“Shhh.”
“Yellow really isn’t your color, my dear,” he said, responding quickly to her warning. One of their captors gave them a suspicious glance as he walked past, and Roulette said pettishly for his benefit, “I don’t need a commentary on taste from you. You’re the one who picked this cat-vomit yellow.”
The Chinese’s mouth spread in a wide grin that displayed a good deal of pink gum and a gold-capped tooth, and he passed into the kitchen alcove.
Tachyon cast her a rueful glance. “Cat vomit? I’d always thought it to be a particularly lovely shade of lemon.” Roulette laughed, and the alien gave her an approving look. “Good girl, we’ll get out of this yet.”
“What a team,” she replied dryly.
CHAPTER 12
5:00 p.m.
The dark current swept around his legs and the alligator welcomed it. The pulsing water had started to rise only a short time before; first just a film creeping across the rocky floor of the tunnel, then a succession of gradually higher waves. Now the water lapped around his belly, a quartet of small eddies tugging at his legs where the haunches creased into his armored sides.
The alligator’s tail swung back and forth ponderously, impatiently. He wanted the water to float him away from the hard floor and to give him the buoyancy he needed for true swimming. The water meant freedom.
But the level rose no further, and so the alligator plodded on. Various objects, chunks of a variety of substances, nudged against him. He nuzzled some of them with his snout before they were swept away in the current.
The scents were largely unpleasant. There was nothing there worth the devouring. Lumps of something soft batted against him and were gone.
He briefly detected meat, but it was carrion and he had no taste for that now. Instead of snapping up the ragged object, the alligator forged on. Something alive and delectable still lay ahead of him. He knew that, and, knowing it, forced his nearly insatiable hunger into abeyance.
Under his feet, through his ears and nostrils, through the very wave action of the current, he could feel the pulse of the city. Now it beat in time with his own body.
He ignored the slight pain in his belly. It was as nothing compared to his appetite.
Ahead and behind, the dark tunnel stretched on forever.
He had been trying to reach Tachyon for two hours now, and Hiram was growing concerned.
Everyone agreed that the little alien had left Jetboy’s Tomb soon after completing his speech, in the company of an attractive black woman. But where had they gone? His home phone did not answer, and down at the Jokertown clinic, Troll insisted he hadn’t seen the doctor all day. Tachyon was probably out somewhere drinking, but where? Hiram had called all of his usual haunts one after the other, had even tried Freakers and the Chaos Club and the Twisted Dragon on the off chance that the Takisian might have decided to drown his guilt on unfamiliar turf. No one had seen Tachyon since the early afternoon, when he left the ceremonies at the Tomb.
Fortunato might not have cared, but Hiram was growing concerned. Had the Astronomer already gotten to Tachyon? Was there another name to add to the list of the dead?
There was a tightness in the pit of his stomach that no amount of food would cure. Restless, uneasy, unhappy, Hiram Worchester got to his feet and strode out into his restaurant. The doors would be opening in less than two hours. Nearly every ace who counted would be arriving, and he devoutly hoped that Dr. Tachyon would be among them. By then, the worst would be over. Even the Astronomer was not insane enough to attack the kind of power that would be assembled at Aces High in two more hours.
Hiram strode to the long, curving bar. The wood gleamed, and the mirror was spotless and brilliant with reflected light. A quartet of bartenders in sky-blue shirts were tapping into fresh kegs of Guinness Stout, New Amsterdam, and Amstel Light. Modular Man was way down on the last stool, drinking a rusty nail. The android liked to experiment.
“I detect no sign of any hostile presence,” Mod Man said.
Hiram nodded absently. “Keep watching,” he said. He headed for the kitchen with long light strides, still thinking about Tachyon. He must be at home, nothing else made sense. But if he were home, why not answer his phone? Because he was dead, whispered some dark part of Hiram’s brain, and he could almost see the small alien lying on his carpet, blood seeping through his long red hair and staining his hideous clothing.
In the immense kitchen, the whirring of the great ceiling fans filled the room with a steady throbbing hum as they struggled with the heat from the ovens. Paul LeBarre was in a corner with his spices, mixing his own Cajun blackening powder for the tuna, and roaring his displeasure at anyone who tried to see what he was doing. Rows of potatoes Hiram covered a dozen long trays, cut and seasoned and ready for baking, and six fat suckling pigs were being dressed and prepared. Prep cooks were washing vegetables and slicing them with slim, sharp knives, and the pastry chef was fretting over a triple-chocolate sour-cream torte fresh from the oven. Hiram surveyed it all, tried a taste of the sour cherry sauce being prepared for the pork, exchanged a few words with his saucier, and escaped every bit as restless as when he’d entered.
What if Tachyon wasn’t dead yet? What if he were just dying? Someone needed to check on him. But Fortunato had warned Hiram not to leave, hadn’t he? If he went over to Tachyon’s apartment and the Astronomer attacked Aces High in his absence, and perhaps even killed someone, he would never be able to live with himself. But how could he live with himself if he stayed here and Dr. Tachyon died as a result?
Aces High occupied the entire floor, its dining areas terraced so all the customers might enjoy the magnificent views its altitude afforded in all directions. The kitchen, storage lockers, freezer, rest rooms, service elevator, and offices were in the center. Hiram made the grand circuit, supervising everything, nodding to his staff, his mind a long way off.
The temporary waiters were clustered around one of the tables, listening to his captain explain how things were done at Aces High. They looked a motley crew in their jeans and shoddy jackets and Dodger windbreakers, but once in tuxes and blue silk shirts, they’d look as good as his regulars. Elsewhere, linen carts were making the rounds as teams of busboys unfolded crisp clean tablecloths across the round banquet tables. Curtis was talking to the wine steward.
Off by a window he saw Water Lily, standing by herself and staring out at the gold reflections off the top of the Chrysler Building. She wore a floor-length blue satin gown that left her right shoulder bare. She looked very lovely and somehow sad. Hiram started toward her, but there was something in her eyes that made him hesitate to intrude on her. He paused a moment, then turned and left.
Peter Chou had a small office next to Hiram’s, in the center of the floor, but instead of one television screen in the wall, he had a dozen. Hiram entered without knocking. “Are we secure?” he asked.
Peter looked at him with cool brown eyes. “I’ve added a few men,” he said. “No one will get in without us noticing, believe me.” He gestured at the screens. “The monitors are all working, and so is the metal detector in the main door. I’ll have six men on the floor instead of three. We’re as secure as we’re going to get, at least against human beings.”
“Excellent. I have to go out for a little while. I’ll try to be back as quickly as possible, but it may take longer than I anticipate. Wait till I’ve left, then bring Modular Man and Water Lily into your office. Explain our security system to them. Explain the system in great detail. Keep them in here, with you, together, for as long as possible, preferably until I return.”
Chou nodded.
Hiram went to the foyer, pressed the elevator button, rocked back on his heel for a moment, then pressed the button again, as if that would make the elevator come more quickly. When the doors finally opened, he rushed to board, and almost slammed into Popinjay getting out.
“You!” Hiram exclaimed. “Excellent, just the man I hoped to see. Come with me, we’re going to see Dr.
Tachyon.”
Ackroyd stepped back inside the elevator. Hiram pushed for the lobby, and they began their descent. “How did it go with Gills?” Hiram asked.
“Not real good,” Popinjay said. “By the time I talked Gills around, Bludgeon was out again. He’s got good lawyers. I think they’re going to sue me.” His mouth twisted in a half-smile. “You too, probably. Gills was afraid to go home. I popped him back to my sister’s place, he ought to be safe there, and we’ll know where to find him if we need him.”
“Damnation! Can’t we get rid of even one of the bad guys? I don’t know what this city is coming to!”
Ackroyd shrugged. “Why are we visiting Tachyon?”
Hiram gave him a glum look. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that he might be dead.”
Bagabond leaned forward, away from the brick wall of the alley. She steadied herself with a dumpster. The alley smelled of recent garbage. Rosemary was looking around a bit apprehensively. “Relax. We’re alone.”
“You don’t get to read all the crime reports I do,” Rosemary said. “You haven’t seen the photos detectives snap in places like this. You haven’t had to go to the morgue to check out—”
“Quiet,” said Bagabond.
“Get him?”
“He’s uptown from us, and a ways to the east. I’d guess about Stuyvesant Square. Underground, of course.”
“I don’t think anyone would even notice today,” Rosemary said. “Does he still have the books?”
“As far as I can tell. He doesn’t really remember or notice what’s in his gut. It’s the absence that makes the difference. But there’s no reason the packet shouldn’t still be there.”
Rosemary took a step toward the mouth of the alley. “It’s quite a ways, especially today. We’d better get started if we’re going to make it back to the Haiphong Lily by eight.” She smiled ruefully at Bagabond. “Then I’ll figure out what I’m going to do.”
Bagabond frowned. “Jack’s still moving, but so slowly we can connect with him easily. We should take the subway. Cabs’ll be a mess.” She saw Rosemary tense, but didn’t comment. Then she grinned. “I’ve never known an animal to be so constantly hungry as that alligator. I just hope he doesn’t connect with us.”
Rosemary’s eyebrows rose.
“He’s too worried about his niece for that,” Bagabond said. “He just doesn’t know it on the surface level of that reptile brain.” She shook her head, thinking about appetites, and led the way out of the alley and into the loud, holiday crowds.
They entered the chaos of chants, exotic food carts, screams, and rock ’n’ roll.
“The book’sss not here, Tachy. Where isss the book?” The explosive silibants indicated the joker’s fast-vanishing patience.
“Almost a thousand books, and they can’t find one that suits them. I call it churlish, and a reflection upon my taste.”
“Or theirs,” offered Roulette.
Tachyon snapped his head back to face Snake-face, the sudden gesture forestalling the blow. “I don’t know about this ephemeral book. You say it was given to me. No one has given me a book this day. I have spent the past six hours in this lady’s company. Did anyone give me a book?”
“No.”
“You’ve got it.” The tongue once more played across the alien’s face and down his chest. “I tasted it on her, and if I have to take the nigger apart to get it, I will.” A blunt forefinger tipped with a fantastically thick and sharp nail drove into her shoulder, and Roulette stifled a cry. What was coming was going to be a lot worse than a finger jabbing into a numb, aching shoulder, and she’d better be prepared.
“All right, I’ll be reasonable. The book isn’t here. I put it in a safe place.”
“And you’re going to take usss there.”
“Yes, but you have to let her go.”
“No, I think ssshe’ll come along.”
“Then, no book.”
“Then, I redesign her face.”
The doorbell rang.
There was a sudden shifting of their captors. Guns touched reassuringly, Tommy starting for the door then dropping back, Snaky jumping for Tachyon, but the alien had also seen the possibilities, and sang out, “Yes, one moment please.”
“Fuck you, I ought to break your ssscrawny neck,” hissed the joker, his hand closing around the doctor’s throat.
“Better let him answer the door instead,” whispered Roulette since Tachyon’s face was suffusing with blood, and he didn’t seem capable of answering for himself. “Otherwise they’ll know something’s wrong, and come back with help.”
“We’ll wait it out. It may be the paperboy, or the Mormonssss.”
But it was neither. A man’s voice, deep, bass, cultured, but bearing a thread of strain and agitation, called, “Tach? I must speak with you. Is everything all right?”
“Tell him yesss.”
“Yesss,” Tachyon obligingly mimicked, then coughed trying to ease the soreness in his throat.
“Who isss thisss man?”
“Hiram Worchester.”
“Okay, you can answer the door, but get rid of him fasst.”
“Better clean his face,” Roulette offered in the same flat tone she’d maintained since the beginning of this nightmare. She was both pleased and bemused by her control. Inwardly she was a shrieking mess.
“Do it.”
A handkerchief was thrust at her, while Tommy untied her. Within seconds the tips of her fingers began to burn as the blood flowed back into her hands.
“Tach?”
“Coming,” he replied as Roulette dipped the cloth into the vase on the coffee table and quickly began wiping away the worst of the gore from his face.
“The right side’s not too bad,” she whispered. “But don’t let him see that shiner.” The left eye was so badly damaged that it had swollen completely shut.
“I’ll be careful,” he said in a carefully neutral tone, but his right eye seemed feverishly bright, the gaze intent. She again felt that cloud kiss about the edges of her mind. And she understood, or least hoped or thought she understood. This might be their chance. She gave his hand a quick squeeze and was rewarded by a flash of that sweet smile, somewhat marred now by the split and swollen lip.
Two of their captors took up a position on the wall beside the door, one behind and slightly to the left of Tachyon, gun pressed into the alien’s kidneys. Tommy laid a hand on Roulette’s right shoulder. The reptilian joker indicated the kitchen with a jerk of the head, and wasp flitted away. The droning of his wings lessened in intensity. Tachyon barely cracked the door, peeped out.
“Hiram.”
“What on earth took you so long?”
“I’m entertaining.” A subtle stress on the final word.
“You unplugged your phone. We’ve been trying to get in touch with you for hours.”
The joker laid a hand over Tachyon’s, trying to force the door shut, but Tachyon threw himself backward, pulling it open. The alien went sprawling, and the portly and impeccably dressed Hiram came willy-nilly into the room.
“Hey,” said a second man as he stepped through the door, then snapped his mouth shut as a gun was thrust into his side. Snake-face quietly closed the door.
“Good God, Tachyon, what is all this?”
“What does it look like, Hiram?” He scrambled to his feet, and sent a sour look about the room.
Two of the Chinese moved in, and briskly searched the newcomers.
“They’re clean.”
“What do we do now?” whined Tommy.
“Ssshut up.”
The smaller man gave a golliwog’s grin, thrust a hand into his pocket, and pointed with his forefinger. “Okay! Everybody freeze, I’ve got you covered.”
Even Tachyon looked disgusted, and someone said, “Fuck off, asshole, I just frisked you down.”
The man shrugged, removed his hand, studied the finger for a long moment, then pointed it at the joker and said “Pop!” Snake-face vanished.
> Two of the Chinese clutched their heads, and collapsed with a sigh. “Hiram, look out!” bellowed Tachyon.
The big man hesitated for an instant, then belly-flopped between sofa and coffee table as Tommy let go with his .45 right next to Roulette’s ear. There was an earsplitting boom, and the delicate bowl on the coffee table shattered, sending a cascade of water and blossoms across Hiram’s back, and leaving a single gardenia perched forlornly on the curve of his ample rump.
At Tachyon’s yell Hiram’s companion stepped backward, opened the door, and vanished into the hall. The Chinese immediately behind the alien raised his gun, then formed a snoring puddle on the floor.
Tachyon pivoted to face Tommy. It was a face-off, Tachyon’s power versus the jerk of a finger on a trigger. Which would be faster? Roulette seized the empty chair beside her, and slammed it into Tommy’s shins. He howled, dropped the gun, and went for her, arms outstretched like a drunk trying to embrace an elusive lover. Roulette danced back, poking at him with the chair.
There was a buzz like a thousand angry bees, and Wasp came blitzing out of the kitchen. Hiram, heaving off the floor like a breaching whale, tightened his fist, and the joker slammed into the floor, wings folding like an origami figure.
Tommy grasped a leg of the chair, and for an instant they played tug-of-war as Roulette tried to keep a grip on her inadequate defense. His free hand groped at his back, and he pulled free a knife. Roulette abandoned her defense of the chair, and ran, screaming. He caught her by the hair, and swung her across his body. She never knew whether he meant to use her as a hostage, or to kill her out of hand, for suddenly his face went slack, and he let out a loud “Ooof.” The arm across her chest felt like a steel girder, and they both collapsed in a heap. She struggled free though it felt like he weighed several tons. This was more than her overset nerves could stand. The screams that had been tearing at her throat subsided into hysterical laughter, and de-generated from there into hiccuping sobs.
Wild Cards III: Jokers Wild Page 22