Wild Cards V

by George R. R. Martin

  She woke up from the nightmare with a small cry, quickly stifled by the heavy atmosphere of the library. She had been in a religious painting she had seen as a child, the Crucifixion. But it was her broken body on the center cross, with Chris hanging on her right and her father on her left. Rosemary put her arms around herself to stop the trembling.

  Bagabond woke instantly, the warning of danger as insistent as a cat’s claws set in her skin. She separated the thought-streams entering her own mind and found the sending carrying the cry for help. There was still a shock when she recognized Jack Robicheaux down the alley. The strength and clarity of the sending told her that the creature observing the scene in the alley was the black. So that’s where he had been for the last few days. When he vanished, she had not followed him mentally except to make sure he was alive and well.

  Silently she told him to return home. He snarled at the suggestion. He and Jack had been close since they had first met. The black’s curiosity about the man/big-lizard had created a bond. The black focused on the tableau at the end of the streetlight-spotted alley. Jack was trapped by a much larger man who taunted him. Despite herself, Bagabond allowed the black to transmit more and draw her into the situation.

  “Hey, fucking faggot! Guess taking off down this alley wasn’t so smart, huh?” The hulk looming over Jack was ugly, with close-set eyes and a sloping forehead. Bagabond suddenly recognized him. Bludgeon. She’d seen him once before in the Tombs with Rosemary. He was just as mean and just as stupid as he looked. Jack was in trouble, but Jack could handle himself.

  “All I wanted to do was play wit’cha a little. An’ I know you faggots jus’ love rough trade.”

  “You don’t want to mess with me, man.” Jack was plastered against the fence cutting off the alley. “I’m a lot more trouble than I look.”

  “Oh, I wanna mess wit’ chou, pretty-boy. I’m gonna start wit’ your face and work down, pervert. Ain’t nobody gonna want you when I get through.” Bludgeon reached out for Jack, but the smaller man ducked under the paw.

  “Please, I don’t want to hurt you. Just leave me alone.” Jack’s voice shook. Bagabond wondered why he was so afraid. “You won’t like what you see.”

  “You think you know that gook chop-sockey stuff, huh?” Bludgeon laughed, and even Bagabond winced at the sound like gears stripping. “It’s okay. I’m part of the Family now. I got me an insurance plan.”

  The black was more insistent as he sensed Bagabond’s reluctance to help his other human friend. It transferred to pain in Bagabond’s own mind. She sent Jack’s refusal to help her and Rosemary back out to the black, but the cat would not turn away. Tiring of watching the two men spar, Bagabond called the black to return and showed him Jack’s transformation to alligator. If he didn’t want her help, fine. She wouldn’t force it on him. He thought he didn’t need her around, okay.

  The black’s wild anger at her stand surged back at her and she cut off contact. It wasn’t her problem anymore. She lifted her hands to probe gently at the pain in her temples. The black had overridden her defenses because she had not expected his response. Christ, what was wrong with everyone? Why did everybody hate her now?

  Curled upon a pile of rags in a steam tunnel yards below the surface, Bagabond had slept for hours. Despite her best efforts, the headache clung on. She couldn’t reach the black either, although she knew he wasn’t dead. She searched through her layers of clothing until she found the strapless wristwatch she used when she needed to keep track of time. Less than an hour until she was supposed to meet Paul. She’d be late. It would take half an hour to get to C.C.’s, where she had taken to keeping dresses and suits that had to be hung up. Stupid game. With a little luck C.C. would be working in the studio and never know she had been there.

  The only luck she’d had all week actually happened. The red light was on over the door to C.C.’s studio, so Bagabond got in and out without distraction. Still, the always-late Paul was standing in the bar waiting at West Fourth Street where they were meeting for dinner before a movie. Dinner was pleasant, but Bagabond knew that Paul was not entirely there even as he regaled her with tales of the latest escapades and defenses he had encountered during the last week.

  “So then this guy starts claiming that his what-do-you-call-it, his ancient Persian contact, told him that this other poor guy was really an ancient Greek and a personal enemy. And he starts ‘channeling’ right there in the courtroom. Lots of grunts, rolling around on the floor, speaking in tongues—who knows if it’s Persian. The judge breaks two gavels screaming for order while the schmuck’s defense attorney is alternately calling for a doctor for his client and trying to build a defense based on this fit. He did get a continuance. Which means I have to go back in there with those idiots next week. Oy vay, as my sainted mother used to say.” Paul Goldberg grinned over the cheesecake at her. “So, how was your week?”

  “The animals are all okay. No major problems.”

  “What a city to be a veterinarian in. Between poodles and rottweilers, I don’t know how you manage.”

  “That’s why I try to stick to cats, with the occasional exotic rat or raccoon.” Bagabond smiled across the table, wondering why she had ever come up with this story. Paul’s mood changed abruptly.

  “Listen, I need to talk to you. Can we skip the movie tonight?” Paul stared into his coffee cup as if the swirls of cream would reveal his future.

  “Sounds serious.”

  “It is. At least I think it is. You’re the sensible sort. You’ll tell me if you think I’m crazy.”

  “Just don’t start speaking in Persian.”

  “Right.” He picked up the check. “This one’s mine. Don’t argue.”

  They took a cab over to Paul’s huge two-level apartment on the Upper East Side. He said almost nothing, just examined her hands with their short, blunt nails and joked about her lack of claws. Once up in the apartment he made coffee and put on Paul Simon. When he finally sat down, it was in a chair he pulled to face her rather than on the couch beside her.

  “There are some things happening down at the office. Weird stuff. I need a second opinion. You’re probably not the best person to ask, for a number of reasons, but you’re a friend and that’s what I need right now.” He rolled the coffee cup between his palms.

  “I’m here.” Bagabond knew she wasn’t going to like what he was about to say.

  “I think somebody’s gone bad. I’ve got people out on the street, snitches, we all do. Rumors are springing up about the DA’s office. Rumors about Mafia connections.”

  “What sort of Mafia connections?” Bagabond got up and walked around the white-on-white living room.

  “Nothing specific. But I do know that the last three raids on Mafia operations have netted us nothing, just a few minor soldiers, virtually no drugs or guns. We’re being given enough to keep us happy, but not enough to do actual damage.” Paul looked up at Bagabond. “We’re being used. The raids on the Mafia’s enemies are always well-informed and almost always effective in hurting the opposition. And I think I know why.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Bagabond sipped her coffee and pondered her options. If she killed him here, she had been seen and would be a suspect. Rosemary might or might not protect her.

  “I can’t trust anyone in the DA’s office. And I’m not so sure about the mayor’s office either.” Paul put down his cup and paced across his living room in front of the fireplace. “I want to go to the press. The Times.”

  “Are you absolutely certain about your information?” Bagabond stared past Paul into the flames. Rosemary had left herself open to this. She had not been careful enough.

  “Absolutely. I can corroborate everything I’ve said.” Paul turned his back to her and warmed his hands over the fire. Bagabond stared into the back of his head. “But I’m hoping that the situation can be salvaged. If the person in question comes to their senses—maybe all this can be avoided. There are some other strange things going on here
too. Some of this information that I have appears to have come directly from the Mafia. That I don’t understand.”

  Bagabond remembered Chris Mazzucchelli. She had never trusted the man regardless of Rosemary’s attachment to him. Was he betraying Rosemary?

  “You have to do what your conscience tells you. But if these people are really mafiosi, isn’t that a little dangerous?” Bagabond remembered Rosemary’s telling her how everything was going to be different now that she was in charge. Rosemary had made her decision.

  “True. That’s one of the reasons I’m telling you. I’ve told some other people, given them the evidence. I didn’t want to endanger you with it.” Paul seemed relieved that she had not openly recognized Rosemary from the description. Bagabond wondered if this conversation had been a trap of some sort. Had she failed or won?

  Paul put his arms around her and pulled her close. Bagabond did not resist, but she did not encourage him. She awkwardly embraced him in return.

  “You could stay over tonight.” Paul kissed her forehead.

  “No. Paul, I’m just not ready to get involved that way. I’m old-fashioned, I guess.” Bagabond pushed him away. “I need time.”

  “We’ve been seeing each other for months. I still don’t know where you live. What is it about me that you don’t trust?” Paul stood in front of her with his hands dangling at his sides.

  “It’s not you. It’s me.” Bagabond avoided his eyes. “Give me time. Or don’t. It’s your choice.”

  “My choice?” Paul shook his head in resignation. “This would be easier if you weren’t so damned intriguing. Next Friday, dinner and, I promise, a movie next time. Meet me here?”

  “Okay. Good luck. At work.” Bagabond didn’t know whether she meant it for Paul or for Rosemary.

  Bagabond watched the muzzle-flashes and heard the sound of pistols, rifles, and shotguns going off and destroying the night as she circled the building. With a small army of rats, cats, and a few wild dogs, she was patrolling the perimeter, as Rosemary had put it in their meeting two days ago. Whenever anyone tried to break and run, she and the animals drove them back to the waiting police.

  She almost tripped over a body, face blown off by a shotgun blast. As she retreated, she ran into a black cop. He caught her gently and steadied her.

  “Ma’am, it’d be better if you found someplace else to sleep tonight.” His big hands turned her away from the battle toward the quiet surrounding streets. Those hands reminded her of Bludgeon’s reaching for Jack. She twisted free, leaving a dirty leather coat in his hands, and limped swiftly away.

  When she found herself hidden in the darkness again, she made contact with her animals. The ginger remained with her at all times, but the others ranged around the building. With the eyes of a rat crouched on a pile of garbage, she followed the slow progress of a young Oriental man who was attempting to flee the fight. A trail of blood followed him, dripping down the right leg of his pants. She smelled it and so did the escaped rottweiler that suddenly filled the mouth of the alley. The Vietnamese gasped and began to back slowly down the alley. Holding the dog back, Bagabond pulled the rottweiler onto her haunches, and the dog howled a summons to the sky.

  There was water everywhere. Rosemary had said that a new ace named Water Lily would be there that night. Bagabond had grown tired of splashing through puddles. The bottom six inches of her coats and skirts were soaked through and so were her boots. Where was all the water coming from? She hoped there weren’t any fires in Jokertown tonight.

  Even though it revealed her presence, Bagabond had set up a fireline of feral cats to prevent any jokers from coming closer than a couple of blocks away from the fighting. The Jokertown warehouse at the center of the ring of protection was, according to Rosemary, one of the major Shadow Fist weapons storage areas. Bagabond’s concentration was flagging. Rosemary had given little thought to how long her pet ace could continue to scan through animals’ minds and control hundreds of them in coordinated action.

  The ginger cat snarled and woke Bagabond from her reverie. She straightened up from the wall she had leaned against to conserve her strength. Holding an Uzi in firing position, another Vietnamese was making his way down the dark street, moving from shadow to shadow without a sound. Bagabond fixed on him, then called the rats. Within seconds a hundred rats attacked the man, driving him back. They leaped up his pants and ran up his flailing arms, biting his face and neck. Their sheer numbers tripped him as they covered the ground beneath his feet. He screamed. The Uzi began firing and did not stop, its pulsing fire echoing between the walls in an eerie rhythm to the man’s screams. Both climbed the scale until the Uzi ran out of ammunition and the man’s throat was too raw to make another sound. It was a silence broken only by the scrabbling rats. Bagabond sent them scurrying away to a new position. The sight of the man in his pool of blood disturbed her. He should not have struggled.

  Lasers arced through the sky above the building, surgically cutting it apart. When the beams hit Water Lily’s puddles, clouds of steam rose. The intermittently lit scene reminded Bagabond of a Ken Russell staging of hell.

  Using the kitten Bagabond had left with her, Rosemary called her. Bagabond turned and left the body. He had done nothing to her. He would not feed her or the animals. What right did she have to kill him?

  When Bagabond arrived, Rosemary had stepped back into a deep, shadowed doorway to wait for her. The bag lady slipped along the wall, remembering the Vietnamese maneuvering in the same way minutes before. No one saw her.

  “What do you see?” Rosemary had no time for preliminaries.

  “We got everyone. Nobody escaped through my eyes.”

  “Good, good. The bastards won’t forget this one soon.” Rosemary was pleased, but her thoughts were elsewhere. “You see, I knew you could do a lot for me.”

  Rosemary stepped out into the street as a policeman stepped up to greet her.

  “Great job! Those aces of yours really made the difference, much as I hate to admit it. That black guy—the Hammer?—something else. Gave me a chill just being around him and that cloak of his.” The captain thrust out his hand in congratulations.

  “Glad we could help, Captain. But the Harlem Hammer is still out of the country. Sure it wasn’t one of your undercover people?” Rosemary smiled and shook his hand. “By the way, could you have one of your officers help this lady out of the area?” Rosemary nodded toward Bagabond, who waited next to the doorway. “She got herself a little lost.”

  Before the cop could catch her, Bagabond moved down the sidewalk and ducked into an alley. She took a moment to scatter her gathered animals before following the ginger into a manhole she had left open earlier. In the wet night below the streets she considered what she had accomplished. To what end? So that Rosemary’s Mafia could carry on? At least a score of rats, a cat, and one of the dogs had been lost tonight. Not again, Rosemary. Your games aren’t worth it to me. Catching the gleam of the ginger’s eyes, she followed her home through the tunnels.

  When Rosemary got to the Gambione penthouse, Chris was already there. He was sitting in the chair at the head of the conference table in her father’s library. He said nothing while she took a seat next to him.

  “We’ve got trouble.” Chris reached out and took her hand. “Paul Goldberg knows who you are.”

  “How?” Rosemary simultaneously felt fear and a strange, small relief that the masquerade was over.

  “That we don’t know, but it doesn’t matter much now, does it? We’ve been watching your office on general principles and found this stuff in his apartment.” Chris shoved an envelope across the table at her. When she opened it, she discovered pictures of herself and her father, records, everything they needed to pin her to a wall.

  “We’ve got to get rid of him.” Chris drummed his fingers on the oak tabletop. “But I wanted to get your okay first. He is one of your employees after all.”

  “Of course, immediately.” Rosemary kept staring at the photographs and moving
them around. “Did he give it to anyone? Who else knows?”

  “I think we got him in time.” Chris picked one of the pictures and looked at it almost idly. “I’d suggest you check with your great, good friend Suzanne, however. They’ve been seen together.”

  “Jesus, she and Paul have been dating. I don’t know what she’ll do if he’s hit. She’s not very stable sometimes.”

  “So you want us to wait on the hit? Come on, you know it’s either him or you.” Chris tipped the heavy chair back on its rear legs.

  “No, take him out. Take him now. If he hasn’t had time to tell anybody, I’ll still be safe.” Rosemary turned her head from side to side as if seeking an escape route.

  “It’s the only good choice. I’ll take care of it. Unless…” Chris set the chair down with a small crash that was quickly dampened by the heavy rug.

  “No. You do it.” Rosemary looked up at him gratefully. “Thank you.”

  Smiling broadly, he leaned over and kissed her. “No problem. That’s what I’m here for.”

  Walking around the corner of Paul’s high rise, Bagabond simultaneously tugged her skirt down and tried to avoid the puddles left by the afternoon rain. The doorman held open the heavy glass door for her with a badly hidden smirk that told her he had seen her adjustments. She considered making his life a little more miserable by perching a pigeon directly above him, but he was not worth it. She had more important things on her mind. It would depend, she had decided, but she might stay with Paul tonight. She still felt a little queasy about the decision.

  She waved at Marty, who nodded and checked her off on his guest register. As always, the echoes of her heels tapping across the marble made her self-conscious. The elevator took forever. She had determined that everyone who had seen her come in knew what she was thinking about Paul by the time it showed up. This was ridiculous. She was an adult for Christ’s sake. One deep breath and she was in the car headed for Paul’s thirty-second-floor apartment.