Wild Cards VIII: One-Eyed Jacks

by George R. R. Martin

  “You’re acting like a man who’s just been paid,” Jerry said.

  “I always act this way,” Jay said. “You seem a little down. Better cheer up or I’ll start telling you my knock-knock jokes.”

  “Sorry. Normally, I’m better company than this. Must be the weather,” Jerry said. It was partly true. The late-winter sky had been gray for days on end. Sunshine always made the world feel nicer. Without it, even the good things left a little to be desired. “Is that all?”

  “Of course not. There’s weeks of work in that file,” Ackroyd said. “One very important fact that came out is that for several of the ‘jumper’ incidents, David Butler had a well-substantiated alibi.”

  “Which means?”

  Ackroyd paused a second, as if waiting for Jerry to answer his own question. “There’s more than one of them. And nobody knows how many more there might be.”

  “Just great,” Jerry said. “That’s all the world needs.”

  “Something else bothering you?” Ackroyd rubbed his chin. Jerry was silent. “Knock, knock.”

  “All right. Things are tense at home. I live with my brother and sister-in-law, you know. And Kenneth seems to resent me for spending time with his wife, even though he’s usually too busy to pay her much attention.” Jerry shrugged. “It’s not like she’s interested in me. I doubt she’d date me if I were the last man on Earth.”

  Ackroyd sat quietly for a moment. “Hopefully, the sun will start shining again soon. In the meantime, you might want to consider moving into your own place. Might defuse the situation. Just a thought.”

  “Right.” Jerry looked away. Hiram stepped out of his office and wove his way through the tables toward them. His charcoal suit, as always, was exquisitely tailored, but the man inside looked worse for wear. There were deep lines in his face, especially around the eyes.

  “Hiram,” Jay said, “sit down with us. Have dessert and an after-dinner drink. We’re boring the hell out of each other.”

  Hiram smiled weakly and looked around, his head moving in a quick, jerky manner. “Thank you, really, but no. There’s so much to catch up on, with all the other business that’s been going on.” He paused. “And, well, it might not be a good idea to be seen with me now. Guilt by association, you know.”

  “We’re not worried,” Jay said. “In fact—”

  There was a thunderous noise from the kitchen and fire leapt out from the doorway. Jerry was knocked from his chair and into the next table. His elbow smashed into one of the table legs, shooting pain up his arm. Smoke churned into the dining area.

  Jerry dragged himself into a standing position. Jay and Hiram were already making their way toward the kitchen. Customers, those that could, were picking themselves up and pushing out of the restaurant. The injured were moaning or screaming. Jerry heard the sound of fire extinguishers from the kitchen.

  “Hit the exhaust fans,” Hiram directed. He pushed his way into the kitchen. Jay was right behind him.

  Jerry followed slowly, coughing from the heavy smoke. He walked across the restaurant and stuck his head into the kitchen. One of the swinging doors had been torn from its hinges. Hiram was kneeling next to someone, lifting their head.

  “I’m sorry,” Hiram said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Jay pulled his friend up. “Hiram, call Tachyon. Tell him we have several severely injured people coming his way. Do it now.”

  Hiram nodded and walked out of the kitchen. Jerry stepped back. He could see the pain and anger in Hiram’s eyes. It made his self-pity over Veronica seem selfish. Jerry stepped into the kitchen.

  “Anything I can do?” he asked Jay.

  “Not unless you’re a doctor.” Jay pointed his finger. There was a pop. A moaning man vanished. There were two more pops. Jay knelt down next to the final body in the room and shook his head. “It’s too late for this one.”

  “If those other people make it, it’ll be because of you,” Jerry said.

  “More because of Tachyon,” Jay said, wiping his eyes. “But you have to do as much as you can. There’s no excuse for doing less.”

  “Nope,” Jerry said, thinking of David. “No excuse at all.”

  He could have asked Kenneth to bring home David’s file, but that would have tipped his brother about Jerry’s suspicions. Besides, the file was probably in St. John’s office. Latham, Strauss was very selective about who it hired; hopefully there would be some clue as to David’s whereabouts. It could be a starting point, anyway.

  The door to Latham’s office had been tougher than Lieutenant King’s and his finger bone had poked painfully out through the skin. Jerry kissed a salty-tasting drop of blood off his fingertip and went inside. He turned on the desk lamp. The fluorescent bulb crackled to life and greenish light covered the desk. He looked about the dimly lit office. It was oppressively neat and boring. No plants, no personal photographs, no clutter, nothing to give it any semblance of life. Jerry tried the desk drawers, but they were locked. He figured what he wanted would be in the file cabinet anyway, but the key to it was likely in the desk.

  Jerry crossed the room to the file cabinet. He blew on his hands. The heat was turned way down and even double-paned glass let some cold air seep in. The drawers were locked here, too. Jerry didn’t want to tear up his fingers, but it looked like the only way he was going to get anywhere.

  He heard a noise outside and froze. He’d known this was a possibility, but had trusted to luck that it wouldn’t happen. After a moment’s hesitation he changed his looks to mimic Latham’s. Cold and impersonal, he thought, trying to make everything go dead inside him. He took a deep breath, turned off the lamp, and headed for the door. If it was anyone but Latham, he’d be okay.

  She met him at the door. She was wearing a tight blue off-the-shoulder designer dress. Her carefully combed hair hung past her shoulders. She smelled as beautiful and expensive as she looked. After an instant Jerry recognized her. Fantasy, or Asta Lenser, and she was definitely no dog. Much closer to Myrna Loy, in fact.

  He interrupted the silence with a cough. “How can I help you?”

  She sighed. Jerry thought he smelled wine on her breath. Her eyes were so dilated he couldn’t tell what color they were. “Just looking for company. Rumor has it that you’re, shall we say, more accessible to the temptations of the flesh these days.”

  Jerry tried not to act excited. Not only was he not going to get caught, he was likely going to get laid. Kenneth and Beth had seen Asta naked at a fund-raiser, of all things. Now, with luck, it was his turn. Still, he had to play it cool, or she’d know he wasn’t the genuine Latham. “That might be possible. Using my residence is out of the question, though.”

  She twined her fingers in his necktie, gracefully pirouetted, and pulled him toward the office door. “I love it when nasty rumors turn out to be true.”

  Her penthouse was huge, with high ceilings and expensive modern decor. There was less black and silver on a sports car lot than in her living room. She dimmed the lights and kicked off her shoes.

  “Let’s see now, counselor. Bedroom number one, two, or three for you?” Fantasy put a finger to her red lips for a moment. “No. Don’t tell me. Bedroom number three. My instincts are never wrong.”

  “I’m sure that will be satisfactory.” Jerry was having trouble maintaining his Latham act. He wanted to get to the sex so he wouldn’t have to talk anymore.

  Fantasy half walked and half danced to the bedroom doorway, then lifted her chin and stepped inside.

  Jerry struggled out of his coat and tossed it on the nearest chair, then followed. She was standing next to the large brass bed, pulling her dress off over her head. All she had on underneath was a pair of tie-on black satin panties. She undid them with dramatic flair and let them drop to the floor, then did a slow half turn so he could see her from behind.

  Jerry just stared. Her body was flawless, at least no imperfections showed up in the dimmed light. She was small-breasted, but he preferred that. “You’re very admirably
proportioned.”

  She walked over to him and began unbuttoning his shirt. “You know, if Kien finds out about this, we’re both in for hell on earth.”

  “Really?” Jerry didn’t know who Kien was and frankly didn’t care. It would be Latham’s problem if they were found out. Right now he was deciding what size to make his penis. Asta undid his belt and began slipping his pants down. He quickly decided on a Penthouse Forum model.

  She cracked a pill under his nose as they sat down, naked on the bed. Jerry’s head jerked back. His nose stung for a second, then everything was fine. “Actually, Kien wouldn’t do anything to you right now. He’s too interested in your teen groupies.”

  Jerry figured this might have something to do with David, so he filed the information away for future use. She put her mouth on his. He was buzzing with pleasure and didn’t want to do anything but fuck. She opened her mouth and worked her tongue over and around his. Jerry lay down and pulled her with him, running his hands over her soft flesh. He couldn’t feel any imperfections, either.

  Her kisses were intense and aggressive. She ran her fingers across his chest and abdomen, sometimes touching him delicately with the tips and sometimes digging in slightly with her nails. She reached down between his legs and traced the underside of his penis with her fingernails. In spite of its size, Jerry had no trouble getting it up. He ran his fingers through her pubic hair, twisting it lightly here and there.

  She pinched the tip of his penis, almost hard enough to hurt him.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “Why counselor, I didn’t know you were a religious man.” She pulled his hand away and kissed it. “You have a nice, light touch, but I’ve got something a little more intimate in mind. Any objections?” Silence. “I’m ready to call my first witness.”

  Asta straddled him, facing his feet, and lowered herself onto his mouth. Her scent overpowered the expensive perfume she’d doubtless dabbed on her inner thighs. He ran his tongue up and down, separating her already moist labia. He decided to put his tongue into her as far as he could; given his power, that was all the way.

  Fantasy gasped, then looked down at him. It was the most sincerely hedonistic expression he’d ever seen.

  “I know a lawyer’s greatest weapon is his mouth,” she said, “but I wasn’t aware just how dangerous it was.”

  “A lawyer’s greatest weapon is his desire not to lose,” Jerry said. Whatever she’d popped under his nose was kicking in, and he felt powerful and in control.

  “Here’s to the winners,” Asta said, tossing her hair back and lowering herself back onto his mouth.

  Jerry whipped his tongue lightly across her, then pointed it and pushed in again. Fantasy breathed heavily for several moments then leaned forward, taking him into her mouth. Pleasure spread through him. Veronica had plenty of oral technique, but not the enthusiasm Asta had shown with only a few strokes. Jerry exhaled slowly and put his tongue on autopilot. She made a muffled laugh. This had to be as good as it got.

  He was two-thirds of the way through both The Big Sleep and his bottle of peppermint schnapps when he heard a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” he said, pausing the VCR.

  Beth sat down next to him and looked disapprovingly at the bottle.

  “I’m depressed, so I’m drinking,” Jerry explained. “It’s a time-honored tradition.”

  “What are you depressed about?”

  Jerry thought a moment, then told her everything. Told her about Veronica, and the return of his wild-card ability, his night with Fantasy. He left out his suspicions about David. She’d probably just write it off as jealousy.

  Beth sat there the entire time with her hand on her chin.

  “You know what’s funny,” Jerry said. “The sex with Asta was the best I’ve ever had, maybe the best I’ll ever have, and it just depressed me. You know why? Because it wasn’t for me. It was for Latham and I was just a stand-in. Nobody would ever want to fuck me like that.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Beth shook her head. “Does it make that big a difference?”

  “Hell, yes. What’s the measure of success nowadays? For a man it’s how much money you make and how many women want to ball your brains out. I’m already rich, so the only area I can make good is with women.”

  “Jesus, Jerry, you don’t have to buy into that crap. You’re the one who decides what is or isn’t a useful and happy life. Don’t let Madison Avenue or anyone else tell you.”

  Jerry leaned away from her. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re married and happy. You’ve got what you want.”

  “Yes, because I know what I want and I worked hard to get it. Nobody did it for me.”

  “So, I’m just lazy. That’s it.” Jerry turned back to the TV.

  “You’re not just lazy, you’re an emotional six-year-old. You don’t see anyone’s feelings or needs but your own. And you’ll never get along with women as long as they’re just something you do to make yourself feel more adequate.” Beth paused. “It makes me wonder how you feel about me.”

  “I’m wondering about it right now, too.” Jerry turned and looked at her. He could see the hurt in her eyes. The line was crossed, he might as well get his money’s worth. “I trusted you with all my secrets, and all you can do is criticize. Why don’t you just leave me alone. Go off and suck Kenneth’s dick.”

  Beth stood slowly, left the room, and closed the door quietly behind her.

  “I’m sorry,” Jerry said, when he was sure she couldn’t possibly hear. He took another slug of schnapps from the bottle. Bogart wouldn’t have handled it this way. “Jesus, on top of everything else, I’m turning into an asshole.”

  He unpaused the VCR. He hoped Bogey and Baby would tell him otherwise, but they only had eyes for each other.

  Jerry carried a stack of boxes to the van. The air was cold and damp. Easter was just around the corner. Jerry thought of celebrating by biting the heads off chocolate bunnies. Misery loved company. He glanced up at the second-story window to Kenneth and Beth’s bedroom. Beth looked down at him for a moment, then turned away. The finality of the gesture was crushing. Jerry felt like something inside him just died.

  Kenneth walked out carrying a pair of suitcases. He set them carefully in the back of the van and closed the doors.

  “This isn’t really what you want to do,” Kenneth said. “Cut your losses. Apologize to her and she’ll meet you halfway. Trust me, I’m speaking from experience.”

  Jerry stared hard at Kenneth. “You know. My main reason for leaving is that both of you think I’m too stupid to handle my own life. That gets a little tiring after a while.”

  “Dumb, and proud of it. That’s you,” Kenneth said, turning away angrily. “Do what you have to do.”

  Jerry got in the van and turned the key. The engine sputtered to life. They’d be sorry soon enough. He’d already figured out how to make sure of that.

  A Broken Thread in a Dark Room

  by Carrie Vaughn

  JOANN COULDN’T GUESS WHAT kind of flowers Billy Ray might like. In fact, she couldn’t imagine him in a room with a vase of roses or artistically drooping tulips at all. So when she visited him in the hospital, she carried a cactus, a spiny lump with a wilting yellow flower on the top, nested in a terra-cotta pot. It seemed to suit him, and he’d be less likely to kill it than something that required more attention.

  “Good afternoon, Agent Ray,” she announced from the doorway, giving her a moment to survey the room and take in Ray’s condition before approaching. She adjusted her hood over her short-cropped black hair and arranged her cloak around herself. Black on the inside, reflective silver out, the cloak enveloped her, making sure her power was insulated and reducing her chances of hurting someone by accident. Today she wore street clothes, a plain blouse and trousers, rather than her enveloping black uniform. But she kept the leather gloves on, again, reducing any chance of stray contact.

  Her ace power: she absorbed energy—all energy. She could even f
eel a soft charge coming off the cactus, a hum of life force, and made sure to keep hold of the pot, not touching the plant. If she touched it, she might kill it. She kept some distance between her and Ray’s bed.

  The black-haired, pale man was normally fit, powerful. Now, he appeared gaunt. Shifting in bed, he glared a moment, grunted something that she took to be a greeting, and went back to flipping channels on the TV mounted to the wall—with his left hand. His right hand rested on top of the sheet over his chest. Five fingers present, fully regrown after he’d had half his hand cut off. The new digits were thin, pink. Weak and unused. No calluses.

  All in all, he looked pretty good, given what had happened in Atlanta at the Democratic National Convention. He’d been opened like a fish, stem to stern, his guts poured out and half his jaw sliced off. But the wild card virus had made Ray a stubborn SOB. Something might kill him someday, but it wasn’t going to be a punk like Mackie Messer. Somehow, doctors had stitched him back together, and his superhuman healing was doing the rest. His longest recovery stretch yet. Guy must have been going bonkers.

  After this round, his face was going to look even weirder. His jaw had mostly grown back, but right now it looked like someone had taken a woodworking plane up the left side of his face, and the skin was pink and flaking. But that snarl was recognizably Billy.

  She couldn’t see under the sheet to judge how the rest of him was doing. He was lying unusually still. Like his muscles still weren’t working right. Her stomach got queasy thinking of it, so she stopped.

  Some kind of talking-heads news program was playing, rehashing yet again the recently finished presidential election, including some clips of Senator Hartmann’s speeches. She wished Ray wouldn’t do this to himself.

  “Please tell me you haven’t been watching video of what happened to you,” she said.