Wild Cards V: Down and Dirty

by George R. R. Martin

  “‘Fuckin’ shocked,’” the other corrected. “Lucky I didn’t fry you! What is this? Why you taking my table apart?”

  “You’re hirin’ fuckin’ aces, ain’t you? I wanted you to see my shit.”

  “I’m not hiring aces. I thought you were, the way you came on.”

  “Hell, no! Bug-eyed bastard!”

  The other moved quickly to adjust his glasses.

  “It’s a real pain,” he stated, “looking at two hundred sixteen views of an asshole.”

  “I’ll give you something up the asshole!” said the giant, raising his hand again.

  “You got it,” said the other, an electrical storm erupting suddenly between his palms. The giant stepped back a pace. Then the storm passed and the man lowered his hands. “If it weren’t for the linguini in my lap,” he said then, “this would be funny. Sit down. We can wait together.”

  “Funny?”

  “Think about it while I go clean up,” he replied. Then, “Name’s Croyd,” he said.

  “Croyd Crenson?”

  “Yeah. And you’re Bludgeon, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. What do you mean ‘funny’?”

  “Like mistaken identity,” Croyd answered. “Two guys thinking they’re each somebody else, you know?”

  Bludgeon’s brow was furrowed for several seconds before his lips formed a tentative smile. Then he laughed, four coughlike barks. “Yeah, fuckin’ funny!” he said then, and barked again.

  Bludgeon slid into the booth, still chuckling, as Croyd slid out. Croyd headed back toward the men’s room and Bludgeon ordered a pitcher of beer from the waiter who came by to clean up. A few moments later, a black-suited man entered the dining area from the kitchen and stood, thumbs hooked behind his belt, toothpick moving slowly within a faint frown. Then he advanced.

  “You look a little familiar,” he said, coming up beside the booth.

  “I’m Bludgeon,” the other replied, raising his hand.

  “Chris Mazzucchelli. Yeah, I’ve heard of you. I hear you can bash your way through nearly anything with that mitt of yours.”

  Bludgeon grinned. “Fuckin’ A,” he said.

  Mazzucchelli smiled around the toothpick and nodded. He slid into Croyd’s seat.

  “You know who I am?” he asked.

  “Hell, yes,” Bludgeon said, nodding. “You’re the Man.”

  “That I am. I guess you heard there’s some trouble coming down, and I need some special kind of soldiers.”

  “You need some fuckin’ heads broke, I’m fuckin’ good at it,” Bludgeon told him.

  “That’s nicely put,” Mazzucchelli said, reaching inside his jacket. He removed an envelope and tossed it onto the tabletop. “Retainer.”

  Bludgeon picked it up, tore it open, then counted the bills slowly, moving his lips. When he was finished, he said, “Fuckin’ price is fuckin’ right. Now what?”

  “There’s an address in there too. You go to it eight o’clock tonight and get some orders. Okay?”

  Bludgeon put away the envelope and rose.

  “Damn straight,” he agreed, reaching out and picking up the pitcher of beer, raising it, draining it, and belching.

  “Who’s the other guy—the one back in the john?”

  “Shit, he’s one of us,” Bludgeon replied. “Name’s Croyd Crenson. Bad man to fuck with, but he’s got a great sense of humor.”

  Mazzucchelli nodded. “Have a good day,” he said.

  Bludgeon belched again, nodded back, waved his club-hand, and departed.

  Croyd hesitated only a moment on reentering the dining room and regarding Mazzucchelli in his seat. He advanced, raised two fingers in mock salute, and said, “I’m Croyd,” as he drew near. “Are you the recruiter?”

  Mazzucchelli looked him up and looked him down, eyes dwelling for a moment on the large wet spot at the front of his trousers.

  “Something scare you?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I saw the kitchen,” Croyd replied. “You looking for talent?”

  “What kind of talent you got?”

  Croyd reached for a small lamp on a nearby table. He unscrewed the bulb and held it before him. Shortly it began to glow. Then it brightened, flared, and went out.

  “Oops,” he observed. “Gave it a little too much juice.”

  “For a buck and a half,” Mazzucchelli stated, “I can buy a flashlight.”

  “You got no imagination,” Croyd said. “I can do some heavy stuff with burglar alarms, computers, telephones—not to mention anybody I shake hands with. But if you’re not interested, I won’t starve.”

  He began to turn away.

  “Sit down, sit down!” Mazzucchelli said. “I heard you had a sense of humor. Sure, I like that stuff, and I think maybe I can use you in a certain matter. I need some good people in a hurry.”

  “Something scare you?” Croyd asked, sliding into the seat recently vacated by Bludgeon.

  Mazzucchelli scowled and Croyd grinned.

  “Humor,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Crenson,” the other stated, “that’s your last name. See, I do know you. I know a lot about you. I’ve been stringing you along. That’s humor. I know you’re pretty good, and you usually deliver what you promise. But we got some things to talk about before we talk about other things. You know what I mean?”

  “No,” Croyd answered. “But I’m willing to learn.”

  “You want anything while we’re talking?”

  “I’d like to try the linguini again,” Croyd said, “and another bottle of Chianti.”

  Mazzucchelli raised his hand, snapped his fingers. A waiter rushed into the room.

  Linguini, e una bottiglia,” he said. “Chianti.”

  The man hurried off. Croyd rubbed his hands together, to the accompaniment of a faint crackling sound.

  “The one who just left…,” Mazzucchelli said at length. “Bludgeon.…”

  “Yes?” Croyd said, after an appropriate wait.

  “He’ll make a good soldier,” Mazzucchelli finished.

  Croyd nodded. “I suppose so.”

  “But you, you have some skills besides what the virus gave you. I understand you are a pretty good second-story man. You knew old Bentley.”

  Croyd nodded again. “He was my teacher. I knew him back when he was a dog. You seem to know more about me than most people do.”

  Mazzucchelli removed his toothpick, sipped his beer. “That’s my business,” he said after a time, “knowing things. That’s why I don’t want to send you off to be a soldier.”

  The waiter returned with a plate of linguini, a glass, and a bottle, which he proceeded to uncork. He passed Croyd a setting from the next booth. Croyd immediately began to eat with a certain manic gusto that Mazzucchelli found vaguely unsettling.

  Croyd paused long enough to ask, “So what is it you’ve got in mind for me?”

  “Something a little more subtle, if you’re the right man for it.”

  “Subtle. I’m right for subtle,” Croyd said.

  Mazzucchelli raised a finger. “First,” he said, “one of those things we talk about before we talk about other things.”

  Observing the speed with which Croyd’s plate was growing empty, he snapped his fingers again and the waiter rushed in with another load of linguini.

  “What thing?” Croyd asked, pushing aside the first plate as the second slid into place before him.

  Mazzucchelli laid his hand on Croyd’s left arm in an almost fatherly fashion and leaned forward. “I understand you got problems,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have heard that you are into speed,” Mazzucchelli observed, “and that every now and then you become a raging maniac, killing people, destroying property, and wreaking general havoc until you run out of steam or some ace who knows you takes pity and puts you down for the count.”

  Croyd laid his fork aside and quaffed a glass of wine.

  “This is true,” he said, “though it is not
something I enjoy talking about.”

  Mazzucchelli shrugged. “Everybody has the right to a little fun every now and then,” he stated. “I ask only for business reasons. I would not like to have you act this way if you were working for me on something sensitive.”

  “The behavior of which you’ve heard is not an indulgence,” Croyd explained. “It becomes something of a necessity, though, after I’ve been awake a certain period of time.”

  “Uh—you anywhere near that point yet?”

  “Nowhere near,” Croyd replied. “There’s nothing to worry about for a long while.”

  “If I was to hire you, I’d rather I didn’t worry about it at all. Now, it’s no good asking somebody not to be a user. But I want to know this: Have you got enough sense when you start on the speed that you can take yourself off of my work? Then go crash and burn someplace not connected with what you’re doing for me?”

  Croyd studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I see what you mean,” he said. “If that’s what the job calls for, sure, I can do it. No problem.”

  “With that understanding, I want to hire you. It’s a little more subtle than breaking heads, though. And it isn’t any sort of simple burglary either.”

  “I’ve done lots of odd things,” Croyd said, “and lots of subtle things. Some of them have even been legal.”

  They both smiled.

  “For this one, it may well be that you see no violence,” Mazzucchelli said. “Like I told you, my business is knowing things. I want you to get me some information. The best way to get it is so that nobody even knows it’s been got. On the other hand, if the only way you can get it is to cause somebody considerable angst, that’s okay. So long as you clean up real good afterwards.”

  “I get the picture. What do you want to know, and where do I find it?”

  Mazzucchelli gave a short, barking laugh.

  “There seems to be another company doing business in this town,” he said then. “You know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” Croyd replied, “and there is not usually room on one block for two delicatessens.”

  “Exactly,” Mazzucchelli answered.

  “So you are taking on extra help to continue the competition by heavier means.”

  “That is a good summary. Now, like I said, there is certain information I need about the other company. I will pay you well to get it for me.”

  Croyd nodded. “I’m willing to give it a shot. What particular information are you after?”

  Mazzucchelli leaned forward and lowered his voice, his lips barely moving. “The chairman of the board. I want to know who’s running the show.”

  “The boss? You mean he didn’t even send you a dead fish in somebody’s pants? I thought it was customary to observe certain amenities in these matters?”

  Mazzucchelli shrugged. “These guys got no etiquette. Could be a bunch of foreigners.”

  “Have you got any leads at all, or do I go it cold?”

  “You will be pretty much a ground-breaker. I will give you a list of places they sometimes seem to operate through. I also have names of a couple people who might do some work for them.”

  “Why didn’t you just pick one of them up and pop the question?”

  “I think that, like you, they are independent contractors rather than family members.”

  “I see.”

  Then, “And that may not be all they have in common with you,” Mazzucchelli added.

  “Aces?” Croyd asked.

  Mazzucchelli nodded.

  “If I’ve got to mess with aces it’s going to cost more than if they’re just civilians.”

  “I’m good for it,” Mazzucchelli said, withdrawing another envelope from his inner pocket. “Here is a retainer and the list. You may consider the retainer ten percent of the total price for the job.”

  Croyd opened the envelope, counted quickly. He smiled when he finished.

  “Where do you take delivery?” he asked.

  “The manager here can always get in touch with me.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Theotocopolos. Theo’ll do.”

  “Okay,” Croyd said. “You just hired subtlety.”

  “When you go to sleep you turn into a different person, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, if that happens before the job is done, that new guy’s still got a contract with me.”

  “So long as he gets paid.”

  “We understand each other.”

  They shook hands, Croyd rose, left the booth, crossed the room. Moth-sized snowflakes swirled in as he departed. Mazzucchelli reached for a fresh toothpick. Outside, Croyd tossed a black pill into his mouth.

  Wearing gray slacks, blue blazer, and bloodclot-colored tie, his hair marcelled, shades silver, nails manicured, Croyd sat alone at a small window table in Aces High, regarding the city’s lights through wind-whipped snow beyond his baked salmon, sipping Château d’Yquem, hashing over plans for the next move in his investigation and flirting with Jane Dow, who had passed his way twice so far and was even now approaching again—a thing he took to be more than coincidence and a good omen, having lusted after her in a variety of hearts (some of them multiples) on a number of occasions—and hoping he might fit the occasion to the feelings, he raised his hand as she drew near and touched her arm.

  A tiny spark crackled, she halted, said, “Yike!” and reached to rub the place where the shock had occurred.

  “Sorry—” Croyd began.

  “Must be static electricity,” she said.

  “Must be,” he agreed. “All I wanted to say was that you do know me, even though you wouldn’t recognize me in this incarnation. I’m Croyd Crenson. We’ve met in passing, here and there, and I always wanted just to sit and talk a spell, but somehow our paths never crossed long enough at the right time.”

  “That’s an interesting line,” she said, running a finger across her damp brow, “naming the one ace nobody’s certain about. I bet a lot of groupies get picked up that way.”

  “True,” Croyd replied, smiling, as he opened his arms wide. “But I can prove it if you’ll wait about half a minute.”

  “Why? What are you doing?”

  “Filling the air with neg-ions for you,” he said, “for that delightfully stimulating before-the-storm feeling. Just a hint at the great time I could show—”

  “Cut it out!” She began backing away. “It sometimes triggers—”

  Croyd’s hands were wet, his face was wet, his hair collapsed and leaked onto his forehead.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “What the hell,” he said, “let’s make it a thunderstorm,” and lightning danced among his fingertips. He began laughing.

  Other diners glanced in their direction.

  “Stop,” she said. “Please.”

  “Sit down for a minute and I will.”

  “Okay.”

  She took the seat opposite him. He dried his face and hands on his napkin.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “My fault. I should be careful with storm effects around someone they call Water Lily.”

  She smiled.

  “Your glasses are all wet,” she said, suddenly reaching forward and plucking them from his face. “I’ll clean—”

  “Two hundred sixteen views of moist loveliness,” he stated as she stared. “The virus has, as usual, overendowed me in several respects.”

  “You really see that many of me?”

  He nodded. “These joker aspects sometimes crop up in my changes. Hope I haven’t turned you off.”

  “They’re rather—magnificent,” she said.

  “You’re very kind. Now give back the glasses.”

  “A moment.”

  She wiped the lenses on the corner of the tablecloth, then passed them to him.

  “Thanks.” He donned them again. “Buy you a drink? Dinner? A water spaniel?”

  “I’m on duty,” she said. “Thanks. Sorry. Maybe another time.”

  �
��Well, I’m working now myself. But if you’re serious, I’ll give you a couple of phone numbers and an address. I may not be at any of them. But I get messages.”

  “Give them to me,” she said, and he scribbled quickly in a notepad, tore out the page, and passed it to her. “What kind of work?” she asked.

  “Subtle investigation,” he said. “It involves a gang war.”

  “Really? I’ve heard people say you’re kind of honest, as well as kind of crazy.”

  “They’re half-right,” he said. “So give me a call or stop by. I’ll rent scuba gear and show you a good time.”

  She smiled and began to rise. “Maybe I will.”

  He withdrew an envelope from his pocket, opened it, pushed aside a wad of bills, and removed a slip of paper with some writing on it.

  “Uh, before you go—does the name James Spector mean anything to you?”

  She froze and grew pale. Croyd found himself wet once again.

  “What did I say?” he asked.

  “You’re not kidding? You really don’t know?”

  “Nope. Not kidding.”

  “You know the aces jingle.”

  “Parts of it.”

  “‘Golden Boy ain’t got no joy,’” she recited. “‘If it’s Demise, don’t look in his eyes…’—that’s him: James Spector is Demise’s real name.”

  “I never knew that,” he said. Then, “I never heard any verses about me.”

  “I don’t remember any either.”

  “Come on. I always wondered.”

  “‘Sleeper waking, meals taking,’” she said slowly. “‘Sleeper speeding, people bleeding.’”

  “Oh.”

  “If I call you and you’re that far along…”

  “If I’m that far along, I don’t return calls.”

  “I’ll get you a couple of dry napkins,” she offered. “Sorry about the storms.”

  “Don’t be. Did anyone ever tell you you’re lovely when you exude moisture?”

  She stared at him. Then, “I’ll get you a dry fish too,” she said.

  Croyd raised his hand to blow her a kiss and gave himself a shock.

  Breakdown

  by Leanne C. Harper

  THE PAIR OF BODYGUARDS left Giovanni’s first. Behind their dark glasses they immediately began scanning the street, looking for trouble. At a wave from the man on the right, another bodyguard preceded Don Tomasso, head of the Anselmi Family, onto the street. The don had to be assisted in walking. He was an old man, bent and in obvious pain, but his old-fashioned black suit had been hand-tailored and pressed into sharp creases. He surveyed the street as well, swiveling his shaking head from between his hunched shoulders like an aging turtle. The red and green neon of the restaurant’s sign alternately revealed and hid his weathered face.