Jokers Wild wc-3

by George R. R. Martin

  Now, Jennifer thought, if she could only orient herself, she'd get the hell out. The only problem was, she'd never been in the bowels of Ebbets Field before, and she had no idea where she was.

  There was a double door at one end of the corridor. In the opposite direction the corridor branched. She had to go one way or the other, and Jennifer chose the doors. Unfortunately they were blank, with no windows set in them.

  Well, she thought, if anyone questioned her she'd simply say she'd gotten lost. Although why she was wearing only a bikini might be hard to explain.

  She took a deep breath, let it out noisily, and pushed the doors open. She took a step into a large, well-lit, richly carpeted room, and froze. The murmur of a dozen conversations gradually died down as all eyes in the room turned toward her. I don't believe it, she told herself. She closed her eyes, but when she opened them a moment later everyone was still there, staring. I don't believe I just walked into the Dodgers' locker room.

  Twenty men were in the room. Some were playing cards in small groups, some were talking. Hernandez, the first baseman, was sitting by his locker doing his customary pregame crossword puzzle. Pete Reiser himself; sixtyish, gray-haired but still lean and arrow straight, was standing in front of Seaver's locker, talking with the pitcher and the Dodgers' Cuban pitching coach, Fidel Castro. Some of the players still had their practice jerseys on, some had started to change to their game uniforms. Some hadn't gotten very far in the change.

  Jennifer, feeling the pressure of all those eyes on her, felt she should say something, but when she opened her mouth no words would come.

  "Uh…" She tried again. "Uh… good luck today."

  A small metallic snuff box slipped out of the hand of Thurman Munson, veteran Dodger catcher and team captain, and the sudden sound it made as it clattered against the stool in front of his locker broke the spell that seemed to hold everyone.

  A dozen players spoke at once, from Reiser's strident, "How the hell did you get in here?" to half a dozen variations on, "Jeez, nice body" and "Great outfit."

  Jennifer, mortified, forgot her earlier worries and ghosted through the nearest wall into a small room with a drug cabinet, a couple of empty padded tables, a bunch of incomprehensible machines, and a dripping Dwight Gooden climbing naked out of the whirlpool.

  "Hey!" he said as she went by.

  "Great game yesterday," Jennifer said, smiling weakly. He slid back into the whirlpool, ducking down so the water came up to his chin, and stared in disbelief as she passed though the wall next to the whirlpool.

  Great body, too, Jennifer told herself, sneaking a final peek before she vanished.

  As a capo working for Rosemary's father, Don Carlo Gambione, Don Frederico "the Butcher" Macellaio had once ordered Bagabond's death. Bagabond had not forgotten.

  Standing beside an oak in a nearly deserted Central Park, she started toward Central Park West and was glad most of New York appeared to be down at Jetboy's Tomb. She felt conspicuous in the brown tweed business suit and high heels she'd scavenged from one of her subterranean stashes. But this way none of the normal denizens of the park could possibly recognize her. A few of the street people had seen too much over the years; it was best to be… discreet. She slid her aching left foot out of the shoe and stood, weight on her right leg, as she watched Don Frederico exit his exclusive apartment building. The sheltering canopy said The Luxor. Dressed in an expensively tailored black suit, the Butcher crossed the sidewalk to a white Cadillac stretch limousine.

  He was flanked by two guards in dark glasses and unbuttoned suit jackets. Getting into the car, Don Frederico snatched the door out of his chauffeur's hand and slammed it. The driver paused for a fraction of a second before turning sharply around and getting into the car. One of the guards got into the front seat beside the driver, while the other appeared to scan the sidewalk and Central Park West in both directions.

  The limousine pulled out and crossed against horn-blowing traffic to enter the park at the West Drive. With disbelief, Rosemary had once told her about the don's habits. It was al ways the same route. The don was either very stupid or very self-assured. A show of power. Knowing the limo would drive across the Transverse, then exit onto 65th and cruise past Temple Emanu-El to the Butcher's favorite restaurant, Aronica's, Bagabond walked at an oblique angle through the park. She mentally summoned a flock of pigeons and nearly a hundred squirrels. They waited at the stone bridge near the middle of the drive.

  As Bagabond walked across the park to meet them, a large gray cat, one of the black's and calico's offspring, dropped out of a lightning-warped maple tree to block her path.

  The gray was one of the few kittens at least as intelligent as his parents. He had refused to join Bagabond's group of animals when he understood how Bagabond used the creatures to her advantage, sometimes without caring about the effect on the animals' lives. The gray had chosen to live apart in a section of Central Park Bagabond used only infrequently. He resented her presence.

  Now Bagabond told him she would not be there long. The cat imaged dead bodies scattered across the landscape. Bagabond stiflened and told him to leave her. He turned and trotted a few yards away, before he turned and spat at her. She reached out with her mind to attack, but stopped before she burned out his brain. The gray disappeared into a stand of maples. Clenching her fists, Bagabond stood watching the cat.

  Then she was abruptly aware of the progress of the don's car. A peregrine, escaped from a would-be urban falconer, was Bagabond's eye, following the Butcher's car as it cruised through the park. There were no colors, but the perception of movement caught her consciousness as the falcons eyes roamed across the park. She brought him gliding back around to follow the Butcher's car. According to Rosemary's file, Don Frederico Macellaio used this daily drive to order the deaths of his opponents from his armored, surveillance-proof car. Bagabond leaned back against a broad tree trunk, kicked off her shoes, and concentrated on directing her animals.

  As she began the mental routine of organizing and directing the birds and animals she had summoned, Bagabond realized that the gray was hiding among the maples and observing her. She warned him off, but he responded with an image of himself marking the trees to show his territory. She ignored him as the don's car drew closer to the spot she had chosen.

  She found she was nervous at the cars approach. The gray had broken her concentration. He had a gift for making her think in ways she normally avoided. The Butcher was Rosemary's enemy as well as her own. She had learned from the animals themselves to kill or be killed. The Butcher was a threat that had to be removed. Besides, it would please Rosemary. It was obvious to Bagabond that Rosemary was too worried about too many things. Her concern with the Gambiones had become consuming. With a new don, she could relax and spend more time with Bagabond. Bagabond wanted that enough to disturb the rhythms and lives of her creatures. To kill them.

  She closed the gray out of her mind and sent pain down the connection joining them. The gray yowled as she felt the energy hit him.

  The part of her mind that was organizing the birds had completed that task. The flocks of pigeons temporarily roosted in the trees around the bridge. For an instant, there was an unnatural stillness.

  Breaking out of the trees, gleaming as the sun hit the finish, the limousine proceeded around the corner on its stately way. The mirrored windshield reflected the tree branches overhead.

  A lone pigeon wheeled free of the flock and, at Bagabond's command, sent itself soaring high into the sky. Then it hurled itself down at the limousine's windshield as though intending to land on one of the phantom trees. Blood splattered the white paint of the hood. The driver braked and seemed to hesitate for an instant before continuing.

  Bagabond watched the scene in fragments seen through the eyes of the hawk now behind the car and the pigeons above and before the limousine. Her own eyes were wide and staring, but the other visions overwhelmed her human sight. She damped the pain of the pigeon in the same way she removed
from her consciousness the constant deaths she normally experienced.

  Overhead, a hundred birds stopped cooing as she took them over completely. The avian wave swept down toward the car, covering it in a cloak of blood and feathers. The limousine's brakes shrieked as the driver attempted a panic-stop before his blindness wrecked the car.

  Keeping more of the pigeons in reserve, Bagabond shifted her attention to the hordes of squirrels gathered in the lower branches of the oaks and maples lining the road. As she directed a battalion of squirrels toward the swerving car, pain careened across her own mind. Her first thought was that either the black or the calico was in trouble. But tracing their individual patterns within her awareness of the city's wild ones told her that the cats were well. The gray. He deliberately was inflicting pain on himself, trying to destroy her concentration. Bagabond reprimanded him mentally, sending waves of emotional chill, stunning his rebellion.

  Only a few seconds had passed. But the driver was close to regaining control when the roadway become a moving carpet of squirrels. The driver had accelerated to escape the birds. Bagabond sent the animals under the wheels of the car. The shrieks of the dying squirrels mixed with the sound of abused brakes. The heavy car's momentum carried it across the massed rodents. Their blood greased the road and the limousine skidded sideways. Now the doors and side panels were streaked and spattered with blood.

  Bagabond's head snapped to the side as feedback from the gray flooded her mind. This time he was not satisfied with distraction; now he tried to disperse the animals, using Baga bond as a focus. Her anger streamed out, knocking him unconscious. She might have killed him, but her attention was needed at the bridge.

  The driver had overcorrected for the skid and sent the car into a spin. The right wheels struck the low guardrail, bending it out. The mass of the car's armor-plate sent it crashing through the retaining wall and over the side. Streaks of white paint remained on the metal and concrete. One wheel cover was slung free. It preceded the limousine over the edge, skimming slowly through the air like a Frisbee. The automobile wasn't so fortunate.

  Time, for Bagabond, seemed to stop as she watched the car roll over in the air. One part of her was ending the lives of the birds and squirrels injured in the attack. Another part considered the murder and wondered if it was worth the cost to help a friend and take revenge.

  The vehicle plunged to the jogging path. It landed hard on the concrete trail, crushing the roof of the passenger compartment flush with the body. The car rocked to a halt and burst into a whuffing ball of flame.

  Sacrificing a few animals to feed others had been nothing compared to this carnage she saw as she looked around at the bridge. Bodies were scattered everywhere. She felt a pain she had not experienced since first learning to distance the lives of her animals from her own. Maybe the gray had been right to attempt to stop her. The side of her mind she considered human was happy for her success, eager to find out Rosemary's reaction. The animal side wanted to reject what she had done.

  Abruptly, Bagabond realized that the remaining creatures waited patiently for her instructions. The dark cloud of pigeons rose into the sky and dispersed in all directions. No one saw the undulating mass of squirrels break apart and run for the wooded sections of the park. Bagabond was already hidden by the trees and walking toward the subway entrance at Columbus Circle.

  Before she could cross 59th Street, the recovered gray confronted her with the image of what she had done, an image that changed into a picture of her lying bloody and broken on the ground.

  Bagabond paused, staggered by the final realization of what she had done. This was not an occasional sacrifice for food or her own protection. She had used the animals she had al ways protected, in her own war, to achieve a goal that had meaning only to her. She had betrayed a trust she had held since she came back from the hospital. Bagabond felt sick. It was not the gray's doing. She hoped Rosemary was worth it.

  Rosemary waited, if unknowingly. Before checking in with her, Bagabond would go by Jack's home to check for messages about his missing niece, Cordelia. Maybe now there would be time to help him.

  Bagabond walked down the steps into the subway station and used one of the tokens the raccoon had proved so adept at stealing. Taking the Number 1 local downtown, she ignored the admiring glances she attracted from her male fellow passengers.

  Chapter Eight

  1:00 p.m.

  The street was still crowded with late-arriving fans, souvenir sellers, and ticket scalpers. Somehow Jennifer managed to slip through the outer wall of the stadium without anyone noticing, but on the street she attracted a fair amount of attention. Heads turned and wolf whistles followed her down the street, but she barely noticed. She moved quickly, watching out for the men who had tried to grab her in the Happy Hocker and the man who had followed her into the stadium, but none of them seemed to be around. She spotted an empty taxi, flagged it down and told the driver, "Manhattan."

  She settled down to think as the taxi carried her back to more familiar territory. Events around her were moving with incomprehensible speed and violence. Kien must really want his stamps back, she thought. Unless it was the other book… She glanced at her purse, a small leather bag closed by a simple drawstring. It had the stolen books and a few dollars she carried for emergencies like this, but nothing else. No wallet, no identification. The whole thing was going sour. Feeling eyes upon her, she looked up into the mirror and caught the cab driver staring at her. He looked away and Jennifer tried to sink further back into the stained and worn upholstery of the cab's back seat. She had to find some decent clothes somewhere. As it was she looked as if she were dressed for a Rio de Janeiro carnival.

  Maybe, she thought, she'd better call it all off and return the books. They'd already cost Gruber his life-though for the life of her she couldn't figure out who had killed him-and given her a few too many close brushes with violence.

  She'd have to contact Kien. That'd be easy, but the details of the exchange might be tricky to work out. Also, she didn't want to come out of this thing entirely empty-handed.

  She looked out the window of the cab pensively, and, struck by sudden inspiration, called out, "Stop, stop right here!"

  The driver took her at her word and slammed on the brakes, bringing the taxi to a screeching halt. She could hear tires squeal behind them as she leaped out and tossed some crumpled bills onto the front seat.

  "Thanks," she said breathlessly, and turned and ran up the street.

  "My pleasure," the cabbie said with a bemused expression, watching her bikini-clad form with appreciation as she ran up to the front of the Famous Bowery Wild Card Dime Museum.

  "Jack! Jack, it is you, am I not right?"

  A familiar voice, any familiar voice in the Village's circus atmosphere today was a shock. Jack turned and saw a handsome man, half a head taller than he, looking down at him.

  "Hello, Jean-Jacques," Jack said. Jean-Jacques had arrived from Senegal six years ago. He worked part of the time as a waiter at the Simba on Sixth Avenue at Eighth, and the rest of the time as a tutor for foreign students learning English at the New School. Jack had never seen a man with more striking features. "Listen," he said to the other. "I need some help." He took out Cordelia's snapshot.

  Jean-Jacques nodded, but seemed distracted. "Anything, my friend. Anything at all."

  Jack knew there was something wrong. "What is it?"

  "Nothing to be of concern." Jean-Jacques looked away toward the pedestrians moving briskly past them. The early afternoon sun shone on his skin so that the deep black shone almost blue.

  "I doubt that." Jack put a hand on the man's shoulder, conscious of the warm vitality radiating through the bright pattern. "Tell me."

  Jean-Jacques looked back at Jack, his penetrating gaze meeting Jack's eyes. "It is the retrovirus," he said. "It is the killer. I have just been to see my doctor. The diagnosis was unfortunately positive." He sighed. "Quite positive."

  "Retrovirus?" said Jack. "Y
ou mean the wild card-"

  "No." Jean-Jacques interrupted him. "The surer killer." The word seemed to stick in his throat. "AIDS."

  "Mother of Jesus," said Jack. "I am sorry." He started closer to Jean-Jacques, caught himself for just a second, then went ahead and embraced the man. "I'm very sorry."

  Jean-Jacques gently pushed Jack away. "I understand," he said simply. "You are not the first I have told. Already they are treating me like one of the damnable jokers." He shut his eyes sadly, then opened them and said, "Don't worry, old friend. You are all right. I know who it was." He shut his eyes again. "And I know when it was." His head began to shake slightly and Jack again embraced him. This time, Jean-Jacques did not push him immediately away.

  "I think you are on a mission," Jean-Jacques said. "Tell me what you are seeking, and if I can help, I shall."

  Jack hesitated, then told him about Cordelia. The Senegalese inspected the photograph. "A very beautiful young lady." He glanced at Jack. "You share the same eyes." Then he handed back the picture. "Go," he said. "Continue your search. As I said, if I observe anything that could be of use to you, I will let you know."

  There was nothing more to say, but Jack remained there beside Jean-Jacques.

  "Go," Jean-Jacques repeated. He smiled slightly. "Good fortune." Then he turned on his heel and was gone.

  "This is your important stop?" Roulette asked, eyeing the decaying wall of a riverfront warehouse. Tachyon had dismissed Riggs several blocks away, and a brisk sweat-raising walk had ended here.

  He glanced back over his shoulder as his slender hands opened the large shiny padlock. His expression was one of suppressed excitement and mischief, rather like a little boy about to show off his collection of tadpoles. And she suddenly realized that he was very young. Because of mutation and their obsession with the life sciences, the Takisian life span was vastly longer than the human. Tachyon at eighty-something was a graybeard by Earth standards, but only verging on manhood by Takisian norms. It explained a lot.