“I have a lot of eyes and ears.” Bagabond looked out the window behind Rosemary’s shoulder. “You are a friend. I only have one other—human. I want to help.”
“I wish Jack wasn’t such an idiot,” Rosemary said. “What is wrong with that boy?” She shook her head in sympathy. “Have you thought of maybe looking elsewhere?”
“Maybe at the mission?” Bagabond combed the hair back across her face with her fingers and jammed the cap down on her head. She stood up and spread the ratty paisley skirt she wore over a pair of chinos. “Or perhaps the singles bars. I could start a new fashion trend.”
“I’m sorry.” Rosemary slid off the desk and touched Bagabond’s shoulder. Bagabond swung away from her hand.
“I’ve been alone for years. I’ll survive. Besides, the cats would be happier.” Bagabond showed her teeth, white and sharp. “I’ll be in touch.”
Rosemary opened the door and walked with her to the front desk.
“I’ve got court in twenty minutes. Just call me if you need anything, dear.” The stooped and limping bag lady nodded her lowered head and walked away. As she passed the receptionist’s area, Goldberg looked up.
“Hope to see you again soon. Have a nice day.”
As he said the last words, the bag lady turned her head to stare at him.
“Yeah, I don’t believe I said that either.” He grinned and shrugged in apology, and the phone rang again. “ ’Bye.”
Making her way slowly down the stairs, Bagabond wondered if Jack had found Cordelia yet. Missing girls, missing notebooks. Everyone was looking for something. She wasn’t. It was the advantage of having nothing to lose.
The jokers started all looking alike.
So did the normals dressed and made up as jokers.
Jack blinked confusedly. Trying to survey all the faces he was encountering was akin to scanning more than about six rows of book spines in the Strand. After a while, the colors, the sizes, the titles, all began to look the same. He saw black hair—never the right black hair. He saw fedoras, panamas, snap-brims, nothing was exactly right.
At the corner of West 10th, he nearly collided with a kid heading east. “Watch it, faggot,” the young man said.
Jack stared at him in surprise.
“You can’t fool me,” said the kid. “Don’t even try.”
Jack started to step around him, since it was obvious the kid wasn’t going to move. Punk, he thought. Real street punk—not costume punk with mohawk and makeup.
Shorter than Jack, the kid was as skinny as a ferret. Face hollowed, eyes the color of rainwater, there was a tight, spring loaded look about him. “Just watch it,” he said again.
As Jack moved past, he was jostled by a passerby. Recovering his balance, he brushed the kid’s elbow with his hand. The young man recoiled, his hands coming up in what looked to Jack like a martial arts stance.
“Don’t touch me, fairy,” said the kid.
They stared at each other for several seconds. Then Jack nodded, stepped back, and turned to go. He didn’t look back, but had the feeling that the kid was staring after him with those clear, mean, psychopathically intense eyes.
The Crystal Palace smelled like any other bar in the morning—like stale smoke and spilled beer and disinfectant. Fortunato found Chrysalis in a dark corner of the club, where her transparent skin made her nearly invisible. He and Brennan sat down across from her.
“You got the message, then,” she said in her phony English-public-school accent.
“I got it,” Fortunato said. “But the trail’s cold. The Astronomer could be anywhere by now. I was hoping you might have something else for me.”
“Perhaps. You know a yo-yo calls himself ‘Demise’?”
“Yes,” Fortunato said. His fingernails dug uselessly at the urethane finish on the table.
“He was in about an hour ago. Sascha got a reading off him, loud and clear. ‘He’s going to fucking kill me. That twisted old fuck.’ ”
“Meaning the Astronomer.”
“Right you are. This Demise seemed completely round the bend. Had quite a lot on his mind, Sascha said.”
“You mean there’s more,” Fortunato said.
“Yes, but the next bit’s going to cost you.”
“Cash or favors?”
“Blunt this morning, aren’t we? Well, I’m inclined to say favors. And in honor of the holiday, I’ll even extend you a line of credit.”
“You know I’m good for it,” Fortunato said. “Sooner or later.”
“I don’t like charging for bad news, in any event. The other line Sascha heard was, ‘Maybe he’ll be too busy with the others.’ ”
“Christ,” Fortunato said.
Brennan looked at him. “You think he’s going on some kind of killing spree.”
“The only thing that surprises me is that it took him this long. He must have been waiting for Wild Card Day out of some fucked-up sense of drama or something. Was there anything else?”
“Not about the Astronomer. But there is another matter. This is perhaps more in your bailiwick, Yeoman. I got a call this morning advising me to keep my eyes open for a certain stolen book. Three books, actually. Two of them are stock-books with rare postal stamps in them. It was the third the caller seemed most interested in. It’s the size of a regular schoolboy’s notebook, blue in color, with a bamboo pattern on it.”
“So who was the caller?” Brennan asked.
“Unimportant. What interests me is the group he seems to belong to. It took me a bit of time and a bit of influence, but I came up with a name.”
“What’s your price?” Brennan said.
“Information for information. I think if we should put our heads together on this, we’d both benefit. But you mustn’t hold out on me. I’ll know it if you do.”
“Agreed.”
“Does the name ‘Shadow Fist Society’ mean anything to you?”
Brennan shook his head. “Not much. I’ve heard the name in Chinatown. That’s all.”
“All right,” Chrysalis said. “Suppose I mentioned a name high in the organization. He’s known as ‘Loophole.’ Mean anything to either of you?”
Fortunato shook his head. Brennan was looking at the table. “Yeah,” Brennan said. “I’ve heard of him. His real name’s something-or-other Latham. As in Latham, Strauss, the law firm. The story is that nobody knows if the wild card virus destroyed all his human feelings, or if he’s just a very, very good lawyer.”
Chrysalis nodded. “A fair trade. Shall we go another round?”
“You first,” Brennan said.
“By sheerest coincidence I got another call this morning. From a man named Gruber. He’s a broker—pawn, rather than stock, I’m afraid. He was concerned about some stock-books full of stamps an ace tried to sell him this morning. Called, apparently, Wraith. Works as a thief. She’s just a girl, and she’s quite a bit over her head in this. Anyone who found those books would be in a position of enormous power.”
“Or end up dead,” Brennan said.
“Pray go on,” Chrysalis said. “I’m all ears.”
“You’ve probably guessed the rest,” Brennan said. “Maybe you don’t want to mention the name. It’s a dangerous name. Therefore very valuable.”
“Say it,” Chrysalis said.
“Kien,” Brennan said. “I’m convinced Loophole is working for Kien. Something must have happened, something big. If Loophole is that desperate for the book it must be something of Kien’s, something really important. Something damaging. And if the Shadow Fist Society is Kien, they could be everywhere.” He stood up. “This is where we part ways, my friend.”
Fortunato took his hand. “Thanks. If I find out anything about those books I’ll let you know.”
“Good luck,” Brennan said. By the time he hit the front door he was running.
Chrysalis leaned across the table. “This ‘Demise,’ is he valuable to you, then?”
“If he can take me to the Astronomer, he is.”
r />
“Why can’t you use your powers to find this Astronomer for yourself?”
“They’re no good against him. He’s got me jammed, like they used to jam radar with tinfoil. I couldn’t even see him if he was standing right over there.” He pointed and Chrysalis, her eyes suddenly afraid, turned slowly to follow his finger.
“No,” she said. “No one there.”
Fortunato was no longer looking at her. He was building up the image of a tall, grotesquely thin man with brown hair and a ravaged face. If Demise was close enough, within a few blocks, Fortunato could find him just by concentrating.
He opened his eyes.
“Canal Street,” he said. “The subway.”
CHAPTER 5
10:00 a.m.
By the time he got into the crooked, winding streets of the West Village, Jack had started to wonder whether he should cross over toward the East Side and Jokertown or continue down toward what was clearly the center of action in the city today, Jetboy’s Tomb.
At least he was in more familiar territory now. Spotting a familiar facade on Greenwich, he fumbled in his breast pocket and found the creased color snapshot Elouette had sent him the previous Christmas. Obviously Cordelia had blossomed, but the likeness would suffice.
The bar was called the Young Man’s Fancy. It was a sort of social were-creature. From its opening first thing in the morning, it was a solid blue-collar, working-class joint. Then, about six in the evening, it underwent a shift switch and utter sea change. All night, Young Man’s Fancy was a gay bar. Whatever its guise, the Fancy was one of the oldest businesses in the Village.
Jack took the three steps in one and swung open the door. It was dark inside, and his eyes took their time adjusting. He crossed the width of the rectangular room, hearing peanut shells crunch under his size-elevens.
The bartender looked up from polishing a tray of Bud glasses. “Help you?”
“Maybe you were looking out the window this morning,” said Jack. He held up the photograph. “You see her?”
“You a cop?”
Jack shook his head.
“Didn’t think so.” The bartender scrutinized the picture. “Mighty pretty girl. Your woman?”
Jack shook his head again. “Niece.”
“Right,” said the bartender. He scrutinized Jack more closely. “Ain’t I seen you in here about six?”
“Probably,” said Jack. “I come here. The girl in the picture—have you seen her this morning?”
The bartender squinted thoughtfully. “Nope.” He looked appraisingly at Jack. “Reckon she really is your niece, huh? Lost, strayed, or stolen?”
“Stolen.” Jack scribbled a number on a Hamms napkin. Bagabond had given him Rosemary’s direct office line. “Do me a favor, okay? You see her, whether she’s alone or with someone else, leave a message here.” He headed for the door. “Appreciate it,” he said back over his shoulder.
“Gotcha,” said the bartender. “Day or night, anything for a customer.”
She had the cabbie drop her at Freakers. The club was jumping even at 10:20 in the morning, and the doorman who handed her out of the cab looked as if he were already two or three sheets to the wind. His soft white fur was rumpled, and his red eyes were both bleary and bright at the same time. He indicated the door to the club, but Roulette merely shook her head, and headed off toward the Crystal Palace.
And nearly jumped out of her skin when the double doors crashed open, and a long line of conga-dancing jokers came undulating into the street from between the neon thighs of the six-breasted stripper that adorned and formed the club’s door. Leading the line was a beautiful-faced woman who was having no trouble with the sinuous curves of the dance, since from the neck down she had the body of a iridescent snake. Her tail, which ended in an incongruous tuft of feathers, was uplifted, and the joker immediately behind her in the line had a firm grip on the tip.
He wasn’t wearing a mask, but he was one of the few. The rest of the swaying, yelling, shouting crowd wore a variety of dominos from elaborate feathered, jeweled, and sequined creations to hideous visages that were worse than the deformities they hid—perhaps.
At the tail end of the line clung a few nats looking both excited and self-conscious, and a touch belligerent, as if daring the jokers who inhabited the Bowery—and provided a wealth of skin-crawling, spine-tingling entertainment for the tourists—to object.
For a moment Roulette hated the thrill seekers with their bland, normal faces and smug security. I hope it is catching, came the vicious thought. God damn you all. But the thought was really meant for Josiah. Josiah, who had sworn to love and care for her, and instead had abandoned her when she most needed him. Apparently white liberal guilt wasn’t enough to deal with a woman who had the wild card virus. Might be catching. And she could imagine her former mother-in-law seated in prissy splendor at her Newport mansion sipping tea and discussing how no matter how much you worked with one of those “black” girls it so often went to naught. Many times they were simply too badly warped and scarred both mentally and physically by the white man’s oppression to enter white society. Wasn’t it a shame. Sigh.
But she probably burnt the sheets and had every piece of furniture in the house recovered after Josiah divorced me. Sanctimonious, hypocritical bitch!
Roulette realized that she had been walking blindly, shouldering past the throngs that filled the streets of Jokertown. The sound of hammers and staple guns echoed in the already sultry morning air, shouts of greeting and insult from the jokers busy setting up booths for the day-long party, the smell of cooking (good and bad) wafting over the exhaust-laden air. Overhead a small private plane droned by pulling a long banner that read JOKERS INTO ACES. RESULTS GUARANTEED. CALL 555-9448.
On another corner the Church of Jesus Christ Joker had a booth already up and running, handing out literature to anyone who could be stopped. Their results were guaranteed too, but in the afterlife. Beset on all sides, thought Roulette, charlatans for the here and the hereafter. Hopeless hope. Well, my people can tell you all about that, and it never gets any easier until there’s some new and even more unpopular minority to take your place. And I can’t conceive of a more unpopular and hideous minority than the jokers ever arising, you poor bastards.
There was a barricade across Henry Street. It wasn’t legal, but Chrysalis was a major figure in Jokertown, and the area precinct had reason to be grateful to the owner of the Crystal Palace. More than one tough case had been solved because of her intervention, so the chief wasn’t about to raise a stink over a few traffic snarls once a year. Chrysalis also had control of street decorations, so Henry Street projected an image of tasteful pride rather than the garish shock value that held sway on other streets. Roulette slipped past the barricade, and started down the street. To her right, and for about half the length of the block, there was an empty lot filled with piles of rubble, a reminder of the Jokertown riot back in ’76. Waist-high weeds and a few hardy saplings thrust up through the brick and plaster mounds. Several of the piles had dark openings like yawning little mouths, and she wondered if the place had become a haven for animals. She couldn’t picture the fastidious Chrysalis allowing a rat warren to grow up next door to her bar. As she watched, there was a gleam from deep in the hole that soon resolved itself into a pair of bright eyes surrounded by hair. But it wasn’t the shy muzzle of an animal that peered from the burrow. It was human—sort of.
With a gasp Roulette ducked her head and hurried on, passing Arachne, whose eight slender legs caught at the line of silk extruding from her bulbous body and wove it swiftly into one of her famous spider-silk shawls. Her daughter was busy in their booth hanging out an array of delicately dyed scarves and shawls. Most nats would never have purchased one of the trembling, almost transparent scraps of fabric if they’d seen it being created, but Arachne made a good living supplying the scarves to Saks and Neiman-Marcus. Roulette owned one, a delicate peach-colored creation that looked like she had thrown
a sunset over her dark shoulders. If she had known Arachne was going to be on Henry Street she would have worn it to show the woman that she at least did not mind the source, and that she honored the artistry.
There was a low rumbling that gained in speed and intensity, and ended with a crashing boom as Elmo, the Palace’s resident bouncer, rolled another metal keg of beer out the front door and into the street where it joined its brethren like a rotund cue slamming into a setup of stumpy balls. The bouncer, who looked rather like a beer keg himself, flexed his shoulders in satisfaction, and headed back for another one.
Kids darted up and down the pavement chasing a battered soccer ball while at the far end of the block an impromptu baseball game had begun. Ghetto blasters throbbed out a cacophony of conflicting music: soul, rock, country, classical. Children cried and mothers called, but this madness had a sense of serenity and security; a feeling of family. Nowhere did she sense that desperate and nerve-stretching drive to have fun that had gripped the dancing throng outside Freakers. These people, as hideous as many of them were, were at peace with themselves.
Roulette tore her eyes from the gang of playing urchins, and forced herself to scan the crowd for a distinctive, tiny, redheaded figure. Thirty minutes ago she had stopped at the Jokertown clinic only to be told by Tachyon’s very cool, very elegant, very beautiful, and very disapproving chief of surgery that the good doctor was not present, but could no doubt be found making house calls at any one of a number of bars. Roulette had tried Ernie’s and Wally’s and the Fun-house with no luck, and now the Crystal Palace . . .