Jokers Wild

  Each stockbook had ten pages and each page held about a hundred stamps with their Scott Postage Stamp Catalog numbers written in neatly below them, making them very easy to identify.

  There were ten Ireland #38 (Great Britain #171, overprinted “Rialtar Sealadac na héineann 1922” in blue black ink), mint, catalog value $1,500 each. There were eight Denmark #1 (imperforate with yellow brown burelage), lightly canceled with four excellent margins, catalog value $1,300 each. There were twelve Japan #8 (native laid paper without gum), mint, catalog value $450 apiece. And on and on and on. All together there were 1,880 stamps in the stock books, cataloging, on the average, about $1,000 each, so that each stock book held about a million dollars’ worth of stamps. The third, book, thoug h . . .

  Jennifer flipped through the pages rapidly, but her mind was drawn from the mystery of the third book by the wealth in the other books on the cluttered desk before her.

  Kien had put together quite a little collection. She didn’t know much about philately, but a quick perusal of the pricing information in the front of the catalogs, and her general experience in the field of rare and collectable materials, told her that Kien had assembled the perfect collection for realizing maximum profit when it came time to sell.

  The stamps he had gathered were rare, but not exceed­ingly rare. The really rare stamps were so well known that all extant examples of them were documented, but enough of these issues existed so that they were untraceable. They were rare enough to be, well, rare, and common enough so that their appearance on the market wouldn’t cause a stir.

  They were also rare enough so that—depending, of course, on how desperate he was at the time he liquidated his holdings—Kien could expect to get near catalog price for them when he wanted to turn them into something more negotiable.

  A quick check of several selected issues in catalogs from previous years told her that they were also rare enough to increase in value every year. And if Kien played the proper cards when cashing them in he wouldn’t have to pay taxes on them. Of course, a single stamp dealer would have a hard time coming up with enough cash to purchase the entire collection, but there were a lot of stamp dealers in any given large city.

  Unfortunately, Jennifer reflected as she idly scanned the pages of stamps, she didn’t have that option. She couldn’t break up the collection piecemeal. She had to get rid of it at once, and she’d be fortunate if her fence would give her ten percent of value for them.

  Still, ten percent would be nice. Two hundred thousand isn’t bad for a morning’s work.

  She had a big balloon payment coming up on her apart­ment that had recently gone condo, and then there were her special projects. She took a small black book out of her purse and scanned her list of favorite charities, mostly small, poorly-funded centers for battered wives, deserted children, and abandoned animals. In the current age of government cutbacks private citizens had to do all they could to support worthy causes, and there were, Jennifer thought, an awful lot of worthy causes in the world.

  Moisture was seeping from a long crack running diag­onally across the wall of the tunnel. The entire weight of Manhattan seemed poised above her head, and she won­dered for the hundredth useless time whether this rabbit warren of tunnels and tiny rooms would survive. Maybe her footsteps would be the final stress needed to bring down the crumbling lair. Fear pushed breath deep into her abdomen, and she hurried forward, moisture seeping in the sides of her sandals.

  It seemed incredible to her that after the debacle in May when the aces of New York had stormed the Cloisters, killing a number of Masons and destroying the Shakti device, that the Astronomer had calmly returned to his old haunts and no one had noticed. True, there were only a handful of them left; Kafka, the Master himself, Roman, Kim Toy, Gresham, Imp and Insulin and her—saved because she’d chosen to spend that day at a concert in upstate New York. Perhaps the threat from the Swarm (only recently removed) could offer some explanation.

  The tunnel debouched into a small room. Roulette en­tered, and felt her heel slide from beneath her as she hit the slick dark blood that lay in ever widening pools on the stone floor. It had been an energetic ritual, for bright blood also painted the walls. A garish red freckling here, flowing riv­ulets there, all washing across the sweating gray plaster, a modern art exhibition drawn in savagery. Dismembered limbs lay stacked like corded wood in a far corner, the head with its staring eyes placed like a melon on the top. She had been a pretty woman, her long dark hair caressing the jagged stump of her neck, crystal earrings flashing in the harsh light of a naked bulb that swung from a cord in the ceiling.

  Still Life for a Madman, thought Roulette, and hysteria and revulsion pulled her throat taut.

  Kafka, looking positively dadaesque as he doubled as a towel rack, hunched beside the Astronomer. Several fluffy towels with appliqué teddy bears hung over his chitinous, skeletal arms. His carapace was rattling, but whether with cold or fear Roulette couldn’t tell.

  Finally she forced her eyes to her master, who finished fastidiously wiping his hands on a towel and dropped it onto the floor at his feet. His eyes swam like enormous moons behind the thick lenses of his glasses, but he was vibrant, fairly crackling with energy, and she knew he was ready to begin the day’s agenda. A blood feast now to prepare for the banquet to follow.

  “Well?”

  “Howler is dead.”

  “Excellent, my lovely dear. Excellent.” He turned, and contemptuously pushed aside his wheelchair. Its wheels creaked mournfully as it rolled into a corner. “But tell me all. Every subtle nuance, every agonized grimace . . .”

  “It wasn’t very subtle,” she said flatly, and pushed back her braided hair to reveal the bruise. “And I still can’t hear very well out of my right ear.”

  He laughed, a deep-throated bass rumble that left her shaking with fury.

  “I could have died! Doesn’t that matter to you?”

  “Not tremendously.” His eyes were on her, and she writhed, unable to meet his gaze.

  “You could have at least warned me,” she cried, trying to find a safe place to rest her eyes, but everywhere she looked there was madness.

  “I’m not your daddy. I assumed you had enough intel­ligence to do your own research.”

  “I’m not a professional killer. I don’t research.”

  Even Kafka emitted a whispering, panting chuckle that sounded like dry, dead hands being rubbed together, and the Astronomer threw back his head and roared, the tendons in his skinny neck standing out like twigs.

  “Oh, my precious dear. Is that how you hide from your soul? You little fool. You should embrace the hate, lick it, eat it, revel in it. I am offering you a unique opportunity to find vengeance. To repay loss with pain. And after it’s all over I’ll give you the freedom you crave. You should thank me.”

  “I’m becoming a monster,” Roulette murmured.

  “Is this doubt I’m hearing? Then please quash it. Guilt is a most debilitating emotion. It makes you weak. You see, doubt can lead to betrayal, and you know how I deal with those who betray me. I’m giving you Tachyon, though I really want to kill him myself, so don’t come bleating about how close you came to death, and how awful I am for mak­ing you kill. And don’t even think about backing out. I haven’t time to deal with the good doctor myself—I’ve even had to delegate Turtle to Imp and Insulin—so I would be very upset with you if I had to add Tachyon back into my agenda. The pleasure wouldn’t outweigh the aggravation, believe me.”

  “I don’t think you were motivated by generosity. I think you’re afraid of him. That’s why you’re sending me to face him.”

  The words were gone, and she was a fool for uttering them for he was upon her, fingers closing like a vise about her jaw.

  “Calling me a coward, my sweet pussy killer?” His face was set in a devil’s grimace.

  “No.” She forced out the barely audible whisper.

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to think that you didn’t respect me. Now! T
ell me about Howler.”

  “No, I don’t . . . I can’t live it . . . again.” She towered over him so she was gazing down on the top of his balding cranium covered only with a few straggling wisps of hair and patches of scabrous skin.

  “Then live this!” And the rush of memory returned. The hideous misshapen thing that had lain between her legs. The net result of so many hours of painful labor. A monster so grotesque that even the nurses had hated to touch it.

  “All right, all right! He was in . . . great pain.”

  “His face, what of his face? He must have been looking at you.”

  “He looked sad. Like a bewildered child who couldn’t understand why he was being hurt.” Sobs lay like jagged glass in the back of her throat.

  “And did you enjoy it?” His free hand closed about her left shoulder, and he forced her to her knees before him. She could feel the blood soaking through the hem of her skirt, sticking on the bare skin of her knees.

  His eyes were on her again. There was no hope of lying.

  “No.” The tears spilled over, running in hot lines over her cheeks. “I didn’t really know him. Just one night. But he was kind to me. And now he’s dead and I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of what I’m becoming. I’m afraid to go on . . .”

  “My dear, you had best be afraid of what will happen if you don’t go on. I own you, Roulette, and I will exact a terrible punishment if you fail me.”

  A shrill scream tore at her throat as she watched his hand go sliding into her chest, and felt the heavy pressure as he cupped her heart in his palm.

  “One squeeze, Roulette, and you die.” His hand drifted down, massaging her ovaries, sending waves of agony through her belly. “Don’t make me kill you, Roulette. It would be such a waste.” He removed his hand, and caressed her bruised cheek. “But I don’t want to frighten you, my darling. I want to help you. To save and free your soul. You will go mad, Roulette, just as you fear, unless you achieve your final vengeance and purge your soul. Without that cleansing, my memory wipe will do you no good. Now go, find Tachyon, kill him, and you will be free.”

  “Free,” she sighed. The Astronomer suddenly released his hold on her chin, and she fell forward, catching herself on her hands. She whimpered a bit as the now-congealing blood oozed between her fingers. Even free from you, she thought with an emotion that was neither love nor hate, but partook of both.

  “Yes, my little love. Even from me.” She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the blow or other punishment that had to follow. Moments passed and nothing happened. Cau­tiously she opened her eyes.

  “And when will you . . .”

  “Remove your past? When you report back to me, and tell me in painful detail”—his lips quirked at the little pun— “every moment of Tachyon’s death.”

  “Yes . . . all right . . . I will.”

  Roulette pushed herself to her feet. With a jerk of the head the Astronomer indicated to Kafka to leave. The hid­eous little cockroach joker scurried to the door, and offered Roulette one of the remaining clean towels. She accepted gratefully.

  “Will I find you here?”

  “That depends on the time. My schedule’s rather full today.” He smirked, then stared consideringly at her. “You have served me well. Oh, why not? I’ve decided to take my more faithful followers with me when I leave.” He wrapped a length of flexible tubing about his upper arm, and rubbed at the bulging vein.

  “Leave?”

  “Yes, I’m leaving this world which betrayed and cheated me.”

  “But how?”

  “On Tachyon’s ship.”

  “But you don’t know how to fly a spaceship. Do you?” she added, suddenly doubtful. The range of his powers was awesome, maybe he could.

  “This ship will fly, for it’s an intelligent creature with a mind, and what has a mind I can control. We are set to rendezvous at three-thirty tomorrow morning. Be there and you can come. Provided of course you’ve killed Tachyon, and if your little recitation pleases me. Now, what do you say to that? I couldn’t be any fairer,” he added in a thought­ful tone as he considered his own magnanimity.

  The little smile that pursed his mouth died, and his face twisted in a hideous grimace. “Now go!” he screamed, and spittle foamed in tiny white specks on his lips, and spattered on her face.

  She went, running back down the damp tunnel, towel pressed to her lips. Kafka was still shuffling down the tun­nel, and as she passed him, Roulette wondered how much he had overheard, if he constituted one of the “faithful,” and what the Astronomer would do to him if he weren’t and if he learned of Kafka’s eavesdropping. For an instant their eyes met, and Roulette saw mirrored in the joker’s the same fear and confusion and hopelessness and hate that she knew lay reflected in hers.

  She touched him gently on the carapace. “Thankyou for the towel, Kafka.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said with an odd formality that made his bizarre condition all the more ludicrous and heart-breaking. “Roulette,” he added as she walked away. “Be careful. I would like to think that one of us came out of this with some semblance of normalcy and humanity intact.”

  “Well, it won’t be me, but thanks for the concern.”

  CHAPTER 4

  9:00 a.m.

  Jennifer picked up the phone on her desk and dialed a num­ber she’d used only half a dozen times in the past year, but had committed to memory. It rang three times before it was picked up and a rich, cultured voice with a Brooklyn accent still lurking in it said, “The Happy Hocker.”

  “Hello, Gruber.”

  The voice took on a new tone, deepening and becoming unctuous with unwanted solicitousness. “My dear Wraith.” He called her by the nom de guerre Jennifer had adopted. “It’s been a while. How have you been?”

  “Fine.” Jennifer kept her answers to a minimum. She didn’t like Leon Gruber, though he continually let her know his all-too-evident feelings toward her. He was a pudgy, pasty-faced cokehead with a master’s in fine arts from Co­lumbia. He worked out of the pawnshop he’d inherited from his father—under, from what Jennifer had heard, rather sus­picious circumstances. He was her fence. He never stopped hitting on her, despite the cold politeness with which she carried out all their transactions.

  “Do you have something for me?” he asked.

  He made the question sound salacious. Jennifer could almost see him licking his pouty lips.

  “Postage stamps,” she replied briefly.

  “How much?” There was something of a sigh in his voice as he resigned himself to talking business.

  “Nearly two million catalog.”

  There was a long silence, and when Gruber finally spoke his voice had changed again. There was something behind his words that Jennifer had never heard before, something that made him sound even more cold and calculating than usual.

  “You do astonish me, my dear. Tell me, are these from a dealer’s stock or a private party’s collection?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Well, we do like to keep our little secrets, don’t we?”

  “My secrets are my own,” Jennifer said firmly, more than a little irritated. “If you’re not interested in the stamps I can always find someone who is.”

  “Oh, I am interested. I am. I’m interested in everything about you, my dear Wraith.” Jennifer grimaced at his words. She could almost imagine the scenes flickering through his coked-up brain. “You are a very, um, intriguing person. You appeared from out of nowhere and in less than a year became the city’s finest thief. I feel very fortunate to be, um, associated with you and I’m very, very interested in the stamps. I have something on for this morning, though. I’m expecting some people. Can you come by elevenish? Perhaps we can do lunch after I take a look at the merchandise.”

  “Perhaps.” There was no sense in antagonizing him before he looked at the stamps. “Eleven. I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll be waiting, dear.”

&nbsp
; His last sentence echoed oilily in Jennifer’s ear as she hung up. There was more avid anticipation in it than was usual. She decided that she had to find a new fence. She couldn’t take Gruber’s leering comments much longer. Maybe he was sliding too deeply into his cocaine habit. He does so much of the stuff, Jennifer thought, one of these days his heart’ll explode.

  Fortunato checked his watch. He had to bring his arm up along his side and then across his chest to see it because of the crowds. It was a little after nine. When he looked up again the world was like a kaleidoscope. Shards of bright color surrounded him, shifting constantly into new patterns, unpredictable but not quite random.

  When Caroline had said it was Wild Card Day it had meant nothing to him. He should have known better. Now he was trapped in the crowds with Brennan, committed. Every couple of minutes he thought again about breaking his rule about public displays. It would be nothing for him to levitate himself out of the crowd and sail back to the peace of his apartment.

  Then he thought of the Astronomer, maybe just a few yards away, maybe on the verge of killing again and making himself that much stronger in the process.

  Just ahead of them Hester Street met the Bowery, square in the middle of Jokertown. Police barricades blocked off the side streets, though there were so many tourists a car couldn’t have gotten through if it wanted to. They mostly seemed to be dressed for a track meet, in shorts and running shoes and hideous T-shirts, except they were overweight and slung with cameras and had billed caps with moronic slogans on them.

  “Look, there’s one now,” one of them said, pointing at Fortunato. The man’s hat said EATING OUT IS FUN. Fortunato thought about turning the man’s stomach inside out, leaving it hanging out of his mouth by the long tube of his esoph­agus, spilling his blood and drool and breakfast on the sidewalk.

  Easy, he told himself. Just take it easy.

  In typical joker fashion the parade had already gone to hell. The official floats were supposed to be lining up down at Canal, but the street was already full of unofficial entries, the most obvious of which was a twenty-foot-high latex phallus, pink and glistening, pointing up at about sixty de­grees. It was mounted on a wooden platform, and three masked jokers were trying to push it through the crowds. The penis was forked and there was a sign hanging between the two heads that said FUCK THE NATS. A fourth joker stood on the platform, throwing what looked like used condoms into the crowd. Two knots of people were fighting their way toward the platform, one cops, the other outraged tourists.