light of the flame. Spector locked eyes. The man whimpered softly. Spector’s death assaulted him with swift and sure results. He fell and was still.

  Spector searched the guard’s body, taking his flashlight and keys. If he could get into one of the dressing rooms, he might find something to wrap his foot in. He could certainly find some kind of crutch, and maybe even a change of clothing.

  He limped up the ramp into the bleachers and down the steps toward the field.

  “The best bets,” said Bagabond, “are the rats. I’m pulling in impressions from as many of them as possible—and there are a lot.”

  “A rat’s-eye view of the Big Apple,” Jack said. “That’s something the tourist commission hasn’t done much with.” He tried to keep the words light.

  Down the block there was a snake dance—jokers or nor­mals dressed as jokers, Jack couldn’t tell. The dancers had set fire to several derelict cars parked in loading zones. Or maybe they hadn’t been derelict when the torches were set to them. It was hard to tell. At any rate, now they blazed merrily, smoke curling greasily.

  Jack and Bagabond had stopped at a Terrific Pizza for takeout drinks. Both of them were parched. “Your syrup’s low,” said Jack to the counterman. He grimaced at the taste of his drink.

  “Tough titty,” said the counterman. “You don’t like it, try the immigrant soda jerk down the block.”

  “Let’s go,” said Bagabond, mentally urging six hundred rats from the alley in back to slip into the back of the Ter­rific Pizza and check out the dough and cheese storage.

  Out on the sidewalk, Jack said, “Oh my God!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Come on.” Jack led her toward the snake dancers. The line had started to break up. Apparently misshapen dancers, some of whom wore even more grotesque costumes, strag­gled toward them.

  Jack confronted one of the dancers. The man was tall and dark, skin virtually blue-black in the mercury-vapor glare and the flickering fire-scatter. He wore a parody of tribal gear, beads and feathers in profusion. His skin was covered with a sheen of sweat. The droplets running down his face, however, were beads of blood from slashes run-nelled into his cheeks. The slashes were cut in regular chev­rons, slanting down along the planes of his cheekbones. His eyes were infinitely deep caverns ringed by white makeup.