Weeks later, money running low, and her spirits just as low, she found Sully Thornton at her door. He was a pathetic little toady who continually brayed about being one of Josiah's "business associates." Roulette had never particularly noticed him doing any business when he had been present at Smallwoods. Instead he had concentrated on lapping up all the free booze he could hold, and trying to press soggy drunken kisses on her whenever he caught her alone. She had slapped him once, and after a neighing titter that set his prominent Adam's apple to bobbing, he had boozily explained that he was just "emulatin' old grandpa Thornton, with his fascination for dusky women. Just runs in the blood." Yeah, she'd thought sourl like whuppin' on the boys, and fuckin' the mammies. Just comes natural.
Sully had mouthed something about wanting to look h up because Josiah had treated her so bad, and could he buy h dinner, and he'd heard she'd lost her job, and did she need "little loan?" She didn't miss the meaning, and despite her r vulsion with the man she accepted. Being broke ruins a per son's standards.
Late that night, as he'd lain groaning and panting ato her, she had remembered the bone-cracking release as he baby was born, and raised herself up on her elbows, and had seen… No! Then had come a release of another kind, and Sully had died.
Her eaters of the soul had begun to torment her withi hours of Sully's death. And if Judas had not found her perhap she would have ceased to deal in death. But the Astronomer' acehound did find her, and took her to the Cloisters, and th Astronomer had spoken to her hidden places, nurturing he festering hate, promising that she would have her final re venge, and that when the last kill was made he would give he peace-remove forever the memory of her child.
The Astronomer had used her sparingly, eager to keep he secret and very effective And she was effective. Today marked the third kill she had made for her awful master, and each time it was worse. She gulped down some of the Sunshine Cafe' enamel-stripping coffee, trying to wash away the sick taste o death that lay on her tongue.
This time he would know. He would sense her guilt an doubt, and react, and she was scared to disappoint- No. She was just scared. Terrified of him. Of his powers. Of his ob sessive drive to destroy. First TIAMAT Now those who had denied him his ultimate victory.
What if she just never went back?
No, without him there could be no final catharsis, no final release from the memory of monsters. He could have all the rest, but Tachyon was hers. The alien had destroyed her life.
She would repay him by destroying his. That was her obsession, and it had wedded her to the Astronomer in an unholy union of hate and vengeance, and it was far stronger a bond than love.
"Lady, I don't rent tables by the hour," growled the proprietor of the Sunshine Cafe, who was living proof that the 'generators of cheerful advertising' were under no obligation to follow it.
She tossed money onto the table, and decided to be grateful for the interruption rather than irritated. Her greasy-spoon haven had been removed. She had to go.
To face him.
Normally Hiram liked to ride through the city streets, to watch the ebb and flow of the human drama on the sidewalks of Manhattan through the frosted-glass windows of his Bentley, while his driver worried about gridlock and kamikaze cabs. But today Jokertown and surrounding neighborhoods would be chaos, as the jokers took to the streets and thousands of tourists flowed into the city for the parades, street fairs, fireworks, and other celebrations that marked Wild Card Day.
To avoid the crush, Hiram told Anthony to take the FDR Drive, and even so the traffic was a horror. He would have preferred to return to his apartment to change, but there wasn't time. They went directly to the Empire State Building. Velvet ropes had been hung in front of the express elevators to Aces High, and a tasteful gold-lettered sign said CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY. Hiram hopped over the rope lightly, no feat at all for a man who weighed only thirty pounds, but it always raised a few eyebrows in the lobby. The elevator took him straight up to the restaurant's foyer.
As the doors opened, he heard his head chef shouting at someone. The saucier, no doubt; they were constantly arguing. A janitor was sweeping out the cloakroom as Hiram emerged from the elevator. "Make sure you empty the ashtrays, Smitty," Hiram told him. He paused a moment, looked around the room. The marble floor was gleaming, the couches had been freshly cleaned. All the walls were hung with framed photographs of celebrities: politicians, sports figures, sex symbols, socialites, writers, film stars, newsmen, and a myriad of aces. Most had scrawled warm personal inscriptions to Hiram across their likenesses. He stopped to straighten the picture of Senator Hartmann and the Howler that had been taken the night the senator had been reelected, then swept through the wide double doors into the restaurant itself.
Paul LeBarre's voice was much louder in here, eve through the hubbub. Workmen were setting up round banquet tables for the party, and moving the everyday tables into stor age. Cleaning crews were polishing the floors, the long curved bar, and the magnificent art deco chandeliers that gave Aces High so much of its ambience. The wide doors to the Sunset Terrace had been thrown open to air out the room, and a stiff New York wind was blowing. Dimly, from far below, Hiram could hear the sounds of traffic and police sirens.
Curtis, his maitre d' and good right arm, came up to Hiram Worchester with a dozen stiff pieces of posterboard under one arm. He was a tall slender black man with white haft Tonight, in his tuxedo, he would look splendid, elegant, even i bit austere. Right now, dressed in a flannel shirt and a pair d worn dungarees, he just looked harried.
"The kitchen is in chaos," he announced briskly. "Paul insists that Miriam has ruined his special hollandaise, and he's threatening to throw her off the Sunset Terrace. We had a small fire in the kitchen, but it's out, no damage. The ice sculpture are late. Six of our waiters phoned in sick this morning. Car nival flu, I call it, complicated by the fact that no one ever tip at these private parties. A larger bonus might effect a sudde remission. The usual rumor about Golden Boy has made th rounds, and I've had three calls from guests anxious to let u know that if he was coming, they weren't. Oh, and Digger Downs phoned up to tell me that if he isn't admitted tonight, Aces! magazine will never mention the restaurant again. An how are you this morning, Hiram?"
Hiram sighed, ran a hand across his bald head in a nervous gesture left over from the days he'd had hair. "Tell Diggei I'll let him in if his editor promises in writing that we'll neve be mentioned in Aces! again. Get me six temp waiters-no, make that ten, they won't be as good as our regular people. I'm not worried about Paul. He hasn't thrown anyone out a window yet." He strode toward his office.
Curtis matched him pace for pace. "There's always a first time. What about Golden Boy?"
Hiram made a rude noise. "We get the same rumor every year, and Mr. Braun has yet to show up. If he ever does, I'll deal with the question of his dinner. Who's threatening to cancel?"
"Sparkle Johnny, Trump Card, and Pit Boss," Curtis said.
"Reassure Shawna and Lou," Hiram told him, "and tell Sparkle Johnny that Golden Boy is definitely going to be here. Are those the seating charts?"
Curtis handed them over. "I'll call Kelvin and check on the ice sculptures," he said as Hiram unlocked the door to his private office.
"Out the window!" Paul LeBarre was screaming in the kitchen. "All the way down ou can think of the proper way to make hollandaise. Perhaps it' will come to you, before you hit!"
Hiram winced. "Do that," he said. "And please have someone do me up a small breakfast. An omelet, I think. Tomato, onion, crumbled bacon, cheese."
"Cheddar?"
Hiram raised an eyebrow. "Of course. Four eggs. With pomme frites and a carafe of orange juice, a little Earl Grey. Are there biscuits?"
Curtis nodded.
"Good. Three, please. I'm weak with hunger." Using his powers always left him famished. Dr. Tachyon said it had something to do with energy loss. "Anthony will be back soon with a clean suit. I had a bit of an altercation down on Fulton Stree
t. Send someone to the lobby to wait for it. If Anthony tries to bring it up, the Bentley will probably be towed." He closed the door.
A 26-inch color television was mounted in the wall above his desk. Hiram seated himself in a huge, custom-designed leather executive's chair that smelled like the inside of a very old and very exclusive British men's club, turned on his builtin back massager, spread the seating charts out across the black walnut, and flicked on the television with a jab at the remote control. Willard Scott and Peregrine appeared on the screen. Willard was wearing moose ears, for some reason. Peregrine was wearing as little as she could get away with. They were talking about the Jokertown parade. Hiram hit the mute button. He liked to keep the television on as he worked, a sort of video wallpaper that kept him plugged into the world, but the noise distracted him. After a final glance at Peregrine's admirable costume, he began reviewing the charts, initialing each in the lower right-hand corner after he'd looked it over.
By the time Curtis returned with his omelet, Hiram had finished the charts. "Two changes," he said. "Put Mistral over by the terrace. If it gets too windy, she can take care of it for us."
"Switch Tachy and Croyd. If we put Tachyon at the same table with Fortunato, we'll have innocents killed in the crossfire."
"Excellent," Curtis said. "Six tables for the at-the-doors?" Formal invitations were sent out annually to the Wild Card Day Dinner at Aces High, and RSVPs were expected, but there were aces who carefully kept their names secret, and others who'd yet to come out of the deck. The party was open to all of them, and each year the queue of those hoping to win admission by demonstrating an ace talent at the door grew longer and longer.
"Eight tables," Hiram said after a moment's reflection. "This is the fortieth anniversary, after all." He glanced up at the television screen again. "One more thing." He took back the top chart, made a notation. "There."
Curtis studied it. "Peregrine next to you. Very good, sir."
"I thought so," Hiram- said, with a quiet smile. He felt rather pleased with himself.
"The ice sculptures will be delivered within the hour."
"Excellent. Notify me when they arrive."
Curtis closed the door behind him. Hiram leaned back in his chair, glanced up at the TV set, changed the channel. On the steps of Jetboy's Tomb, Linda Ellerbee was interviewing Xavier Desmond. He watched them mouth silent words for a minute. Then a news bulletin interrupted their conversation. Something about the Howler, whose picture flashed up on the screen, wearing his yellow fighting clothes. A nice fellow, but his color sense was almost as bad as Dr. Tachyon's.
Hiram frowned, and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. Everything was under control. The party would be a smashing success, the social occasion of the year. He ought to be feeling elated. Instead, he was troubled.
The business down at the Fulton Street Fish Market, that was it. He couldn't get if off his mind. Gills was in some kind of trouble. He needed help. Hiram was fond of the old joker.
They'd been doing business for a decade, and Aces High had even catered his son's graduation.
Someone ought to find out what was going on, Hiram thought. Not him, of course; he was a restaurateur, not an adventurer. Still, he knew all the right people, and many of them owed him favors. Perhaps he ought to use his contacts.
Hiram found Dr. Tachyon's number on his Rolodex, picked up his telephone, punched out the number. He let it ring a long time. The Takisian was a notoriously late sleeper.
Finally he gave up. Wild Card Day was always a trial for Tachyon. As often as not, it set him off on binges of guilt, selfpity, and cognac. This being the fortieth anniversary, the doctor's angst could be particularly acute. Oh, Dr. Tachyon would be on time for dinner, no doubt of that, but Hiram wanted to get someone working on this immediately.
He thought for a minute. His good friend Senator Hartmann would lend him the services of some Justice Department ace, undoubtedly, but involving the government was time-consuming and messy. Fortunato might help, but then again he might not.
He turned his Rolodex, looking at the names, and of course it was right there, on the very first card:
JAY ACKROYD Confidential Investigations and Sleight-of-Hand
Smiling, Hiram Worchester picked up the phone and dialed.
Ackroyd got it on the fifth ring. "It's too early," the PI complained. "Go away."
"Out of bed, Popinjay," Hiram said cheerfully, knowing it would irritate him. "The early bird gets the worm, and tonight you'll be solving for your supper, so to speak."
"It better be more than one supper, Hiram," said. "And don't call me Popinjay, dammit."
Ackroyd
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 heineann 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 stockbooks, cataloging, on the average, about $1,000 each, so that each stockbook held about a million dollars' worth of stamps. The third, book, though
…
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-Kiev 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, poorlyfunded 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 h
er 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 applique 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 be hind 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.
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