The Further Adventures of The Joker

by Martin H. Greenberg

  “What’s this place, Toddy?”

  “Home,” he said, flashing me a grin perfect as an angel’s wing. “It’s cool—come on.”

  And with that, he scurried past the warped boards blocking the front door, leaving me alone on the empty street with no idea where I was or how’d I’d gotten there. My backpack was gone; the cops were probably after me by now. I didn’t have a friend in the city but Toddy, and Toddy had jangle. I followed him in.

  “Toddy?”

  It took me a second to adjust to the gloom. What light there was came from candles and single bulbs dangling from extension cords high overhead. Portions of the walls and ceiling had fallen, giving the place a bombed-out look. A few kids my own age or younger were eyeing me sullenly from the shadows, boys and girls, black, white, brown, yellow.

  “Well if it ain’t Mister Independent,” a voice rasped to my left.

  I turned, saw Panic approaching with one arm draped about Toddy’s shoulders, the other kids following. He was dressed in the same blue jogging suit as the night before, leather medallion jouncing upon his ample chest. Toddy was munching a candy bar, gazing up at Panic with a pure affection that made my skin crawl. I felt as if the ghost of Dear Old Dead Old had crept back to haunt me.

  “Hey, boy, you’re way ahead of schedule! Knew I’d be seeing you, but not so soon.”

  “I got robbed,” I said glumly, shrugging.

  “Now ain’t that a shame!” Panic grinned like he knew all about my misfortunes. “Toddy tell me you need a place to stay.”

  I nodded, wary.

  “Talkative, ain’t you. What’s your name?”

  “Galen Starling.”

  Panic whooped. “Christ Almighty, where do you white folks get them names?”

  I burned. “It’s Gaelic.”

  “Oooo. Sound like a damn bird to me. Well, my name’s Gaelic, too. It means, ‘Watch your step, wiseass.’ Know what I think? You that kid I heard about on the TV this morning. That right?”

  I shook my head, mouth so dry the words came out whispered. “No way.” I would have run, but the others were crowding me in.

  He eyed me shrewdly. “Yeah, right. Well, you can crash here. I got plenty of room, plenty of everything, right? Only you gotta help out, everyone lends a hand when Uncle Panic’s got work to do. Errands, you know? Deliveries, got some important people we can’t keep waiting, need some smart kids, fast kids. You smart, Galen? You fast?”

  I grinned then, J screaming through my brain like a missile. Fast? I’d show him fast.

  So the mysterious author had a name at last. He fed it into the computer. Seconds later, the information flashed onto the screen.

  Galen Starling, 15, wanted in connection with the murder of his stepfather. An unusual name, Starling . . . Cross-references to the child welfare files—a few minor drug offenses, petty theft, then buried in a footnote an allegation of sexual abuse leveled against the stepfather by one of Galen’s neighbors, never followed up.

  Between bureaucratic ineptitude and the tender mercies of the Panics of the world, what chance did kids like Galen have? It made him sick and angry; kids always hit him the hardest. His own childhood had been stolen—he knew better than most what it was like to be young, alone and afraid, with nobody to turn to, nobody to trust. Sometimes he wondered if that was what kept him going after so many failures, so many deaths he’d been powerless to prevent, had in a sense contributed to if not caused outright, part of him dying again each time. God, the blood on his hands! He was sick to death of the whole damn mess, but it was too late now, he’d lost too much to turn back, given up his soul piece by piece and become just another of Gotham’s lurid fever dreams in the process. No, there was nothing to do but finish what he’d started. Or be finished by it. And never let them see the hurt and frightened boy he still, deep down, knew himself to be, whether kneeling on the dirt sidewalk watching his parents’ lives bleed away or cradling in his arms the broken body of the brave boy he’d loved like a son.

  Toddy’s always asking how come I write so much in here. Hell, I don’t know. I thought I might show it to Mom someday, let her know what it was like for me being alone so much of the time with Dear Old Dead Old while she was busy playing Angel of Mercy at the hospital. But I’ve torn all those pages out. Burned them. I mean, what’s the point? That’s all history now that he’s dead. But the funny thing is, I can’t quit writing. It’s in my blood, I guess. Like jangle.

  For sure Mom wouldn’t recognize me these days. I got my hair cut and dyed and a tattoo like Toddy’s; man, we cruise Love Me Avenue like a couple of Siamese twins! Purple All-Stars with green laces to show we’re Panic’s boys. But me and Toddy are gonna save us some money and split. Clear out where Panic’ll never find us. I mean, it’s too late for me; my father messed me up good before jangle came along to finish the job. But it breaks my heart to see the same thing happening to Toddy. He’s still a kid, man. It isn’t right, it just isn’t right.

  This is my favorite place. On the roof at night with a jolt of J leaking its slow magic into my blood and all of Gotham lit up like a Christmas tree. Nothing can touch me up here. I’m free, I can feel the angels so near I can shut my eyes and feel their wings brush my face. They’re out there, man, all around me, calling me. Now and then a gunshot comes like an urgent summons and it’s all I can do to hold myself back: the ledge beckons, my spirit soars as though I could fly! Sometimes I know that if I jumped I wouldn’t fall, they would fold me in their wings and take me up to where the prince of angels lives. He gazes down on us with a secret smile and Gotham City throws back his warped reflection. I would go in search of him but the thought of Toddy keeps me here. Who’d take care of him if I was gone?

  Then like an answer, a writhing shape appears against the sky—the image of a giant bat cast upon the clouds like some demonic brand. Its immense wings seem to beat tirelessly to hold itself in place. And though I know it’s just an illusion caused by the motion of the clouds, a chill creeps across my bones as if death’s shadow has touched me . . .

  . . . knew it was bad this time cause the street names had changed: Love Me Avenue now Street of Chance, the letters in Chance writhing to spell CHANCRE and then CANCER, scarlet claws curving up from the C and R to reach for me. I yelled, dodging the claws.

  “What the hell you doing, Galen? You want to freak the customers?” Toddy hissed, pulling me after him into an alley.

  “Bad scene, bad scene,” a voice crooned, laughing, from the street.

  I slumped against the crumbling brick wall, let myself slide to rest on my haunches. I pressed my forehead against my knees and shivered.

  “What is it, man?” demanded Toddy, nervous now for real. “C’mon, it’s just the Doc running down, we’ll get you stitched right back up, it ain’t nothing really—”

  I nodded, got myself together.

  “S’alright,” I said. I made a face like I was fighting nausea, but it wasn’t that, really; unless you can figure that something like a scorpion burrowing through your brain could make you feel nauseous. I looked up at him: poor pretty Toddy, thirteen and lying to the cops that he was sixteen, lying to the marks that he was twelve. “Toddy, you ever felt bad on J?”

  He dug the lavender toe of his sneaker into the rubble and twisted it, kicking up gravel and broken glass. “Bad? Yeah, sure, I felt bad. I feel bad right now, man, you’re breaking my heart. C’mon, fer crissakes! Panic’s gonna kill us if we get picked up by the cops—”

  He pirouetted, shading his eyes with one hand as he peered out into the street. Something going on out there, motors running but not moving, that same voice chanting bad scene bad scene like he was making it happen by mouthing the words.

  I stood, pushing Toddy so that he whirled glaring and then grinning to see me up again. “Hey, lookit that, huh?” He whistled, pointing out the alley. “You ever see a car that big?”

  I looked. “Hell, I never saw a plane that big!”

  We stepped out of the alley, To
ddy tripping ahead of me in that lightfoot clumsy-pretty way he had, like a puppy dancing on its hind legs. A couple of girls in white lace and rubber went by chirping at the little blond kid staring big-eyed at a limousine that practically covered the whole block, poison green with purple accents, tires with hubcaps so clean the streetlights burned off them, the whole thing not only longer but bigger, more massive, taller than any limo I’d ever seen.

  “Hey mister!” Toddy yelled, tossing his head so that his bangs flopped into his eyes. Little boy lost, oh, boy: I could see it now “Hey mister, can I ride in your big car?”

  A gloved hand stretched from the window, slowly, the glove that same glowing violet as the trim on the limo, brass buttons—hell gold buttons—catching the light and winking.

  The arm kept coming, the fingers twitching, beckoning Toddy. Toddy sliding warily now up to the curb, trying to see inside. I glimpsed a face, a woman’s I thought, backstreet angel powdered pale like last year’s vampire queens, mouth too heavily lipsticked but grinning so broadly that I looked behind me to see if she meant someone else—

  But no one was there. In fact the street, crowded seconds before, was nearly empty. No, she meant me.

  The hand stopped an inch from Toddy’s face, seeming to stretch an improbable length over the sidewalk. The few passersby hurried on or else slowed to watch, snickering, as Toddy moved closer, until the hand gently cupped the back of his head. I watched, helpless; and yeah, jealous, too. And not just because here was a mark in a fancy car. There was something else, something about that ghastly face that drew me: like seeing someone you recognize from a dream. I took a step, near enough to see that nestled between those gloved fingers something glistened, something small and brightly colored, purple and green and red.

  “Toddy—” I warned, doubtfully; but then the hand grabbed him by the neck. Toddy began to cry out and then stopped. A blissful expression crept across his face. The hand withdrew. Toddy just stood there, smiling a little, a sort of dopey smile. I could see a new little tab like a violet tick feasting amid the swirls of his face tattoo.

  Behind me someone laughed. I stooped and threw a bottle at a guy standing there. I turned back to the limo, ready to lam another one through the window at the bitch inside.

  Only it wasn’t a woman. It was a man, and he was laughing, too.

  “Just keeping tabs on him!” he wheezed between fits of giggles.

  “Hey,” Toddy began again, but doubtfully. He glanced up at me, shoving the hair from his eyes, then, wondering, touched the jolt on his cheek. I shook my head and tugged at his jacket.

  “Come on, Toddy. Bad news—”

  A man so tall he’d had that limo built around him; a man so rich he could afford it. And that face! Not a mask, not a transvestite either, just that ghastly expression, Bette Davis eyes and Dawn of the Dead mouth, hair the color of sour apples swept back from a dead white forehead. The rest of him slung into a jacket and trousers the same unsettling hues as his car. Poison green and violet.

  Poison scene. Violent. Bad scene bad scene . . .

  The mocking angel in the car leaned out the window, streetlamp snaking a yellow line down his arm.

  “Why aren’t you in school, sonny?” he crooned; then cackled, so long and loud that I heard all around us a noise like a bunch of pigeons taking flight. But it wasn’t pigeons, it was that block clearing out so fast it’d make your head spin.

  “Toddy,” I whispered, but Toddy wasn’t listening to me anymore. He was beside the limo, standing on tiptoe to peer inside the open window—the car was that big. The freakish angel inside giggled helplessly, staring down at that small gold head with its rainbow swirls, the smear of dirt on the back of his neck where Toddy never bothered to wash. One gloved hand reached to gently stroke his bangs, then yanked, hard.

  “Damn!” Toddy skipped backward, rubbing his head. But when he saw the freak was laughing he laughed, too, took a step forward, eyes already slitted with that conspiratorial look he got, the look we all got when we’d found a rich mark. But when I saw those emerald eyes gazing down at him I went cold. Because I’d never seen a look like that anywhere before, except in the first seconds when the jangle hit and I saw the angels, ravening angels sparking the Gotham night: and now here was one in front of me.

  I stepped forward. “Hey, man,” I said, trying to sound cool but I knew it came out a whine. “Got room for me, too?” ’Cause suddenly more than anything, more even than I was scared for Toddy, I was terrified the car would pull off and I’d never see that man again, never be able to find him.

  His eyes flicked from Toddy to my face, lingered there thoughtfully as he toyed with an ascot loosely knotted about his neck. Black, red, green, purple: lurid colors fitting his delirious elegance, and where had I seen them before? I tried to look unconcerned, squinted to see what was beside him in the limo, but made out nothing. Only that his other hand, the hand that rested on his violet-draped knee, twitched endlessly, fingers drumming some intricate tattoo upon the seemingly empty air. Without thinking I moved a little closer to the car, until I could see that he flipped repeatedly through a deck of cards, shuffling onehanded the way I’d seen the sharps do it on Fleece Street. But never cards like these. Even in the shadows I could see their designs glowing spectrally, some kind of luminous paper I guess, and the figures on them seemed different from the usual array, Jack, Queen, Joker, King.

  The emerald angel suddenly stopped shuffling, glanced down at the card facing upward on the deck. He sighed, shaking his head, and glanced out the window.

  “Oh, dear,” he murmured. His gaze met mine, bottle-green eyes only a shade paler than his hair and so full of sorrow I imagined he might weep despite his leering grin. “Not today, young man. I’m afraid you can’t come today. You see, it’s not in the cards: not yet And I do so like to give people what they want . . .”

  His gaze darted to my temple, where the tab of spent jangle clung like soiled confetti. “But soon,” he whispered. “I promise, soon—” Beside me Toddy fidgeted, his eyes glazing over as he swayed slightly. Finally he shoved me back against the curb. “Hey, c’mon Galen, you heard him—”

  I bit my lip in disappointment as the limo door shushed open and Toddy disappeared inside, tossing me a final grin so delighted I had to smile back. Poor Toddy! He really was excited to be riding in a big car. Next to that lean tall figure he looked truly childlike, princeling for a day.

  The man stretched his arm to tap once upon the driver’s window. The limo’s purr grew louder, became a throaty growl. A sheet of black glass began to slide up, cutting off Toddy’s rapt face and tossing back my own thwarted reflection. Scant inches from the top it stopped.

  “Here—” Green eyes etched through the window slit as two long white fingers, delicate and faintly trembling, held out a card like a radiant token. “Maybe next time, surely next time . . .”

  The limo slipped away, leaving me gaping as the noisy tide of punks and janglies and chattering whores swept back to claim the street. Someone jogged my elbow; I kicked out defensively at a slack-jawed junkie staring with empty black terrified eyes at what I held.

  “J-j-j-j—” he stammered. I pushed him away and started for the corner. There, safe in the crowd waiting to cross Love Me Avenue, I finally inspected what the angel had given me. Not a regular playing card at all: a fortune card, a tarot card I guess, livid figures rising dead-eyed from narrow coffins scattered crazily about a gray expanse of shattered stone and concrete. Above them all hovered the grisly form of a grinning green-haired angel, beryl wings curving to end in spikes of red and violet, white hands dropping brilliant shards of light. Purple, emerald, argent, scarlet discs like rain, like jewels; like jolts of jangle. And beneath it, tipsy block letters that spelled

  THE LAST JUDGEMENT

  It was only later, teeth chattering as my heart made its first run heavenward in Panic’s gallery and I glimpsed his medallion hanging from a nail, that I remembered where I’d seen those colors before.
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  The man reading lifted his head, slowly; stared into the surrounding darkness as though he too glimpsed the colors there, and remembered where he had last seen them. His fist opened, then clenched shut as he tried to keep his hand from shaking, tried to contain the rage building inside him. He pried the next page open, swearing as it crumbled at his touch, and continued reading.

  Three days since I’ve seen Toddy. I tried asking back at Panic’s about the guy in the car but everyone just looks at me like I’m crazy, or maybe like they’re crazy and don’t want me to find out.

  Even Panic. “Where’s your fair-haired boy, Starling?” He sat counting plastic bags full of iridescent jolts, a spangled mountain growing in front of him. “I ain’t seen him for a while.”

  “I don’t know.” I’d hesitated to tell him about the man in the limo, but now I did, leaving out the part about the card he’d given me. Panic stopped counting, stopped doing anything. He didn’t even look at me, just stared at the blank crumbling wall in front of him.

  When I finished he said, “You say you don’t know who it was.”

  I nodded. He turned to me then. His eyes were bleak, and I could tell it was an effort for him to smile. “Well, that’s good, that’s a good thing now. Now here—”

  He handed me a Baggie, more J than I’d ever had in my hands at once, not excepting all the times me and Toddy had run it for him to Haggard Square and Nam and Gotham’s other war zones. “Go ahead, take it,” he urged, his eyes desperate. “Now go have some fun, have yourself a big time, forget all this crap. Toddy’ll turn up. You’ll see.”

  “You don’t even care!”

  “If I didn’t, would I be giving you all this J?”

  I eyed the Baggie in his hand. That much jangle would kill. Suddenly I wondered if Panic wanted me dead.