Jokers Wild wc-3

by George R. R. Martin

  They crowded into Hiram's office, all of them. The cleaning crew, the dishwashers, the kitchen staff, even the electrician who'd come up to fix the faulty wiring in one of the chandeliers. They sat in the chairs, on the floor, on the desk and cabinets. Many stood. No one said a word. Even Paul LeBarre was silent. All eyes were on the television. Geraldo Rivera was interviewing one of the Howler's sisters. Hiram hadn't known the Howler had a sister. It turned out he had four of them.

  It was like the day Kennedy had been shot, he thought, or the Day of the Wild Card, the first one, forty years ago, when Jetboy had died and the world had changed forever.

  The newscast cut to a police press conference. Hiram listened, and felt sick.

  "Jesus." That was Peter Chou, the slim quiet man who was in charge of Aces High security, Peter who collected depression glass and black belts in assorted martial arts, and who never raised his voice or used profanity. "Jesus fucking Christ," he said now. "Nerve toxin. Jesus fucking Christ."

  "It don't make sense," one of the dishwashers said. "Man, it don't make no fucking. sense, man, that fucker could scream down walls, I saw him do it, man, I saw him."

  Then everybody started talking at once.

  Curtis tapped Hiram's shoulder, gave him a questioning look and nodded toward the door. Hiram rose and followed him. The floor seemed cavernous and empty now with everyone jammed into Hiram's office.

  "Outside," Hiram said. They went out onto the Sunset Terrace, and stood looking down over the city. The Empire State's public observation deck was on the floor above them, and above that was the old mooring mast that had once been intended for zeppelins, but except for that, there was no higher spot in New York City, or the world. The sun shone down brightly, and Hiram found himself wondering if the sky had looked as blue to Jetboy on the day he died.

  "The dinner," Curtis said simply. "Do we go ahead, or cancel?"

  "We go on," Hiram said, without hesitating.

  "Very good, sir," Curtis said. His tone was carefully neutral, neither approving nor disapproving.

  But Hiram felt he needed to explain. He put his hands up against the stone parapet, gazed off blindly to the west. "My father," he said. His voice sounded strange and halting, even to himself. "He was, ah, a robust man. As large as myself, in his later years. He was a man of, ah, healthy appetites."

  "British, wasn't he?" Curtis said.

  Hiram nodded. "He fought at Dunkirk. After the war he married a WAC and came to America. A male war bride, he called himself, not that he wore white. He'd always add that, and my mother would always blush, and he would laugh. God, but that man could laugh. He roared. He did everything in a large way. Food, liquor, even his women. He had a dozen mistresses. My mother didn't seem to mind, although she would have preferred a tad more discretion. He was a loud man, my father."

  Hiram looked at Curtis. "He died when I was twelve. The funeral was… well, the sort of function my father would have loathed. If he hadn't been dead he never would have attended."

  "It was grim, and pious, and so quiet. I kept expecting my father to sit up in the casket and tell a joke. There was weeping and whispering, but no laughter, nothing to eat or drink. I hated every second of it."

  "I see," Curtis said.

  "I have it in my will, you know," Hiram said. "A certain sum has been set aside, a rather handsome sum I might add, and when I die, Aces High will open its doors to my friends and family, and the food and drink will keep flowing until the money is gone, and perhaps there will be laughter. Perhaps. I don't know Howler's wishes in that regard, but I do know that he could eat and drink with the best of them, and he was the only man I ever knew who laughed louder than my father."

  Curtis smiled. "He shattered several thousand dollars worth of crystal with one of his laughs, as I recall."

  Hiram smiled. "And wasn't the least bit abashed, either. Tachyon was the one who'd made the witticism, and of course he felt so guilty I didn't see his face for almost three months." Hiram clapped a hand on Curtis's shoulder. "No. I cannot believe that Howler would have wanted us to cancel the party. We go on. Most definitely."

  "The ice sculpture?" Curtis reminded him gently.

  "We will display it," Hiram said firmly. "We're not going to try and pretend that Howler never existed. The sculpture will remind us that… that one of us is missing tonight." Somewhere far below, a horn was blaring. A man was dead, an ace, one of the fortunate handful, but the city went on as always, and as always someone was late for something. Hiram shivered. "Let's get it done, then." They went back inside.

  Peter Chou was crossing the floor in their direction. "You have a phone call," he said to Hiram.

  "Thank you," Hiram said. He went back into his office. "I know all of you are interested in the news," he told his staff. "So am I. But in a few hours, we'll be feeding a hundred and fifty-odd people. We'll pipe in the latest bulletins, rest assured. Now let's get back to work."

  One by one they filed out. Paul LeBarre put a hand on Hiram's shoulder before shuffling past. On television, Senator Hartmann stood in front of Jetboy's Tomb, promising a full SCARE investigation of the Howler's murder. Hiram nodded, touched the mute button, and picked up his phone.

  At first he didn't recognize the voice, and the fragmentary words, spoken with so much difficulty, didn't seem to make much sense. The man kept apologizing, over and over, and he was saying something about gasoline, and Hiram couldn't seem to focus on any of it. "What are you talking about?"

  "Lops… lobsters," the voice said.

  "What?" Hiram said. He sat bolt upright. "Gills, is this you?" It certainly didn't sound like him.

  "Sorry… sorry, Hiram." He began to wheeze. Then someone took the phone away from him.

  "Good morning, Fatboy," said a voice strange and shrill, a voice like a razor blade scratching down a blackboard. "Gills don't talk so good. He's still spitting out teeth." Hiram heard someone laugh in the background. "What fishface is trying to tell you is that we just got done marinating your fucking lobsters in fucking gasoline, and if you want 'em you can fucking well come down here and pick 'em up yourself, 'cause his fucking truck is on fire." Another laugh. "Now listen good, asshole, I don't care if you are a fuckin' uptown ace, you cuntface, you fuck around with me, this is what you get. You listening?"

  There was a moment of dead air, and then a scream, and a sharp sound like a bone breaking.

  "Hear that, cuntface?" the razor-blade voice said. Hiram didn't reply. "Did you fucking hear it?" the voice screamed. "Yes," Hiram said.

  "Have a nice day," the voice said, followed by a click. Hiram slowly returned the phone to its cradle. The day could not possihly get any worse, he thought.

  Then the phone rang again.

  Fortunato picked up the phone and dialed a Brooklyn extension. As soon as he was sitting down, the cat got in his lap and began kneading the legs of his jeans. The phone rang twice and a woman answered. "Hello, is Arnie there?" he asked. He could have sent his astral body, but he was already running on about half a charge and it was time to save his strength.

  "No, this is his mother. May I help?"

  "My name is Fortunato-"

  "Oh, heavenly days. I've heard Arnie talk about you forever. He'll just die when he finds out you called and he wasn't home. "

  "If you could just tell me where he is, ma'am, I'll try and find him myself."

  "Oh, he's headed for Jetboy's Tomb. His father takes him down there every Wild Card Day. They left about an hour ago. I don't know if you'll he able to find him in all those crowds. He's not in any trouble, is he?"

  "No, ma'am, nothing like that. I'm sure I'll be able to find him."

  "Oh, that's right. I guess you do have your ways, don't you? It's just that I'm a little nervous, what with the Howler and all."

  "The Howler?"

  "Oh, you haven't heard. Oh dear. They found the Howler just a little while ago. He was murdered. Some kind of nerve poison or something. It was just on the TV."

  Fortun
ato hung up. He'd written the list on paper, just to focus his thoughts. The aces who had been at the Cloisters. Kid Dinosaur. Tachyon. Peregrine. The Turtle. Modular Man. The Howler. Jumpin' Jack Flash. Water Lily.

  He crossed the Howler's name off the list. So it was true, he thought. It wasn't just Demise's raving. It was happening, had already started.

  Of the ones that were left, Flash and the Turtle could take care of themselves. Tachyon couldn't, but that was Tachyon's problem.

  He called Hiram at Aces High. He didn't think Hiram would be on the Astronomer's hit list; he'd only been involved peripherally with the TIAMAT business and hadn't been at the Cloisters at all. Still he deserved a warning.

  He told the story as simply as he could, and then said, "Listen, there's something you can do if you're willing. I need a command post. Somewhere safe to bring the ones I find, and somewhere for people to leave messages."

  "Of course. Nobody would attack Aces High. It would be insane."

  "Right," Fortunato said. "But just in case. Do you have some way of getting hold of that android? Modular Man?"

  "I think he gave me some kind of signal thing once. I could probably find him if I had to."

  "Just flatter him a little. I think that should do it. If not, you could subtly suggest that there'll be women there. If necessary, he can have one of' mine. Just call and have one sent over, on the house." He hung up before Hiram could change his mind.

  So what next? Try to find a kid he barely remembered out of thousands at Jetboy's Tomb? Or move on down the list? No. The Kid was reckless and stupid and had just enough power to get himself in real trouble. It had to be the Kid.

  The game was almost sold out. Only bleacher seats were left by the time Jennifer got to the ticket window, but that was fine with her. She just wanted to sit down in the warm sun, let the reassuring sounds of the crowd wash over her, and think. She paid for her ticket, and some atavistic sense made her turn around and look behind. There was a man, moderately tall, slimly but strongly built, dark-haired, dark-eyed. He seemed to be watching her intently, but he looked away the moment after their eyes met.

  Her gaze lingered on him for a moment. He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and dark running shoes. The muscularity of his lithe build struck her, then she was carried along the wave of ticketbuyers into the stadium.

  Had he really been looking at her, or was she just getting paranoid? She let out a deep breath. It was probably her clothes that made him stare. She hadn't exactly had time to try on the clothing she'd taken. The pants were short and tight across her behind and the pullover shirt was also short, leaving a couple of inches of her midriff peeking out. That was it. Her clothes. She was getting paranoid, picking out strangers in a crowd, thinking they were menacing her.

  Not that she didn't have a reason to be paranoid. After all, there were people after her. Now she just had to figure out why, and, more importantly, how.

  Spector was tired of waiting. His anonymous contact had said eleven-thirty, and it was already several minutes past that. Maybe they hadn't been satisfied with the way he'd handled Gruber. It wasn't his fault the idiot had pulled a gun. They couldn't have been stupid enough to think the bullets did it. He leaned against the statue of George M. Cohan and cracked his knuckles. He was aware of the bulge the Ingram was making in his coat. Most of the cops were in Jokertown, but the rest of the city had to be covered, too. It might be good to dump the gun, now that the Astronomer was off his tail. Then again, you never knew when an automatic pistol might come in handy.

  The crowd waiting in line for Broadway show tickets was smaller than usual. Spector had never been to one; they seemed stupid and overpriced. He used to come over from Jersey on New Year's Eve to watch the ball drop at midnight. It was one of the few times he felt like a part of something bigger than just him.

  The neon signs around the Square were washed out and dull during the day. If his connection didn't show up soon, he might pick up a whore for some fun. Seeing the tombstones rolled up in some cheap hooker's eyes would give him a few moments' relief from the pain. It wouldn't be great, like the girl in the subway, but it would be distraction. God, he had wanted to kill her. At least hurt her enough to get a reaction out of her. Better to just get drunk and watch the ball game on television, though. A low profile for the rest of the day was not an entirely bad idea.

  "Fuck it," he said, walking away from the statue. "Those Shadow Fist boys are going to have to do better than this."

  "Don't go away mad," said a deep, nasty voice from behind.

  Spector turned. There was a joker a few paces behind him, closing the distance with slow, measured strides. There was dried blood smeared on his shirt. He had a single eye set in the center of his forehead.

  "You're late."

  "It's been a busy morning. Had a little business to attend to down at the waterfront." The cyclops made a fist, showing his badly bruised knuckles. "You must be Spector."

  "Right. So tell me something."

  "It's like this." He looked over his shoulder. "The Gambiones are having dinner at the Haiphong Lily tonight. Family meeting, you know. The don is in the way. He has to be taken care of' That's where you come in."

  "Tonight, huh? What's the job pay?"

  "Five grand."

  Spector ran his tongue around his teeth, cleaning away more dried blood. He figured this punk had been given a ceiling amount by someone higher up and could keep the rest for himself. The joker didn't have the brains to snow a six-year-old. "No way. Do it yourself."

  "Okay, okay. Seven-five."

  "Ten, or get somebody else. We're not talking about an easy target here. This is the don you want iced." Spector took a step back and looked away. He wanted to push this guy hard, so the organization wouldn't take him for a fool.

  The joker put his hands on his hips. "You got it."

  "I'll want two of that right now." Spector extended his hand.

  "What? Right here? You've got to be kidding." He glanced around again, this time in melodramatic fashion.

  Spector had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. This moron needed acting lessons and the brains to use them. "They wouldn't send you here with just change in your pocket. Now pay up, or find me somebody who will." Spector liked leaning on the punk a little, watching him squirm.

  The cyclops pulled a thick brown envelope from his coat and shoved it in Spector's face. "Just to show we trust you." Spector tucked the envelope in his coat pocket and smiled. "I won't even count it. Yet. Now, what time is dinner fbr our friend the don?"

  "Around eight, so you'll need to get there a little before. You can eat pretty well, now," he said, tapping the envelope in Spector's pocket.

  "When do I get the rest?"

  "Tomorrow night. We'll let you know where." He leaned in close. His breath stank of decay. "By the way, if you happen to hear anything about some missing stockbooks, let me know"

  He pulled out a small spiral notebook and pen, then wrote a phone number on the top sheet. "You can reach me here for the next few hours," he said, tearing out the sheet and handing it to Spector "It's the Bowery Wild Card Dime Museum. I do security work there in my spare time."

  "You keep an eye on the place, right?"

  The cyclops ignored his joke. "Hey, you have to have a legit job for tax reasons. That's what the boss says. Looks suspicious otherwise."

  "Sure. Sure. What did you say your name was? Just in case?"

  "Eye."

  "And if I can't get hold of you?"

  "Call the Twisted Dragon. Ask for Danny Mao. Tell him you were born in the year of the fire horse. He'll take it from there."

  "How would you like to come with me tonight? Just so you'll be completely sure the contract was filled." Spector put his arm around the joker and walked him down the sidewalk.

  Eye shrugged him off. "Just do your fucking job. And keep your faggot hands off "

  "Pleasure doing business." Spector watched him walk away. There was time to hit a bar and watch the game befo
re he went to work. The Dodgers had better fucking win today or the don would have plenty of company.

  Chapter Seven

  12:00 Noon

  The Dodgers were taking batting practice when Jennifer found her seat in the bleachers. The late summer sun was soothing on her bare arms and face. She closed her eyes and listened to the friendly sounds of the stadium, the call of the vendors, the conversation of the fans, the unmistakable crack of bat hitting ball.

  She suddenly realized that it'd been two years since she'd been to a ball game, two years since her father had died. Her father had loved the Dodgers and he'd taken her to many games. She wasn't that big a fan herself, but she'd always been happy to accompany him. It was a good excuse to get out into the sunshine or the cool evening air.

  She remembered, in fact, the first Wild Card Day game her father had taken her to. It had been in 1969, the Dodgers against the Cardinals. The proud Dodger franchise had fallen on hard times in the mid-1960s, finishing at or near the bottom of the league for five straight years, but in 1969 the incomparable Pete Reiser, who had been in center field for the Dodgers that day in 1946 when the Wild Card virus had rained down from the sky, had come out of retirement to manage his old team. When Reiser played for the Dodgers they'd been a collection of glorious names. In 1969 they were a bunch of castoffs, never-has-beens, and untried rookies. Reiser, the center fielder nonpareil of the '40s and '50s, the man who had made the most hits, scored the most runs, and compiled the highest batting average in history, took a ragamuffin team that had finished last in 1968 and led them to first place with a miraculous combination of managerial insight and inspiration.

  Tom Seaver, Brooklyn's only bona fide star, had pitched on that day in 1969, and beat Bob Gibson, 2-0. The Dodgers' runs had come, she remembered, on solo home runs by the elderly third baseman, Ed "The Glider" Charles. That game had clinched the division flag for the Dodgers, and they went on to beat Milwaukee in the National League's first divisional playoffs, and then demolished the vaunted Baltimore Orioles in the World Series.

  Memories of the exultation of that day, when an entire city had roared a collective shout of glee, brought a smile to her face. It had been a rare moment, and, looking back, she wished that she'd been old enough to appreciate the absolute and pure joy, untainted by any other emotion or thought. She'd rarely experienced that feeling since, and never with tens of thousands of other people.