Wild Cards III: Jokers Wild

by George R. R. Martin

  Jennifer heard the sound of a soft footstep behind her, and whirled around, an image of Wyrm and the memory of his tongue rasping her skin leaping into her mind. She relaxed when she saw that it wasn’t the reptilian joker creeping up behind her, but just a girl who was as startled by Jennifer’s sudden movement as Jennifer had been by her quiet approach.

  “I-I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She was a tall, slender, very beautiful teenager with very black, very glossy hair, and dark brown eyes. She wore worn jeans and a faded sweatshirt with the name of the rock band Ferric Jagger imprinted upon it in washed-out letters. She wore no makeup and only a single piece of jewelry, a silver ear stud in the shape of an alligator. The gator’s eyes were small green gems. Her voice was soft and melodic and had a pleasingly exotic drawl to it that Jennifer had never heard before. She was carrying an old suitcase covered in faded floral-print cloth.

  “That’s all right,” Jennifer said, smiling reassuringly. “I’m just a little jumpy.”

  “I’ve been watching you for a while,” the teenager said in her elusive accents, “and noticed that, um, maybe you could use a sweater or, um, something else, it being so chilly in here and all.” She stopped, smiled shyly, and then added quickly, as if afraid she’d offended Jennifer, “Unless you want to dress, that is, have a reason for wearing that swimming suit to church.”

  Jennifer smiled again, touched by the girl’s offer. She was obviously new in town, probably very new in town, maybe even a runaway or in some kind of trouble. Yet she was considerate enough to approach Jennifer and offer help.

  “That’d be very kind,” Jennifer said, “if it wouldn’t put you out too much.”

  The girl shook her head, set her suitcase on the flagstone paving of the floor, and opened it.

  “Wouldn’t put me out at all,” she said, rummaging through her bag. “Here, try this.”

  It was a large, faded sweatshirt that said TULANE in worn letters. Jennifer slipped it on and smiled at the girl gratefully.

  “Thanks.” She hesitated a moment, then went on. “My name is Jennifer. I’ve got . . . some things . . . to take care of right now, but later, if you need something, a place to sleep or something—”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “So can I,” Jennifer pointed out, hoping it was true, “but it’s nice to have someone to rely on, every now and then.”

  The girl nodded, returning Jennifer’s smile, and Jennifer gave her her phone number as the young altar boy with tousled blond hair, a cherubic face, and a joker deformity hidden under his distorted cassock approached them with slow and lurching steps.

  “Father Squid would like to see you,” he told Jennifer.

  Jennifer nodded, and turned back to the girl. “What’s your name?”

  “Cordelia.”

  “Thanks for the sweatshirt, Cordelia. Be sure to give me a call.”

  Cordelia nodded and Jennifer followed the boy into the private rooms in the back that had been set aside for the priest to prepare for mass and conduct church business.

  He led her to a small, sparsely furnished, unpretentious little room. Father Squid was sitting in a huge old chair behind a cluttered desk. He watched Jennifer unblinkingly as she entered, as did the man who sat in the plain wooden chair in front of the priest’s desk.

  “I have discovered from a reliable source that this man has been searching for you for some time. You have something he wants. In return he offers you his protection.” Father Squid rose ponderously to his feet. “I have it on good authority that you can trust him explicitly. I don’t know his name, but his nom de guerre is Yeoman.”

  It was the man she had first seen in the stadium, the man who had later, perhaps inadvertently, rescued her from Wyrm. He wore the same clothes and hood. A flat rectangular case was on the floor by his feet. There was speculation in his dark eyes as he gazed steadily at Jennifer.

  Father Squid watched them watch each other, then edged around his desk carefully.

  “You two doubtless have much of mutual interest to discuss and there is work for me to accomplish as well, so I shall leave you.” He gave Jennifer a long, kindly look. “Good luck, my child. Perhaps one day you will come to visit us again.”

  “I shall, Father.”

  He nodded once at the man he called Yeoman and left the room with ponderous dignity, closing the door behind himself. Jennifer decided that if she didn’t have to return the stamps to Kien that the father would find a sizable donation in his poor box. She owed him that much, even if his attempt to help her didn’t fully work out.

  Jennifer felt Yeoman’s eyes on her and she turned and met the weight of their steady gaze.

  “Kien’s diary,” he said. His voice was low and powerful. Jennifer sensed a quivering tenseness about him, as if he was barely holding himself in check. “Do you have it?”

  So that’s what the third book was. A diary. She opened her mouth, then shut it, wondering if she could afford to tell him the truth.

  Yeoman’s intensity frightened Jennifer a little, but the fear combined with her hunger and weariness and resentfulness at being pushed around all day made her answer back in a hard voice that surprised even her, “I know what you look like, so you might as well take off that mask. I don’t like talking to people who look like they have something to hide.”

  The man sat back in his chair and scowled. “I’ll keep it on for now.”

  His features, as Jennifer remembered, were sharp and harsh, with frown lines on his forehead and around his mouth, and there was a vibrating tenseness about him that his mask couldn’t conceal.

  “You’re called Wraith?” he asked unexpectedly. Jennifer nodded. “You’re a thief. A good one, from what I’ve heard. You broke into the apartment of a man named Kien early this morning and removed some valuable items from a wall safe.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “A crystal lady told me,” he said, looking a little pleased by Jennifer’s look of irritated incomprehension. “A lot of people are looking for you, you know. They want the things you stole.”

  “Well,” Jennifer said noncommittally, “the stamps are very valuable.”

  Yeoman leaned forward in his chair and rested his chin in the palm of a large, strong-looking hand. He stared at her intently. Jennifer looked back defiantly, until he sighed and spoke again.

  “You really don’t know, do you?” She shook her head, trying to hide a rising excitement. Yeoman evidently knew the answers to some of her most pressing questions. “To hell with the stamps. No one gives a damn about them Everyone’s after the other book you took, Kien’s personal diary. It details all the corruption and rot he’s had his filthy hands in since he’s come to New York.”

  “I thought he was a businessman. Owns restaurants and laundromats and things.”

  “He does,” Yeoman said, “but only as a masquerade, and to explain his wealth. He’s into everything that’s dirty—drugs, prostitution, protection, gambling. He’s into it all. The information contained in that diary would probably put him away for a very long time.”

  “Are you trying to recover it for him?”

  Yeoman’s lips were pressed into a hard, tight line. Knots of muscle jumped in his jaw. “No.” The word that escaped from between his clenched lips was hard, flat, and cold enough to make Jennifer suppress a shiver.

  “And you don’t care about the stamps?”

  He shook his head. His eyes had captured hers. She felt as if she were a sparrow held in the grip of a massive, now calm, but potentially destructive giant. It was a frightening yet somehow exhilarating feeling.

  “Okayyy,” she said slowly. “You don’t care about the stamps. I don’t care about this diary. I think that we can come to an understanding.”

  Yeoman smiled and again Jennifer suppressed a shiver.

  “Then you do have it.”

  “Well, I know where it is.” She fell silent for a moment, considering. She di
dn’t know this Yeoman from Adam. She knew that he was behind the recent spate of bow and arrow killings, since notes signed Yeoman had been scrawled on many of the crime scenes. Father Squid said he could be trusted, but then she didn’t know Father Squid, either. He waited patiently as this all ran through her mind, as if aware that she was trying to resolve an internal dilemma. He wasn’t acting like a murderous maniac. He was manifestly a dangerous man, but the dangerous aura that hung about him was like a spice, an alluring scent. A sudden resolve struck her, sparked by an equally strong impulse.

  “I’ll tell you where the book is,” she said, “if you answer two questions.”

  “What?” There was genuine puzzlement on Yeoman’s face and in his voice.

  “How’d you trace me to Ebbets Field?”

  “Simple.” He grinned wolfishly. “Your fence turned you in. He heard the word that Kien had put out on the streets about the books, but he didn’t know how to contact Kien directly. He had to go through a third party, an information broker who’s a . . . friend . . . of mine. She put him in touch with Kien, but she also told me about it. I got to his shop just in time to see you leave one of the stores next to the pawnshop, go down the street and join the ticket line in front of the ballpark. I just followed you inside.”

  “That makes sense . . . I guess. Now, my second question.” She smiled sweetly. “What’s your name?”

  Jennifer herself barely understood why she asked him that, knowing only that she wanted them to interact on a personal level, not as anonymous masked figures.

  He drew back in his chair, frowned at her. “I could make you tell me where the diary is.”

  Jennifer pulled the sweatshirt more tightly around her. Her throat was suddenly dry with the realization that she was reading in dangerous, potentially fatal waters.

  “I know you could,” she said in a small voice. “But you wouldn’t.”

  “What in the world makes you say that?”

  She shrugged slim shoulders. “I just know you wouldn’t.”

  He stared at her a moment longer, but she wouldn’t drop her gaze. He growled something inarticulate like an irate bear, and then said in an angry voice, “Brennan.”

  Jennifer nodded, obscurely relieved that she had been correct. Not that she had really been in danger. Her powers had certainly rejuvenated by now, and if he had attacked her all he would have had to do was ghost.

  “Good,” she said. “The books are with Dr. Tachyon.”

  “Tachyon?” Brennan asked in obvious astonishment.

  “Actually,” she smiled, “in his wax figure in the Bowery Dime Museum.”

  “Not a bad hiding place,” Brennan said after a moment of reflection. “Kien’s men are still looking for you—once Wyrm tastes a scent he can follow it anywhere, as long as traces of it remain on his tongue—so I’ll take you to a safe place and then go after the books. I’ll keep the diary, you can have the others.”

  “I’ll go with you—”

  “No.” The word was as hard and sharp as the edge of a guillotine blade. Jennifer knew there’d be no arguing with him about this.

  “Well, if you’re going to take me someplace, make it a place with food. I feel like I haven’t eaten in a week.”

  Brennan thought for a moment, then nodded. He reached into a back pocket of his jeans and took out a playing card, an ace of spades, borrowed a pen from Father Squid’s desk, and scrawled a note on the face of the card. He put the pen back and passed the card to Jennifer.

  “Hiram Worchester is throwing an aces-only party in his restaurant, Aces High. You should be safe there and there’ll also be plenty to eat. You’ve heard of Fortunato?” Jennifer nodded. “Give this to him.”

  Jennifer glanced at the note he’d written on the card. It was short and to the point: Watch over her. Y. She looked up at Brennan, respect in her eyes. She’d heard a little about the shadowy ace, Fortunato. Not much, as he wasn’t one to seek publicity, but the fact that Brennan was on personal terms with him was an interesting development. She wondered if he were an ace himself, and what ability the virus had given him.

  “Or Tachyon, if Fortunato’s not there. Whatever you do, though, stay away from Captain Trips—the tall, skinny hippie—and the dancer known as Fantasy. I’m not sure about them. Not sure at all.”

  She pondered his advice for a moment, then nodded. If she was to trust him, she’d trust him all the way.

  “I don’t want to be a bother, but could we stop for some clothes? I’d hate to go to Aces High dressed like this.”

  “The father told me about the state of your, um, dress.” He reached down into the case on the floor by his feet and took out a bundle of clothes. “I hope they fit.” He looked at her critically. “You’re taller than I first thought.”

  He studiously looked all about the office while Jennifer stood, pulled the sweatshirt off, and got into a pair of jeans and a dark pullover sweater. She put on the socks Brennan had brought her and looked up from lacing the running shoes to see him gazing at her intently. There was also a mask among the clothing. She stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans and stood up. The shirt and shoes fit fine, though the jeans were a little short and hugged her slim figure tightly. She folded the sweatshirt neatly and left it on the priest’s desk with a short explicatory note.

  “Right.” Brennan stood and hefted his case. “First stop, Empire State Building.” He smiled in satisfaction. “If you’re not going to be safe in a room full of aces you wouldn’t be safe anywhere.”

  Upstairs in his mother’s brownstone, in the comfortable luxury of the upper West Side, Fortunato closed his eyes. Miranda straightened his black tie with skillful fingers. She was in her late forties now, heavier than she should have been if she was still a geisha, wearing tailored Chanel instead of low-cut ready-to-wear. She’d become his mother’s business manager ten years ago and hadn’t turned a trick since.

  “You look bad,” she said. “Is Veronica not working out?”

  “No,” Fortunato said. “I don’t think she’s going to make it.”

  “I never understood her. All she wants is to be married and have kids and put them in day-care, to have a husband she never sees, to have servants and cars and money. I keep asking myself what I did wrong.”

  “It’s not you. It’s the whole country. Greed is very chic these days.”

  She touched his lips and the skin tingled. “You’re very tired.”

  “Exhausted.”

  “I used to know the cure for that.” She was standing very close. He could smell her perfume and the sweetness of her skin. She read the willingness in his face and said, “Lie down.”

  He stretched out across the bed. She took off her jacket and skirt. Fortunato reached for his tie and she said, “Don’t move.”

  She took the rest of her clothes off. She was still graceful enough to get out of her panty hose without breaking the mood. Her bra had left lines around her chest and over her shoulders and there was dark stubble under her arms.

  She got onto the bed and straddled Fortunato and began to touch herself. She started with her forehead and let her fingers trickle down her cheeks and back up to where her ears met her jawline. Goose bumps came up on her neck. She swayed forward until her full, sagging breasts were inches from his face. He leaned up to kiss them and she pulled away. “No,” she said. “I told you to hold still.”

  She brushed her broad, dark nipples with her fingertips until they tightened and thrust out at him. Then she brushed lightly over her belly and buried her left hand in her pubic hair. With her right she touched Fortunato’s lips again. He licked her fingers and arched his back.

  She moved up the bed on her knees and lowered herself onto his mouth. “Gently,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

  As he licked and probed with his tongue she gradually began to melt and open to him. She took hold of the brass railing of the bed and slowly moved against him, her breath coming faster, her heavy thighs pressing against the sides of
his head.

  Then her body stiffened and she let out a tiny, hoarse scream and he drank the power from her, hungrily, gratefully. He felt it tingling through his body and hardly noticed as she bent to kiss him lightly on the mouth. “You taste like me,” she said. “Take care, Fortunato.”

  She picked up her clothes and was gone.

  Fortunato came downstairs to find a circle of beautiful women around the couch in the sitting room. In the middle sat a tall, striking girl in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

  “Ichiko,” Fortunato said, using his mother’s geisha name. “What’s the deal?”

  “Ellroy found her in Jokertown,” Ichiko said. Like Miranda, she’d put on weight in the last ten years. She was tall anyway, and now she looked positively Anglo-Saxon. She wore a black cotton sweater and skirt with a red-and-black silk blouse. The top three buttons were undone. She moved across the room to Fortunato without sound or visible effort. “She was coming out of the Church of Jesus Christ Joker and looked like she was about to get in trouble with one of Gambione’s scouts. Ellroy offered her a ride.” She shrugged. “Here she is.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yes,” Ichiko said. “She is.”

  “Okay,” Fortunato said to the others. “Break it up. Don’t you ladies have places you’re supposed to be?” They moved off, one at a time, Caroline stopping to slip one arm around his waist as she passed. Then he was alone with her. “I’m Fortunato,” he said.

  “Cordelia.” She didn’t stand up, but held her hand out to him. Fortunato took it for a second and then sat down next to her. “I appreciate the rescue,” she said. Her voice was deep, a little breathless, very Southern. Sexy.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “Ellroy told me a little. He said there were no obligations, but I could hang around for an interview if I wanted.”