Dead Man's Hand

  “They told her there was no such thing,” Jube replied.

  “Pity,” Jay said. “Pity.”

  The Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Misery was nearly empty. A few scattered penitents were kneeling on the scarred wooden pews, head—or heads—bowed in silent prayer to the god who was more real to them than the clean-featured Jesus of the old Bible. The hunchback called Quasiman was puttering about the altar, humming to himself as he dusted the tabernacle. Dressed in a sharply pressed lumberjack shirt and clean jeans, he moved in a stiff, jerky manner, dragging his left leg behind him. The wild card virus had twisted his body, but had also given him extraordinary physical strength and the ability to teleport. He put the tabernacle down and watched Brennan as he approached the altar.

  “Hello,” Brennan said. “I’m here to see Father Squid.”

  “Hello.” Quasiman’s eyes were dark and soulful, his voice soft and deep. “He’s in the chancellery.”

  “Thanks—” Brennan began to say, but stopped when he realized that Quasiman was staring at him with unfocused eyes. The joker’s jaw was slack and a line of spittle drooled down his chin. It was obvious that his mind was wandering. Brennan simply nodded to him and went through the door at which he still pointed.

  Father Squid was sitting behind his battered wooden desk, reading a book. He looked up and smiled when Brennan knocked on the open door. Or at least he looked as though he smiled.

  Father Squid was an immense, squat man in a plain cassock that covered his massive torso like a tent. His skin was gray, thick, and hairless. His eyes were large and bright, and gleamed wetly behind their nictitating membranes. His mouth was masked by a fall of short tentacles that dangled like a constantly twitching mustache. His hands, closing the book and setting it on the desk before him, were large, with long, slim, attenuated fingers. Rows of circular pads—vestigial suckers—lined his palm. He smelled faintly, not unpleasantly, of the sea.

  “Come in, sit down.” He regarded Brennan with the benign affection with which he usually faced the world. “Here I am reading the words of an old friend”—he gestured at the book, A Year in One Man’s Life: The Journal of Xavier Desmond—“and another old friend appears. Though”—he wiggled his long fingers in reproach—“it would have been nice if you had dropped by to see me before you vanished. I was somewhat worried about you.”

  Brennan smiled with little humor. “Sorry, Father. I told Tachyon my plans, trusting he’d pass the word to those who cared. I hadn’t figured on ever returning to the city, but recent events have made me change my mind.”

  Father Squid looked troubled. “I can guess. The death of Chrysalis. I knew that you two were … close … at one time.”

  “The police say I killed her.”

  “Yes, I’d heard.”

  “And not believed?”

  Father Squid shook his head. “No, my son. You would never have killed Chrysalis. While I can’t say that I approve of some of the things you’ve done, only he who is without sin should cast the first stone, and I’m afraid that the antics of a far from unblemished youth have left me unable to claim spiritual purity.” Father Squid sighed. “Chrysalis, poor girl, was a sad soul searching for salvation. I hope that now she has at least found peace.”

  “I hope so, too,” Brennan said. “And I’ll find her killer.”

  “The police—” Father Squid began.

  “Think I did it.”

  The priest shrugged massive shoulders. “Perhaps. Perhaps for now they are grasping at straws, but will eventually set their feet upon the proper path. I’ll not deny you my help if you are determined to proceed on your own. If, that is, I know anything of value.” He rubbed the spot where his nasal tentacles gathered. “Although I cannot conceive what I would know that would be useful in tracking her killer.”

  “Maybe you can help me find someone who does know something.”

  “Who?”

  “Sascha. He does belong to your church, doesn’t he?”

  “Sascha Starfin is a faithful churchgoer,” the priest said, “though, upon thinking about it, it has been quite a while since he’s partaken of Communion.”

  “He’s disappeared,” Brennan said, more concerned with tracking down Sascha’s body than with the state of his soul. “You know that he lived at the Palace. I think he’s gone into hiding because he witnessed the murder.”

  Father Squid nodded. “That may be. Have you tried his mother’s apartment?”

  “No,” Brennan said. “Where is it?”

  “The Russian section of Brighton Beach,” Father Squid said, giving specifics.

  “Thanks. You’ve been a big help.” Brennan rose to leave, then hesitated and turned back to the priest. “One last thing. Do you know where Quasiman was early this morning?”

  Father Squid looked solemnly at Brennan. “Surely you don’t suspect him? He has the gentlest of souls.”

  “And very strong hands.”

  Father Squid nodded. “That is true. But you can take his name off your list of suspects. As you may know, it has become something of a nat fad to acquire joker remains—bodies, skeletons, what have you—as conversation pieces. Quasiman was guarding our cemetery last night. At least I hope he was. He forgets things, you know.”

  “I’ve heard. Was he there all night?”

  “All night.”

  “Alone?”

  Father Squid hesitated a beat. “Well, yes.”

  Brennan nodded. “Thanks again.”

  Father Squid raised his hand in benediction. “God go with you. I shall say a prayer for you. And,” he added quietly as Brennan left, “for Chrysalis’s murderer. With you on his trail, he shall certainly need someone to pray for the repose of his soul.”

  7:00 P.M.

  A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalks outside the Crystal Palace, and four police cruisers were parked out in front, a fifth by the alley in back.

  As Jay climbed out of the cab, he recognized Maseryk standing beside one of the cop cars, talking on the police radio. The building was sealed off. The steps up to the main entrance had been blocked with sawhorses, and a yellow crime-scene banner was draped across the door. There were lights in the third-floor windows. He figured they were giving her private rooms a real good hard look. A couple of uniforms prowled through the rubble-strewn lot next door, shining flashlights into holes, looking for God knows what.

  The gawkers watched everything with interest, muttering to each other all the while. It was the usual Jokertown street crowd, mostly jokers, with a slumming nat or two standing nervously on the fringe. Hookers cruised the sidewalk across the street, soliciting right under the noses of the cops. Off to one side, four Werewolves in gang colors and Mae West masks were having a fine old time cracking wise to each other. A few Crystal Palace regulars stood looking on.

  Maseryk hung up the phone. Jay walked over. “So,” he said, “the murderer return to the scene of the crime yet?”

  “You’re here,” Maseryk pointed out.

  “Droll,” Jay said. “Find any prints?”

  “Plenty. So far we’ve got yours, hers, Elmo’s, Sascha’s, Lupo’s, you name it. What we’re not finding are the files.”

  “Ah,” said Jay noncommittally.

  “There’s such a thing as knowing too much for your own good. Kant thinks our motive is somewhere in those secret files.”

  “Real good,” Jay said, watching a very nice rear end in a tight leather miniskirt sway past. “For a lizard.” He was turning back to Maseryk when he noticed a hooded shape standing in the mouth of an alley half a block away.

  “I’ll tell him you said that,” Maseryk said, with the barest hint of a smile.

  “The thing of it is,” Jay said, “if Kant finds that cache of information, he may get more than he bargained for. Motives are like fingerprints, too many are as bad as none at all.” He glanced back toward the alley. The hooded man stood in shadow, watching the Palace. His head turned, and Jay caught a brief flash of metal as the light r
eflected off the steel-mesh fencing mask beneath the hood.

  “I’m sure he’ll be grateful for that hint. Any other words of advice you want me to pass on to him?”

  “Yeah,” Jay said. “Tell him it’s not Elmo.” He looked back at Maseryk again. “Sascha at home?”

  “He’s rooming with his mother until we’re done going over the building. Not that it’s any business of yours. Didn’t Ellis tell you to stay the hell away from this?”

  “I’m staying away,” Jay said. He caught a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye and glanced aside just in time to see the hooded man melt back into the shadows of the alley. “All the good clues are inside,” he continued without missing a beat. “You see me going inside?” Jay held up his hands, palms out. “But hey, I’m easy. In fact, I’m going. See? Bye, now.”

  Maseryk frowned at him as he backed off, then shrugged, turned, and went back inside the Crystal Palace. When he was gone, Jay spun and elbowed his way through the crowd to the alley.

  He was too late. The man in the fencing mask and black hood was gone. Except “man” wasn’t quite right. Under that dusky black cloth, the talk on the street said, the massive body of the Oddity was male and female both.

  But whatever else the joker was, one thing was certain. It was strong.

  8:00 P.M.

  A little old woman, tiny as an ancient sparrow, opened the door a crack when Brennan knocked.

  “Is Sascha in?” Brennan asked.

  “No.”

  Brennan put his foot in the door, holding it open as she pushed to close it. He had seen a flash of movement in the room beyond the door, and he knew who it was.

  “Sascha, I don’t want to hurt you,” he called out. “I just want to talk.”

  The old woman struggled to close the door, pushing valiantly but uselessly against Brennan’s weight, then a weary voice called out, “It’s all right, Ma. Let him in.” There was a long sigh, then Sascha added, “I couldn’t hide from him for very long, anyway.”

  Sascha’s mother backed away from the door and let him enter. She had a worried expression on her wrinkled face as she glanced from Sascha, who’d collapsed on the living-room sofa, back to Brennan.

  “It’s all right, Ma. Why don’t you go brew some tea?”

  She nodded and bustled off to the kitchen as Brennan looked at Sascha with concern. The bartender had always been thin, but now he was no more than muscle and bone. He looked deathly tired and his face was lined and pale.

  “What’s going on?” Brennan asked.

  “Not a damn thing.” Sascha shook his head tiredly. There was pain and loss in his voice, and an unconcealed bitterness that Brennan had never heard before.

  “Why are you hiding out? Did you recognize Chrysalis’s murderer telepathically?”

  Sascha just sat there. For a while Brennan thought he wouldn’t say anything, but then he nodded. “I heard someone,” he finally said.

  “Who?”

  “That PI, that Popinjay character.”

  Jay Ackroyd, Brennan thought. He’d had a run-in with the ace before, but he couldn’t conceive of him as a murderer. “What was he doing at the Palace?”

  Sascha said nothing, just shrugged.

  “What about Elmo?” Brennan asked.

  The bartender shook his head. “She’d sent him out late the night before on some kind of secret errand. Didn’t tell me anything about it.” The bitterness came back, this time edged with fear. “He never got back to the Palace. I heard that the cops are looking for him.”

  “Do they think he did it?”

  Sascha laughed. “Maybe. What a joke. Do you think the dwarf would ever hurt her? He loved her. It’s almost as funny as thinking you killed her.”

  “You don’t know anything more? Nothing specific about the murder?”

  Sascha fidgeted nervously and picked at an ugly scab on the side of his neck. “How about who did it?” he asked in a frantic burst of words. “I was getting a drink at Freakers this afternoon, and everyone was talking about it.”

  “About what?”

  “About Bludgeon! He did it! He killed Chrysalis. He’s been bragging about it.”

  “Why would Bludgeon kill Chrysalis?”

  Sascha shrugged. “Who knows why he does anything? He’s crazy mean. But I heard he’s trying to get back with the Fists. I guess he’s had hard times since the Mafia got busted up.”

  Brennan nodded grimly. It made sense. Bludgeon was nothing but muscle. He was strong but stupid, and he’d proven to be even too brutal for the Shadow Fists, who’d cut him loose a couple of years ago. He’d hooked on with the Mafia, but the Mafia had been crushed in a vicious gang war with the Fists last year. If Kien and the Fists had put a contract on Chrysalis, Bludgeon was certainly capable of beating her to death to ingratiate himself with them.

  Sascha’s mother returned from the kitchen with a tea tray. Brennan watched as Sascha lifted a steaming cup with shaking hands.

  “I have to go,” he said. “Take care of yourself, Sascha.” He nodded to the old woman as he left her apartment. If the rumor was around town as Sascha said it was, Tripod would pick up on it and find Bludgeon. At any rate, Bludgeon was only the muscle. He may have done the killing—and if he did, Brennan wanted him—but he wanted the one who had sicced him on Chrysalis even more.

  He had a truce with Kien. He had called off his vendetta against his old enemy, but if Kien—or anyone in Kien’s organization—had ordered Chrysalis’s death, the Fists were going to bleed.

  9:00 P.M.

  The apartment was a loft over a bankrupt print shop, in a century-old cast-iron building a block off the river. Over the door a sign, faded almost to illegibility, said BLACKWELL PRINTING COMPANY. Jay peered through a windowpane, but the grime covered it like a coat of gray paint, and he could get no hint of the interior.

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his blazer and walked slowly up and down the sidewalk. As far as he could see, there were two ways into the loft. An old iron fire escape clung to the back side of the structure. He could probably pull the ladder down and climb in through a window. Or he could just ring the bell.

  He could see lights in the loft windows. To hell with it, he thought. He went around to the steel-reinforced door by the alley. There was no name on the bell. Jay jabbed it with his thumb.

  After a moment there was a metallic rasping noise, and the lock on the steel door disengaged. That was easy, Jay thought as he pushed his way inside. He found himself at the bottom of a narrow flight of stairs in a ghastly little hallway that smelled of mold and printer’s ink. A light bulb dangled from the ceiling, swaying slightly from side to side as moths fluttered around it. The bulb was hot and bright, probably way too high a voltage for the old wiring in this firetrap, but it did light up the place. One of the moths brushed against it and fell, smoking, at his feet. Its burned wings beat a frantic tattoo against the bare wood floor. Jay stepped on it and felt it crunch as he ground it into the floor with his heel. He wondered what the hell Sascha saw in a place like this.

  A door opened on the landing above him. “Aren’t you coming up?” a woman’s voice called down.

  Jay had no idea whom she was expecting, but he didn’t figure it was him. “I’m looking for Sascha,” he said as he started up the steps. They were so cramped and steep it was hard going.

  “Sascha is not here.” The woman came out of the loft and stood on the top step, smiling down at him. “I am all alone.”

  Jay looked up. He stopped right where he was. He stared.

  The woman ran the tip of her tongue across full, pouty lips. She was dressed in a short red teddy that barely reached her hips. No panties. Her pubic hair was black and thick, and when she stood with her legs apart like that, he could see a lot more than just hair. Her skin was a light brown color, the kind Hiram would call café au lait. A tangle of wild black hair fell across her shoulders and back, longer than her teddy. Under the wisp of fabric was the most magnificent pair of tits t
hat Jay Ackroyd had ever seen. “Come on,” she said to him. Her accent was as provocative as the rest of her. “Come on,” she repeated, with more insistence.

  Jay resisted the urge to look over his shoulder to see if somebody else was on the steps behind him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her anyway. When Jube had said that Sascha was seeing a Haitian prostitute, he’d expected some gaunt, pockmarked girl with hungry eyes and needle tracks along her arms. He cleared his throat and tried to sound like he ran into half-naked women all the time. “Ah,” he managed, “Sascha, ah—”

  “Sascha bores me,” the woman said. “I am Ezili. Come.” She smiled again and held out her hand.

  “I’m Jay Ackroyd,” Jay said. “I’m a friend of Chrysalis,” he added. “Sascha too,” he went on. “I need to talk to him again,” he explained. “About her,” he clarified. “Chrysalis, that is.” All the time walking up the stairs. Ezili just listened, nodding, smiling, nodding. Jay was two steps below her when he saw that her eyes matched her lingerie, two small black irises surrounded by a sea of liquid red. “Your eyes,” Jay blurted out, stopping suddenly.

  Ezili reached down, took his hand, and put it between her legs. Her heat was like a living thing. Moisture ran over his fingers and down the inside of her coffee-colored thighs. She moved against him, and gasped as his fingers slipped up inside her, moving almost of their own accord. She had her first climax right there on the stairs, grinding her hips furiously against his hand. Afterward she licked his fingers like a greedy child, sucking the fluids off them one by one, then drew him wordlessly into the apartment.

  By then Jay had forgotten all about her eyes.

  10:00 P.M.

  There was never a Werewolf around when you needed one. Egrets were scarce, too. Brennan pounded the streets for two hours before he spotted one of the gang members, a Werewolf, staggering out of Freakers.

  The Werewolf was big, hairy, and muscular. He wore faded and torn jeans and enough chains and leather straps and cords to fill Michael Jackson’s closet. The plastic Mae West mask that covered his face added more than a touch of incongruity to his appearance. He stopped on the street in front of Freakers to extort a few bucks from some slumming nat tourists who were trying to decide whether or not to go into the bar, then lurched past them into an alley half a block down the street. Brennan followed him.