Wild Cards VIII: One-Eyed Jacks

by George R. R. Martin

  “Right.” Jerry could tell Tachyon was ready for him to leave. He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a check, then placed it carefully on the left side of the desk. “Here’s September’s donation.”

  Tachyon picked up the folded-over check and clumsily opened it with his one good hand. He nodded and smiled. “This does more good than you know, Jeremiah. A few dozen more like you and the clinic might actually cover expenses.”

  “I’m glad to do it,” Jerry said. It was true. There were so few places where he knew his money was well spent, and two thousand a month was a drop in the Strauss family bucket.

  The door opened and a woman in a lab smock walked in. She had dark hair and a patch over one eye. She looked past Jerry at Tachyon. “Two more beatings,” she said. Her voice was restrained, but angry. “One of them might make it. The other…” She rubbed her forehead.

  Jerry backed away and moved around her toward the office door. Tachyon motioned him to wait.

  “Jeremiah, this is our new chief of surgery here, Dr. Cody Havero. Doctor, meet a friend of the clinic.” He held up the check. “And a patron as well, Jeremiah Strauss.”

  Cody turned and looked at him. She was very pretty, for an authority figure. Cody offered a hand and a strained smile. Jerry shook her hand and smiled back. Her grip was strong and sure. Exactly the way he imagined a doctor’s hands should be.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Strauss.”

  “My pleasure, Doctor.” Jerry was pleased he’d called her by her title. She was both threatening and comforting, and certainly physically attractive in spite of the eye patch. He damn sure didn’t want her first impression of him to be a rich, sexist jerk.

  “See you next month, Jeremiah,” Tachyon said. “Unless you need me for anything. If so, just give me a call.”

  “You’ll be at Aces High next week, won’t you? It’s my first chance to go to one of Hiram’s Wild Card Day dinners.”

  Tachyon sighed. “Yes, for Hiram’s sake, I’ll be there. Although I can’t imagine it will be a very festive occasion.”

  Jerry nodded and backed out the door, closing it behind him. He got the impression that Tachyon wanted to be alone with Cody. Not that Jerry blamed him. He imagined Veronica on black silk sheets, wearing an eye patch and nothing else.

  Stop it, he thought. She’s canceled out on you two of the last three times. Just find somebody else. Somebody you don’t have to pay. How hard can it be?

  “As hard as me, kid,” said a Bogart voice in his head.

  Aces High was a smorgasbord of sight and sound. The smells of fresh bread, fine meat in wine sauces, and expensive perfume assaulted his nostrils. The people were out of the ordinary, too. But that was always the case at Hiram’s Wild Card Day dinner. They’d gotten there early. Both he and Beth had wanted to see all the notables make their entrances. Kenneth hadn’t been particularly happy about Jerry borrowing Beth for the evening, but refused to come with them, saying there was too much work at the office.

  Jerry stood up. “Want anything in the way of an appetizer?”

  Beth sighed. “No. I’ll save it for the main course.” She waved him away.

  Jerry wandered slowly over to a large table covered with salads, pâtés, breads, and a few things he didn’t recognize as food. There was a crystal mobile of the Four Aces and Tachyon over it. There were also holograms of many of the more famous aces on the walls. Jerry knew better than to look for an image of himself. He picked up a plate and eased in across from Fantasy, who had a young man on either arm. Jerry had met her on the Stacked Deck world tour. Although his memory of that period was fuzzy, he did recall Fantasy as one of the most obviously sexual women he’d ever seen. Tonight she was wearing a long, pearl-colored skirt and matching semitransparent top. The dark nipples on her small breasts were all Jerry could see when he looked in her direction. He hoped Beth hadn’t noticed him staring at the glamorous ace. Jerry put some pasta salad on his plate and turned to get some spinach quiche.

  A brown-haired man with quick eyes and an easy smile leaned in next to him. “Real men don’t eat quiche. At least real men who want to impress Fantasy.”

  Jerry put the serving spoon back in the quiche and looked down the table at the rest of the spread. “Thanks, I guess.”

  The man set down his plate, which was piled high with a little of everything, and offered his hand. “Jay Ackroyd.”

  Jerry shook it. “Jerry Strauss.” Ackroyd looked like he couldn’t place the name. “I used to be the Projectionist, then I turned into the giant ape. Now, I’m just rich.”

  Ackroyd grinned. “Rich is plenty in this town.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a card. “If you ever need any PI work done, let me know. I could use a rich client for a change. Good luck with Fantasy if you decide to be that brave. I’d almost be afraid to get lucky with her myself.”

  Jerry took the card and slipped it into the jacket pocket of his tux. The room became suddenly quiet. A man walked in slowly, limping a bit. He looked fairly normal, but Jerry heard the word “joker” whispered by someone, followed shortly by the name “Pretorius.” The buzz of conversation that started up had an edge of hostility. Jerry took advantage of the distraction to fill his plate, then he slipped back to his table, where Beth was still going over the menu.

  Jerry hadn’t seen Hiram yet, but that was no surprise. Killing Chrysalis, the Mistress of Jokertown, had kept his name in the news. The joker community had lined up against Hiram immediately. The media were being less than kind as well. The mood was ugly, and the trial hadn’t even started yet. Still, it was unlikely that this Wild Card Day dinner would turn out as badly as the one two years before, when the Astronomer had crashed the party. Jerry was definitely glad to have missed that one.

  A cool, unsteady breeze blew in off the terrace. Jerry set his menu to one side. Being rich and touched by the wild card had its advantages.

  “I think I’m going to go with the filet mignon,” he said. “How about you?”

  Beth looked up, chewing her lip. She was wearing a black calf-length skirt and lavender blouse. “I see looking at Miss Tits over there has you in the mood for red meat.”

  “God, can’t I get away with anything around you? If you were a guy, you’d look!”

  Beth smiled. “I’m a woman and I still looked. Just jealous, I guess. I wish I had the body and the attitude to wear that kind of outfit.” She set down the menu. “I think I’ll pass on the main course and just wander over for a fruit salad. Fear of cellulite is a terrible thing. Lesser women have been broken by it, believe me.”

  “You have to have dessert, though.”

  “Well, if you insist. But don’t tell Kenneth. He still has illusions of me regaining my schoolgirl figure.”

  “You look terrific.” Jerry was about to be more specific when he saw a couple being seated a few tables away.

  The man was tall and thin, with dark hair. His eyes were luminous and the air seemed to swim around him. The woman with him was wearing a red silk dress that looked spray-painted on. She was gorgeous. It was Veronica. Jerry turned his chair away from them. It obviously wasn’t that Veronica didn’t want to get fucked. She just didn’t want to get fucked by him.

  “You okay?” Beth touched his hand.

  “Yeah. I was just thinking about some stuff. You know, I have to do something with my life.”

  “Right,” she said.

  He knew she wasn’t fooled, but appreciated that she just let it go.

  They held the ceremonies for Tachyon. Jerry was surprised the woman with him wasn’t Cody. Maybe it was just a professional relationship. There were empty tables. As far as Jerry knew, that was a first for a Wild Card Day dinner. Shortly after Tachyon’s arrival Hiram made his entrance. He was wearing a magnificently tailored dark blue suit, but looked thinner than when Jerry had seen him on the tour.

  Hiram raised his glass and paused for a moment, waiting for his guests to follow suit. “To Jetboy,” he said.

  “To Jetboy
,” Jerry and Beth said along with all the others. They clinked glasses and drank the toast.

  Jerry heard Veronica laugh. She was probably doing it just to annoy him. No. More likely she was so busy thinking about sucking her date’s prick that she hadn’t even noticed him.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Hiram continued. “I hope you all enjoy your meal, on this, our special day. May the coming year be kind to us all.”

  There was a smattering of applause. Hiram walked over to Tachyon’s table, shook the alien’s good hand, then went into the kitchen.

  “Doesn’t he usually float up to the ceiling or something?” Beth asked.

  “Yeah. Maybe he just doesn’t feel like it’s appropriate. I think Hiram’s a bit concerned what people are thinking of him right now,” Jerry said. “The whole Chrysalis thing has to be a nightmare for him.”

  “Worse for her, bro. She’s the one who got turned into pâté.”

  Jerry started to say something, but Beth interrupted. “No. You don’t have to say it. I feel bad already. He seems like a very nice man. But aces aren’t always good guys, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Bush is going to win the election, and if you think things are hard on wild cards now, just wait. Wild-card chic is going to be stone-cold dead before his term is over. It could be worse than the fifties.” Beth reached over and touched his face. “With your history, I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Jerry smiled. He ate it up when she acted concerned over him. If only Veronica cared even half that much. “Thanks. I think I’ll be okay.”

  Their waiter walked over. “What will you have tonight, madam?”

  “I think I’ll have the fruit salad,” Beth said.

  He’d promised himself he wouldn’t think about Veronica. Three nights after the party he was sitting at home. Kenneth and Beth were chewing over the implications of a Bush presidency. Dukakis’s pardon of Willie Horton, a joker who’d been convicted of rape, seemed to be the final nail in the coffin. The revolving-door ad, showing homicidal jokers being spilled out into the street, had been a master stroke. The Democrats were indignant, but the ad affected the public in the desired fashion. Jerry found it all too depressing. He called up Ichiko and Veronica was available.

  Jerry was sure she hadn’t recognized him. He’d thought of giving himself a male-model look, but settled on a more rugged face. His hair was dark and straight; he could do that now, too. Veronica looked almost the same as before. Her white cotton dress revealed just enough to get a man’s attention without telling him too much. Jerry knew what she looked like naked, but remembering wasn’t enough. Not tonight. Tonight he wanted to be inside her.

  Taking her to a movie was probably a mistake. If anything could tip her to who he was, that was it. Still, he wanted to see Demme’s Joker Mama on the big screen. He was sick of video.

  “A friend of mine recommended you,” Jerry said. “You were at the Wild Card Day dinner with him. He said you were terrific.”

  “You know Croyd?”

  “Slightly,” Jerry said. Croyd had to be Croyd Crenson, the Sleeper. Jerry had heard a few things about him, mostly bad. Obviously, Veronica wasn’t looking for a nice guy.

  On the screen a tight-knit group of jokers in human masks was holding up a bank, only to be interrupted by a duck-faced and mouse-faced duo with the same idea.

  Jerry put his arm around Veronica and gave her shoulder a squeeze. She flinched. After a long moment she reached up and started stroking his hand.

  She knows it’s me, he thought. Her brain may not have figured it out yet, but her body knows it’s me. He felt a chill, like something had gone bad inside him.

  “Excuse me,” he said, leaning in close. Her perfume was different from the expensive French stuff he’d bought her. “I’m not feeling well. I’d like to take you home.”

  Veronica looked up, surprised. Jerry pressed two hundred-dollar bills into her palm. Her hand was cold.

  “For your time,” Jerry said, in a voice too close to his own. “I’m sorry.”

  He took her by the hand and led her out of the theater. Gunshots came from the screen behind them. The lobby smelled of overly buttered popcorn and stale candy. He excused himself, went into the men’s room, and vomited as quietly as possible.

  She was gone when he came back out.

  The Tower of Gold and Amber

  by Kevin Andrew Murphy

  OCTOBER 1, 1988

  TRUDY PIRANDELLO STEPPED OUT of the cab, absently paying the driver, and gazed up at the Golden Tower. It was large and garish, mirrored and gleaming, and very, very gold. She remembered when Bonwit Teller & Co. had stood here before, the front lit like a waterfall of jewels tumbling down from the titanic art deco maidens high above, dancing with scarves and nothing else.

  But the naked ladies were gone and the ladies department store with them. Now the only shop of interest was Tiffany’s, but Trudy resisted the lure of the baubles on display. She could go window shopping any day.

  The doorman opened the door and Trudy went in, proceeding to the gold security desk before the equally gold elevators and producing a gold envelope from her oversized but almost empty Hermès bag—which was black and white, matching her gown, the magpie colors of a fall formal. Her dress was beaded and beautiful, if less daring than she would have liked. But it had pockets. And it was suitable given the event and, sadly, her age. Trudy was in her sixties now, and while she’d kept her figure, she’d finally given up and let her hair go white. Still, it was striking and went well with the simplicity of onyx and diamonds, especially the aigrette she wore in her curls. She forgot where she’d picked up the full parure, but it was sparkly, antique, and she loved it. She loved having a chance to show it off even more.

  The security guard was a brown-scaled joker of middling height. “I’m sorry, Miss Pirandello,” he said, looking like a lizard in a suit as he checked her invitation. “I’m afraid the dinner won’t start until seven thirty and we won’t be admitting the guests before seven o’clock.”

  Trudy smiled pleasantly, recognizing him. “That’s alright.” The lizard was Harvey Kant, one of the detectives from Fort Freak, obviously moonlighting for the evening since Midtown was far from his regular beat down in the Bowery. “I can wait.” She’d dealt with him before, but she always went masked to Jokertown, as was the old custom, and cops never paid much attention to the polite and the pretty. Which suited Trudy fine.

  She dropped her invitation back into her purse. The guests were the most interesting part of such an event anyway, and while it might be unfashionable, it paid to arrive early.

  The next to turn up were a harried-looking father in a bespoke gray tuxedo with gray pearl and platinum studs and cuff links that matched his prematurely gray hair and a snub-nosed, freckle-faced blond girl of about eight in a pink calico pinafore, positively dancing as she dragged him forward. “C’mon, Daddy! We don’t want to miss the Amber Room!”

  “It’ll still be there in a few minutes, Jessica,” the man gasped, almost careening into the desk as he hastily produced another gold invitation.

  Kant checked it. “Ah, Mr. von der Stadt. We won’t be taking guests up before seven o’clock.”

  “I want to see the Amber Room now,” Jessica stated flatly, glaring.

  Her father was visibly sweating, even more so as the joker detective looked down and said, “Your daddy made a very generous donation to Mr. Bush’s election campaign to bring you here. Are you sure you don’t want to have dinner with Mr. Quayle, too? Or Mr. Towers?”

  “No.” The child looked equal parts disgusted and mystified. “I just want to see the Amber Room.”

  The lizard’s expression would likely be unreadable by most, but Trudy had made a long study of human beings, jokers included. It was unlikely that Kant was a Republican or that he was being paid anything near the $10,000 minimum Duncan Towers was charging per plate—most of which would likely end up in his pocket, Towers having cannily angled that the d
inner was both a fund-raiser for the Bush campaign and for the restoration of the Amber Room, his latest acquisition, with the dividing line unspecified. “I’m sorry, dear. You’ll have to wait.” Kant’s apparent delight at hearing a slight to the Republicans warred with his disapproval at seeing a child so spoiled.

  “Would you like to see my elephant?” Jessica asked sweetly, changing tactics.

  “Sure.” Kant smiled, revealing his lizard teeth. Jessica didn’t even flinch and Kant smiled wider. It was easy to read the detective’s pleasure at encountering a child, even a spoiled one, neither repelled nor even curious to see a joker.

  The girl reached into the pocket of her apron, but rather than a stuffed animal, she withdrew an antique ivory cricket cage with two tiny elephants carved atop. Inside the cage was another elephant, this one the size of a hamster. It was alive. “His name’s Timothy.” As she said this, the elephant became slightly smaller, now just the right size for the cage. “I squinched him little.”

  Kant’s lizard eyes went wide with horror, but Trudy only exclaimed brightly, “You’re an ace!”

  Jessica nodded proudly. “Can Timothy and me please go see the Amber Room?”

  “Timothy and I,” her father corrected automatically, then paused. “It’s good you said ‘please,’ Jessica”—he smiled nervously—“but even aces have to wait sometimes.”

  “What if they’re princesses?”

  “Even princesses,” Trudy put in, coming to his rescue. “Elephant Girl is both an ace and a princess, and I’ve seen her wait very patiently.”

  “You’ve met Elephant Girl?!”

  “Once,” Trudy admitted truthfully, “but I doubt she’d remember me.” She rather hoped she didn’t. “But I’ll always remember her.” That was true. Trudy still had a truly lovely ruby pendant she’d snatched from the Irish-Bengali princess’s forehead.