"I wouldn't have minded if your man Harris had wanted to interview people," Finn said without prelude, glancing once at the turning hubs of the cassette and then ignoring the machine. "I could have understood that. But all your Harris did was check to see who we'd signed in. That's what bothered me. I actually asked him if he wanted to talk to them, but he just laughed. He didn't say that he had better things to do with his time, but he sure as hell implied it. What he did say was that he was 'following routine, that's all.' I asked him if he thought that maybe the death of a hundred jokers justified something more than just routine. He told me, and I quote: 'Not from me, it doesn't.' I don't take well to bigotry, Ms. Davis, and your Harris is, frankly, a jerk."
Hannah could feel the heat of her cheeks. "Harris is working for me," she told the centaur. "I apologize, Dr. Finn. A fire like this isn't routine. Not to me. I assure you that I'll check this out. All the patients here were available for Harris?"
"The ones that lived," Finn answered.
"I'm sorry, Doctor. I really am."
Finn looked slightly mollified. He nodded, fiddled with the stack of papers in his in-basket. "I hope so," he said. "Three of the people were brought here DOA; we lost two of the other ten people during the night. Almost all the rest are in for a long and extremely painful reconstruction, if they can afford it. So … are you going to talk to them?"
Hannah wondered if she hesitated a fraction of a second too long. "Yes. If you don't mind …?"
"I'll take you in." Finn started out from behind the desk, then stopped. He cocked his head at her as a muscle twitched in his long, gold-silk flank. The long tail flicked once. "You asked about Troll," he said. "It's none of my business, but on Black Queen Night Troll was here from the afternoon until the next morning. Any of us can verify that."
Hannah shook her head. "I — " she started, then let the air out of her lungs in a loud exhalation. "I think I can skip Troll. Someone thought he might know something about an old plot against jokers." She smiled to show that she gave the notion no credence, but Finn wasn't sharing the joke. "It's nothing," she said.
"Are you saying that this wasn't just random violence?" Finn was holding very still. Hannah could see the muscles tightening along his neck, and the tail was swishing back and forth like an angry cat's.
"No, I'm emphatically not saying that. In fact, in cases like this, it's very unlikely. One person can hate so intensely that they're driven to such violent ends, but groups … It's much rarer. Fortunately." Hannah smiled again. "I'd wager that most violence against the jokers stem from isolated incidents. It takes an unhealthy paranoia to see a plot behind every tree."
"A joker might think that's easy for a nat to say."
"Your nat might still believe it," she answered. This time he grinned back at her, a quick flash of teeth that disappeared as quickly as it had come.
"You're awfully naive."
"I prefer to think I'm optimistic."
"Right. I could tell you — " Finn stopped. Hannah didn't say anything. Every good investigator had to be part amateur psychologist, and she could see that something was inside him, pushing at the barriers. She waited, looking at him expectantly.
"I thought the same once, too. Since then, I've seen some of the nastiness and evil you don't seem to believe in." Finn shook his head. "I've seen it."
"Here?" Hannah asked quietly. A nudge.
"No, not here," he said. "Eight years ago, in Kenya. Funny, he tried to use fire, too …"
The Crooked Man
Melinda M. Snodgrass
No amount of money will make up for a physiology which can't fit in the seats, or enter one of those broom closets that pass for restrooms aboard your average 747. So there I was making the long flight from Los Angeles, to New York, to Rome, to Nairobi on one of those big freight jobbies designed to carry horses, cattle, other varieties of prize livestock … and jokers.
The grooms, men truly without any kind of a country, had the usual reaction to a palomino pony centaur, but when they realized I had money to spare, and an addict's fever about poker, they loosened up. I lost enough initially to get them friendly, and the rest of the tedious journey passed in reasonable comfort and companionship. Actually, I'll let you in on a little secret — flying freight beats the hell out of more traditional modes of travel. Plenty of room to walk around, and when you get tired you bed down on the bales of hay and straw.
In my case, Skully, an unprepossessing wisp of humanity though he had a magician's gift with horses (maybe that's why I liked him so well), broke open one of the bales of hay, and built me a centaur's nest.
As I folded my legs beneath me and went lurching in a groundward direction, he said in his thick Irish brogue, "Don't go eatin' all that hay now. We've got a lot of miles and hours to Africa."
I reached for my travel bag, and dug out a handful of Snickers, pears and grapes, an Edam cheese, crackers, a tin of sardines, and a ham sandwich prepared and lovingly wrapped by my sweet, indulgent momma who would have packed the same gargantuan Care package if I'd been flying first class on Delta airlines. My mother doesn't believe that anybody save herself can cook.
"Skully," I said. "I'm not a hay burner. Nor am I likely to go nuts and mount that attractive little thoroughbred mare either, so relax and go to sleep."
He grinned rather sheepishly (after this many years I'm virtually as telepathic as Tachyon when it comes to people's weird assed ideas about jokers — our manners, morals and tastes. I was right; he had been contemplating my sex life), and settled back to squat on his heels.
"So why are you heading to the dark continent?" he asked.
"I'm a doctor, and a Peace Corps volunteer." (You can tell from the order in which I placed those two conditions which one most pleased me.) "I'm going to be working with the joker community outside of Nairobi."
"Won't real people let you work on them?" he asked. There wasn't any malice in the phrasing, just an honest curiosity, and that almost endearing lack of sensitivity which typifies most nats.
"Not real willingly," I said. "But that really isn't the reason. Jokers offer a fascinating range of physiological and epidemiological problems. That's candy to a doctor." I paused, wondering how to phrase this so I wouldn't sound like a sanctimonious asshole. I couldn't think of one so I shrugged and just said it. "And I am one hell of a lucky joker so I feel like I ought be giving a little back."
Skully shook his head. "Not me. If I had the brains and education I'd be making money…." His voice rose to accentuate the final word, then trailed away into sadness.
I smiled at him. "There's plenty of time for that."
"For you, Doc." He pulled the piece of hay from his mouth, and tossed it away. He rose, and followed it.
Again I felt that gulf — not because I was a joker, but because I carried around the curse (or blessing) of my family's wealth like a camel carries humps. I decided I couldn't solve the financial inequalities of the world right then, so arranging my tail across my flank, (it gets cold in those planes) I pillowed my head on my arm, and went to sleep.
***
Nairobi wasn't what I'd expected. Africa had always been this place of wonderful mystery for me. Tarzan movies (the good ones with Johnny Weissmuller, not Jack Braun), H. Rider Haggard, lost cities; all the usual WASP bullshit.
So, imagine my surprise and chagrin when I fetched up in this modern city with skyscrapers, traffic jams, people in business suits and tailored dresses. I shook my head over my own silliness, and grabbing my tote, suitcase and medical bag, I approached a policeman, and asked directions to my hotel. He told me in elegantly accented English, and I started jogging away, only to be arrested by his soft, "Sir."
I slewed around, and stared back across my hindquarters at him. "Yes?"
"Kenya … is an Islamic nation … primarily."
"Yeah, so?" (And yeah, I was very stupid, what can I say.)
"According to the teachings of Islam, victims of the wild card are considered cursed of Allah."
It was great; I had found probably the only politically correct cop in all of Nairobi, but I could tell from the expression in his dark eyes that he thought the teachings were spot on the money.
"I appreciate the warning," I said. "But I really do need to reach my hotel. I'll keep my head down, and move fast." We nodded politely to one another, and I headed on my way.
In addition to traveling fast I can also travel light. Shirts, ties, and a couple of jackets, that's the entirety of my wardrobe. One nun at the parochial school I attended sent me home on the grounds I was indecent, and insisting that Mom and Dad fit me out with a pair of trousers. I can still remember Dad's bellow — he said I'd look like a bad vaudeville act — and that was my last day in parochial school … thank God. (Sorry I'm losing the thread here.)
This being Africa it was warm, and the suitcase began to hang like an anvil off my right hand. I briefly regretted not phoning ahead, and arranging for my version of a limo — guy with a truck and horse trailer — but I'm not an animal, and resent being treated like one. I also have this weird recurring nightmare where they get me in one of those enclosed horse vans like the Brits use, and they trundle me away to the knackers. Not a nice dream.
As I trotted, I considered priorities. I needed to get to Kilango Cha Jaha, the village where many of Kenya's jokers were now squatting, and report to my superior, Dr. Etienne Faneuil. Now, while I'm a robust boy, and enjoy an aerobic workout as much as the next fellow, I didn't really want to travel around Nairobi and environs at the steady 4.2 miles an hour I can maintain when jogging, nor did I want to reduce travel time by running. The sight of a pony centaur galloping through city streets generally causes comment, and I'm always worried some asshole's going to decide it's round-up time and he's a cowboy.
So, the bottom line was I needed wheels; a custom jobbie, a van with handicapped controls on the steering wheel, a sliding side door, and the seats ripped out. Correction, all but one seat ripped out. I do occasionally have passengers, and pretty ladies don't like to sit on the floor, or stand like commuters on a subway.
I had been so deeply engrossed in my own ruminations that I didn't notice the cars which had fallen in behind me like a secret service escort. By the time I did notice one had jumped the curb, and angled across the sidewalk in front of me. Another was in the process of completing the trap to my rear.
I had a strong sensation their motives weren't friendly, so I let fly with both hind feet, and caught the opening car door just below the handle. One of my kicks generates a lot of power. I heard a yell and a curse in something that sounded suspiciously like raghead chatter from the driver of car number two as the door slammed back and caught his leg and hand as he tried to exit. That still left me with two assailants. And there was no doubt now they were assailants. They were brandishing tire irons, and I sure as hell knew I didn't have a flat.
There was a high fence on my right, and beyond those walls I could see the tops of trees. I clumsily threw my suitcase at the two men in front of me. They easily dodged, and I felt a strong sense of ill use. This kind of thing always works in the movies my dad produces. My attempt at Rambo having failed, I opted for flight, and bolted across the hood of their Mazda. My hooves didn't do much for either the body work or the paint job. My agility seemed to surprise one guy. He just gaped as I went clattering past. His partner was less impressed. He swung the iron, and caught me high on the left shoulder. It hurt like a motherfucker, but I was down on the sidewalk again, and with the width of a car between them and me.
Grimly clutching my tote and my medical bag I galloped for the gate some fifty yards ahead with the two guys running and shouting in pursuit. I heard a lot of Allah's and Nur al Allah's going past as I yanked open the latch, and raced through. It was a park. Beautiful, pristine, peaceful. Later I found out I'd entered the Nairobi National Park. One hundred and ten kilometers of virgin wilderness almost completely within the confines of a major metropolitan center.
Wilderness … complete with wild animals.
Like lions.
It was not a good afternoon. I dislike being regarded as lunch almost as much as I resent being regarded as a monster. Let's just say I finally reached the peaceful shores of that paean to modern civilization — the Hilton Hotel.
***
My welcoming committee in Nairobi should have prepared me for the realities of Kilango Cha Jaha, but as I was waved through the gates by a pair of Kenyan military guards I couldn't help but wonder if the fences were to keep the jokers in as much to keep the fanatics out.
Kilango was your usual third world shit hole, and as I drove I ruminated bitterly on the irony of the village's name — Kilango Cha Jaha, Gate of Paradise — yeah, right. There was a small river meandering through the mud and thatch huts, and a pall of cook smoke hung like a memory of a bad hangover across the entire village. Children, many of them completely normal, frolicked in the dusty streets, or paddled in the river. Somewhere a radio was blasting out Somali rock and roll.
I wondered at the lack of adult jokers. Were they all hiding shyly in their huts venturing out only at night when darkness could disguise their deformities? Did they all have jobs (unlikely), and were at work? Jokers tend to fall into two categories — the ashamed, who keep so low a profile as to be almost invisible, and the flaunters, who delight in shocking the normal world which surrounds them. I'm unusual (or at least I pride myself that I am) because I don't fall into either category. I just do my thing, and hope things don't get too uncomfortable in return. Still, I was bothered by the missing jokers.
Easing the van to a stop I called out in my halting Swahili to a nearby urchin. I must have picked one of the forty other ethnic groups which inhabit the country because I might as well have been speaking, well … Swahili, for all the good it did me. Fortunately another child understood, and ran up, and chinned himself on the van window. I repeated my request for directions to the health clinic.
"Sure, boss," he said. "Gimme a ride and I'll show you."
I nodded my assent, and he raced around, and clambered in the passenger side. From this position of moral and physical superiority he gazed down on his fellows. Now that he was closer I wasn't liking what I was seeing. His lymph nodes seemed enlarged, and there was a swelling in his joints.
"You sick, boss?" he asked after indicating the direction with an errant flip of the hand.
"No," I said.
"Yes, you are. You're a mwenye kombo."
My mind supplied the translation: crooked person, i.e., joker. "That doesn't mean I'm sick," I explained patiently. "It just means I'm different." My guide seemed unconvinced. "I'm a doctor," I added. That got him, but it wasn't the reaction I'd hoped for. His eyes became suspicious slits, he stiffened, yanked open the van door, and hopped out. I jammed on the brakes, terrified he'd fall, and my first act at Kilango would be squashing a hapless urchin.
Backing slowly away from the van he called out to me, "Just keep going that way, boss, you'll find it," and he was gone, vanishing in a twinkling of bare brown legs among the bare brown huts.
***
The clinic was what you'd expect from a public health facility in a joker village in the third world. It was a squat, ugly cinder block construction on the western outskirts of the village. Its position, huddled against the barb wire fence, seemed totally appropriate. It looked less like a place of healing than a sound proofed barracks where state enemies recant their sins. I parked, backed the length of the van until I could slide open the door, and jumped down. Medical bag firmly in hand, I pushed open the glass doors ready to begin my first stint as a real live doctor.
The tiny lobby was filled with squalling babies and their tired mothers. In one small corner a group of elderly jokers had carved out turf for themselves. There was one old guy with human faces covering his body. The sibilant whispers from all those mouths set an odd contrapuntal line to the soprano baby wails.
It's an odd quirk of the wild card virus, or maybe of the human psyche,
that we end up with so many fuzzy animal jokers. I tease my mom occasionally that she shouldn't have had Dad take her to that re-release of Fantasia just before my birth, but I realize that ultimately my condition was selected and molded by me.
The next largest joker variety are the warping of normal human physiology. Finally, we have the monsters from the id — shapes so grotesque and disturbing that you have no idea where the fuck they came from. This room was mostly sporting the fuzzy animal variety, which wasn't surprising given the cultural importance of animal spirits in African mythology.
There was a Clairol red-head, crisp in nurse's whites, behind the desk. She looked up at the sound of my hooves on the stained linoleum floor. Once I got a good look at her face, and mentally scraped away a couple of hundred pounds of make-up, I put her around fifty-five. She still had a pretty good body, but this was clearly one of those beautiful women who cannot accept the judgment of nature, years and gravity.
"Yes?" she asked, and I was surprised to discover she was an American. I figured Faneuil would have a French staff. As a sub-species of humanity the French take the cake for arrogance and xenophobia. Then I realized Faneuil had hired me, and my mental French-bashing went by the wayside.
"Doctor Bradley Finn," I hurried to say. "I'm the new Peace Corps …" There was something in her ironic smile that had the words dying in my throat.
"Ah, yes, we have been expecting you … since yesterday."
I felt like a ten year old caught playing hooky. I shuffled my feet, which is a lot of shufflin', and muttered my excuse about needing a car.
"Of course, you are an American."
The tone in which that was said made me want to start singing the "Star Spangled Banner." I resisted the impulse because my singing voice sounds a lot like frogs fornicating.
"Uh, yeah, well, you might want to get home, get your passport punched, eat a cheeseburger, go to a ball game, remember what it's like." Her face had gone red in that mottled way that only true red-heads can achieve, which told me the color wasn't wishful thinking, it was just fond remembrance. "Now, could you tell Doctor Faneuil I'm here?" I added in my best Doctor Voice.
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