Joker after joker now took the podium, telling tearful stories about the vanished ones, or proposing strategies that seemed to Eddie completely ineffectual, or expressing fear and concern for their own lives. But The Gulloon kept his eye on Father Squid, who stood to one side with his still-powerful arms crossed above his substantial belly.
Eddie wasn’t a religious man, and he wasn’t a member of Father Squid’s congregation. But he was a joker. And watching Father Squid standing there, looking over the crowd, he knew that the old pastor would do anything in his power to protect every joker in Jokertown.
Even him.
No matter how much of a worthless little shit he might be.
Eddie got an assignment from the J. Peterman catalog drawing men’s shirts for their incredibly fussy art director—a royal pain, but the job paid really well.
He didn’t peep at all; he didn’t draw any salacious cartoons; he tried hard not to even have any impure thoughts. Instead, he drew a long, hallucinatory fantasy story involving Gary Glitch and Zip the Hamster on a cross-country road trip. But after a couple of days without peeping he woke up from a lucid, lurid dream of The Gulloon peering into basement windows, only to realize that it wasn’t a dream. Eddie hustled his character back to the apartment and dispelled him immediately.
It was far from the first time he’d manifested his characters while sleeping. In fact, that was how he’d started. He hadn’t realized the dreams of his characters wandering his own neighborhood had been the manifestation of a wild card talent until one of the other group home residents described a really strange-looking joker she’d seen peering in her window. But ever since he’d started peeping consciously it happened only rarely.
But now it was starting again. As Eddie stared at the spot on the floor where he’d dismissed the easygoing Gulloon, he wondered what Mister Nice Guy or LaVerne VaVoom might get up to if he couldn’t keep control of them.
For that matter, what if they’d already gotten up to something? He didn’t always remember his dreams.
He spent the rest of that night staring at the ceiling and worrying.
“Morning, Eddie,” Beastie said, strolling up to the station house door. It was exactly eight in the morning and Eddie had been nervously shifting from foot to foot on the sidewalk for twenty minutes. If he’d been built for pacing, that’s what he would have been doing. “So Lupo convinced Franny to call you in again?”
Eddie took off his hat to get a better look at Beastie’s face. “No, I’m—I’m here as a concerned citizen. I was wondering if there had been any other sightings in the, uh, the monkey-faced Peeping Tom case.”
Beastie shrugged. “Haven’t heard of any such thing.”
That was a relief, but something else Beastie had said nagged at Eddie’s mind. “Wait, what was that about Lupo?”
Beastie rolled his eyes. “He’s been in here every damn day, hoping for some kind of protection, but after a while he figured out that wasn’t going to happen. Now he’s telling anyone who will sit still that he’s remembered more details about the snatchers and demanding another session with the sketch artist. Some of us are starting to wonder if he really saw anything in the first place.”
Eddie considered the question. “I think he really did. He was a little fuzzy on the details, but I don’t think he was making it up or hallucinating.”
A rough, growling voice interrupted the conversation. “Oh, thank God you’re here!” Eddie looked up to see Lupo running down the sidewalk toward him. Beastie spread his hands in a see what I mean? gesture. “I mean that, Eddie,” Lupo panted as he came to an unsteady halt, hands on knees, before the station house steps. “I literally thank my Higher Power that you are here. I was beginning to think no one was listening to me.”
Eddie shook his head. “I’m not here because I got called back for you. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten called back on the same case. Memories fade with time. You have to get them when they’re fresh.”
“This is fresh, Eddie. I saw him again! The fourth snatcher!”
Eddie and Beastie looked at each other. “When?” Eddie asked.
“Just this morning.”
“Really?” Beastie asked, not quite condescendingly. “The timing is awfully convenient.”
Lupo raised a hand. “Swear to God.” The raised palm was scrubbed and pink, though lines of dirt remained ground into its creases. “I saw him on Bond Street, just around the corner from my hotel.” The whites showed all around his eyes. “They’re looking for me, Eddie! They know I saw them, and now they’re going to snatch me too!”
Beastie didn’t seem convinced. “You’re absolutely sure it was him?”
“Look, I know I haven’t always been the most reliable witness. But my mind is much clearer now. I haven’t touched a drop in two days.” Lupo crouched down, bringing his head to Eddie’s eye level. “You gotta give me another shot, Eddie.”
“It’s not my decision.” Eddie looked to Beastie. “But for what it’s worth … I believe him.”
Lupo’s heavy, lupine head swiveled between Eddie and Beastie. “I can give you a good description of the fourth snatcher now. Please.” His big brown eyes were impossibly sad and soulful. “Please?”
Beastie sighed. “I’ll pass the information up the line.”
Lupo and Eddie sat on a hard bench outside the wardroom door while Beastie went in to talk with Franny. This wasn’t exactly how Eddie had planned to spend the morning, but if he could get another few hours of composite sketch work out of it he wouldn’t turn the money down. Anyway, pulling himself away from the desperate, pleading wolf-man would have seemed rude.
“I’m a new man, Eddie, I swear. You’ll see. I was all messed up last time.”
Eddie had to admit that Lupo was not only cleaner, he seemed more alert. And his voice, though still sounding a bit odd because of the shape of his mouth, wasn’t at all slurred. “You’re really serious about this.”
“I’ve never been more serious in my life. There’s nothing like the fear of getting snatched to make a man sit up and take notice of what’s going on around him.” He sighed. “Or what’s going on inside him. I’ve made a mess of my life, I admit it. Maybe this is the wake-up call I’ve needed. I hope it isn’t too late.”
“It’s never too late,” Eddie said, though Lupo looked to be sixty or seventy … not an easy time of life to make a fresh start. “Even for people like us.”
“People like us?”
Eddie winced, sure he’d crossed a line. Not even jokers liked to be equated with an ugly lump of flesh like him. “Sorry…”
“No, no, I’m not insulted. Just surprised to hear you say it. You’re an artist, a professional … I figured you for an East Village type, not a J-town boy like me.”
At that Eddie snorted. “Hardly. I live in an efficiency about a mile from here. Heart of Jokertown.”
“No shit? Why haven’t I seen you around the neighborhood?”
“I don’t get out much.” Not in person, anyway. Eddie cleared his throat. “I hear things, though. Rumors. Some kind of monkey-faced Peeping Tom, looking in windows at night. Maybe a whole gang of Peeping Toms. Have you heard about anything like that?”
“Not lately.” Lupo’s lip drew back, exposing yellowed fangs. “But two years ago … I was staying at my sister’s place, and she came screaming out of her bedroom saying that some big-eared little bastard was on her fire escape watching her undress. I couldn’t get the window open, but I got a look at the guy before he escaped.” His hairy hands balled into fists. “I might be a joker, I might be an alcoholic, I might even have sold a few things that didn’t exactly belong to me, but I’d never stoop that low. If I ever catch that little asshole…” He smacked a fist into the opposite hand, and Eddie realized there was still some serious muscle under the ex-bartender’s fat. “He’ll be sorry.”
Eddie was ashamed to admit that he had no idea which of the many women he’d peeped in on had been Lupo’s sister. The incident didn’t st
and out from so many similar ones in his memory. “Sorry to hear about that,” he said aloud.
“You wouldn’t believe the shit that goes down in Jokertown.” He blinked. “Or maybe you would. How long you lived here?”
“Almost ten years.”
“So you never saw the Palace before the fire?”
“No. I’ve heard about it, though. Was it really as crazy as they say?”
“Crazier.” He grinned, an evil thing full of yellow teeth. “One time I was damn near killed by a panda bear. A panda bear! In a bar! Where else but the Palace?”
He went on like that for a while, sharing fascinating anecdotes about people and places that were nearly legends to Eddie, until the wardroom door opened and Franny emerged. “Beastie tells me you saw the fourth snatcher?” he said to Lupo. He seemed half hopeful and half dubious.
“It’s true! Swear to God!”
Franny didn’t look convinced. He turned to Eddie. “You’ve been talking with him. Do you believe him?”
Eddie nodded. “I do, actually.”
“Would you be willing to do a few more sketches?”
“Sure, if you’re paying. But I don’t have my stuff with me.”
The detective set his jaw and did his best to look decisive. “All right. Come back in an hour and I’ll try to find you an interrogation room.”
After Franny left, Lupo said, “Thanks for standing up for me.”
“You’re welcome. And thanks for the stories.”
The second session went much more smoothly than the first. Sober, Lupo turned out to be as keen an observer as he’d claimed to be, and in less than an hour they had a good sketch of the fourth snatcher, a hulking blond nat with a broken nose. Lupo also remembered some more details about the other two nats—one had a badly scarred ear, the other a tattoo on his left wrist that Franny identified as a Russian gang mark. “This will be very helpful,” he said. “It might not hold up in court, but if we can use it to pull in a suspect, that’s a start.”
Behind the detective’s back, Lupo gave Eddie a thumbs-up.
Eddie didn’t even want to admit to himself how good that small gesture made him feel.
That night, instead of peeping, Eddie sent Mister Nice Guy out to prowl the streets on foot, peering at faces. Eddie had not been allowed to keep a copy of the sketches he’d made, but after so many hours with Lupo he knew the snatchers well, especially Fish-Face.
Mister Nice Guy had no trouble blending in with the street traffic in the shabby joker neighborhood near where the snatch had taken place. Pale and big-nosed he might be, but he was humanoid enough to pass for a joker as long as no one bumped into him.
It felt weird to just be walking around on the sidewalk like a normal person, not skulking and sneaking, and not the subject of stares and comments. By comparison with Eddie a cartoon character was normal, at least in Jokertown.
The people on the Jokertown streets at this hour were a mix of types, fashionable bohemians as well as drunks and thugs. A joker couple strolled down the sidewalk tentacle-in-pincer, their clear affection for each other making them cute. A trio of teenaged nats crept about, hesitant and frightened, pointing and giggling when they thought no one was looking. A muscular joker strode past them, heads high and chins up, his four-eyed glare forcing them to silence. But none of them resembled any of the snatchers.
As he walked, Eddie tried to think himself into the snatchers’ shoes. Where might they have taken the struggling joker after tying him up? Where else might they be hanging out right now, preparing for another snatch? Were they even now closing in on Lupo, the only witness?
There were so many places to watch.
Fortunately, Eddie could be in more than one place at a time.
Back in the apartment, he opened his eyes and sketched up Zip the hyperactive hamster. A vibrating football-sized furball of nervous energy, Zip barely paused after being created, immediately bounding to the countertop and through the gap in the window. He tore across rooftops in the direction of the White House Hotel, hoping to catch Lupo there or nearby.
It took effort to maintain two characters at once, but it felt good, like the stretch he felt during an intense chiropractic session.
And he was doing it to help other people, for once. To try to catch the snatchers, prevent another snatch, protect his friend.
No. Protect an important witness.
No one could consider lumpy, ugly Eddie a friend.
Zip dashed through the night under a cloudless spring sky, the wind cool on his fur.
Saturday night. Eddie was out in force, with Mister Nice Guy barhopping and The Gulloon wandering back alleys. Gary Glitch was keeping an eye on Lupo, who sat on a bench in Chatham Square chatting with some of his buddies.
It had been three days that he’d been patrolling instead of peeping, staying up until two or three A.M. every night, but what sleep he’d gotten had been deep and dreamless. At night he felt alive, moving his characters around Jokertown like chess pieces, scanning and searching the crowds for the snatchers’ faces.
Switching his attention among three different characters, all of them moving and active, was a challenge. Sometimes he realized that he’d left one standing stock-still, unobservant, defenseless. When he discovered these situations his heart pounded, but so far none of his characters had gotten into any serious trouble because of it.
It seemed that just about any kind of appearance or behavior was acceptable in Jokertown at night. If only it wasn’t so hard for Eddie to move around, he might even …
Suddenly something tugged at his attention. It was Gary Glitch, hidden under a bush a few yards from Lupo’s bench.
One of the passing faces seemed familiar. In fact, that same face had passed this spot a few times recently.
Eddie sent Gary scampering across the cold sidewalk, through the soft spring grasses, and up a tree to where he could get a better look at the burly, frowning pedestrian loitering on the far side of the park’s play structure.
He seemed to be keeping a covert eye on Lupo as he paced the sidewalk behind the playground, sucking on a cigarette.
He was a nat, big and muscular, Caucasian with an ash-blond buzz cut.
He had a badly scarred ear.
Gary clambered down the tree and crept across the grass to another bush, just a few feet from the guy. He didn’t exactly resemble the sketch that Eddie had made of the second snatcher, but then again he didn’t exactly not resemble it. The sketch was pretty generic—it had been drawn while Lupo was still under the influence—and though the scarred ear was a strong identifier, in this part of town knife scars weren’t that uncommon.
Eddie wasn’t sure what to do.
There was little he could do, anyway. Eddie’s characters didn’t have a lot of physicality to them; they could make noise, maybe lift a few things as long as they weren’t too heavy, but they were too fragile for fighting.
He’d keep an eye on the situation. Maybe if it seemed that Lupo were in danger he could have Gary shout a warning.
With another part of his attention, Eddie started Mister Nice Guy and The Gulloon moving toward Chatham Square. But neither of them was as fast as Gary; it would be half an hour or more before they arrived.
A burst of chat and laughter from Lupo’s bench drew Gary’s attention. Gary saw Lupo stand up, shaking hands and high-fiving his friends, then zip up his jacket and set off in the direction of the White House.
The muscular stranger took a drag on his cigarette, ground it out under his boot heel, and moved off in the same direction.
Keeping out of sight as much as possible, Gary followed.
As the stranger walked—loitering, in no visible hurry, but nonetheless managing to stay within a block of Lupo—he pulled out a phone and muttered a few words in what sounded like Russian. A few minutes later Gary saw him nod to another man across the street.
Fish-Face.
He wore a black leather jacket, scarred and torn at the elbows, and the streetl
ight gleamed on the silvery, slimy skin of his bald head. His eyes were big, black, and dead, exactly as Lupo had described, though Lupo had failed to mention the fin-like ears and had, if anything, underestimated the toothy horror of the fishy joker’s mouth. He was bad news, no question.
Fish-Face and Scarred Ear stayed on opposite sides of the street, leapfrogging each other as they moved along in Lupo’s wake. Lupo, oblivious, was enjoying the cool spring air, ambling along, stopping from time to time to chat with friends on the street. He had a lot of them.
Eddie didn’t know what to do. The snatchers were big, strong, and probably experienced fighters, there were two of them, and they had the advantage of surprise. If Gary let Lupo know he was being tailed, whether quietly or by shouting, Eddie didn’t doubt that Lupo would turn and try to fight them—and get himself snatched.
Could he defuse the situation by attracting the attention of passersby? Hardly. It was nearly two in the morning, on a side street in the Bowery, and the few passersby were most likely as plastered as Lupo on a bad day.
Back in the apartment, Eddie opened his eyes and looked at the phone that sat near his bed. All he had to do was dial 9-1-1.
But Eddie’s voice and phone number would be recorded, and sooner or later he’d have to explain how a crippled stay-at-home joker could be an eyewitness to a crime—a potential crime—more than a mile away.
Gary Glitch could pick up a pay phone, if he could find one, or dash into an all-night convenience store and raise the alarm. But Gary Glitch was wanted for peeping, and with his distinctive face and build Stevens would recognize him immediately. If Gary ever came to the attention of the police, Eddie might have to retire him permanently.
While Eddie fretted, Lupo continued to make his way home. He was now a block from his hotel; the two thugs following him were now on the same side of the street. Half a block behind Lupo and closing in fast, they were no longer making an effort to conceal themselves. Lupo was oblivious, whistling an old disco tune as he strolled along.
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