Wild Cards V

by George R. R. Martin

  “He was executed?” the reporter asked stupidly.

  “Yes, he was a first-degree murderer. He had turned some people into pillars of salt.”

  “You made that promise to Gary Gilmore?” the reporter asked incredulously, his face ashen.

  “Absolutely. Though maybe he wasn’t a joker, maybe some people would call him an ace, or an individual with some of the powers you’d expect from an ace. I don’t really know. I’m only finding some of these things out.”

  “I see. And has your opening of the Jokertown mission had any effect on your position toward jokers’ rights?”

  “Not at all. The common man still must be protected, but I have always emphasized that we must deal with the victims of the virus compassionately.”

  “I see.” The reporter’s face remained ashen, while the sound man and the Minicam operator smiled smugly. Evidently they realized, as the young preacher realized, that the reporter lacked the quick wit necessary to ask a logical follow-up question.

  But since the young preacher was feeling fairly merciful—as well as confident that he had just achieved his sixty-second “bite” on the news—he felt like giving the reporter a break. A slight break. “My companion and I must get something to eat, but I think we have time for one more question.”

  “Yes, there is something else I’m sure our viewers would like to know. You’ve made no secret of your presidential ambitions.”

  “That is true, but I really have nothing further to add on the subject right now.”

  “Just answer this, sir. You’ve just turned thirty-five, the minimum age for that office, but some of your potential opponents have stated that a man of thirty-five can’t possibly have the experience in life that’s necessary for the job. How do you respond to that?”

  “Jesus was only thirty-three when he changed the world for all time. Surely a man who’s reached the grand old age of thirty-five can have some positive effect. Now if you’d excuse me…” Taking Belinda May by the arm, he brushed past the reporter and the crew and walked into the restaurant.

  “I’m sorry, Leo, I didn’t know…” she said.

  “That’s all right. I think I handled them well enough, and besides, I’ve been meaning to tell that story for some time.”

  “Did you really meet Gary Gilmore?”

  “Yes. It’s been a fairly well kept secret. There really hadn’t been the need to publicize it before now, though it might do the mission some good in the public relations arena.”

  “Then maybe you have met Mailer? He said he hadn’t been able to confirm all the identities of the people who saw Gilmore toward the end.”

  “Please, we have to have keep secrets from one another. Otherwise what would we discover about each other tomorrow?”

  “Would you like a table for two?” asked the maître d’, a tuxedoed, fish-faced man weaing a water helmet for breathing purposes. The words from the speaker grill on the helmet gurgled eerily.

  “Yes, in the back, please,” said the young preacher.

  When they were alone at the booth, Belinda May lit yet another cigarette and said, “If those reporters find out about us, would it help if we assure them we’re only going to use the missionary position?”

  V

  Quasiman did not fear death, and death certainly did not fear him. Quasiman lived with a little piece of death in his soul every day, a little bit of terror and beauty, of blood and thunder. Fragments of his forthcoming demise perpetually crashed together with fleeting images of his previral past inside his brain.

  How distant were those fragments? Quasiman had the distinct sensation the future might be closer than he had hoped.

  He shuffled up to a newsstand and stood before the rows of girlie magazines. He thought how there had been something tantalizingly familiar about the face of the man he had bumped into, something that eluded him as parts of his brain twisted into another dimension. Quasiman would have dropped everything until enough of his brain had reassembled in one plane for him to remember, but right now he figured it was more important to remember why he had come to the Edge tonight in the first place.

  Suddenly his hand became very cold. He looked down at it. It had gone somewhere else, and his wrist tapered off into a stub as if the hand had become transparent. He knew it was still attached because otherwise he would be feeling intense pain, as he had when an extradimensional creature had eaten a stray toe. The extreme cold numbed his arm all the way to his shoulder, but there was nothing he could do about that, except suffer until the hand returned. Which would be soon enough. Probably.

  Even so, he couldn’t help thinking about how Christ had visited a synagogue and cured a man who had a withered hand.

  Something in his heart like faith told him Father Squid had sent him to the Edge tonight on a mission. Whether or not the idea for the mission had originated in Father Squid’s fevered mind was a moot point—many from all walks of life requested assistance from the Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Misery, and Father Squid was only too happy to provide it, if he saw that only good could result.

  Quasiman shuffled up and down the street, casing out the scene. His suspicions were aroused by a few of the men sitting at some tables on the sidewalk. The rumpled clothing of a man at the newsstand, come to think of it, had indicated he probably wasn’t the type who’d spend so much time looking at investors’ magazines. Finally, an unusual number of alert, grim-faced men just sat in their cars, watching, waiting. Several little pieces of death manifested themselves in Quasiman’s brain, death that pointed, thank God, at these grim-faced men.

  For a moment Quasiman saw the streets running red with blood. But a closer inspection of the environment indicated the vision had just been an optical illusion, caused by reflecting red neon lights off water collecting in a few large, shallow potholes.

  The revelation could not, however, explain the smell of blood and fear, permeating the air like a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

  As important parts of the muscle group in his right thigh phased into another plane of existence, where the air had a slightly acidic quality, Quasiman shuffled to a street corner. There, pretending to be a beggar, he would wait for the blood and the fear to become real.

  The memory of thunder echoed in his ears.

  VI

  “War is a bad thing for business,” said the Man philosophically. He sat, legs crossed, in a chair in the corner of the room, beside a table and the other chair. He absently rolled his half-smoked cigar in his fingers.

  “It’sss especially bad for the losssers,” said Wyrm with a grin, sitting in the other chair.

  Vito stood at the door with his arms folded across his chest and felt something inside turn to ice. He had assumed, as presumably the Man and the boys had assumed, that this joker was just another businessman whose interests lay outside the law, just as their own did. Vito couldn’t help feeling, however, this Wyrm character had a hidden agenda.

  If the head of the Calvino clan was as disturbed as Vito, though, he gave no indication of it. He conducted himself forcefully, secure in his position as the person who pulled the strings on the other four men in the room. Of these, Mike and Frank were simple enforcers; Vito wasn’t particularly afraid of them, but he wouldn’t want to be on their bad side either. It was always prudent to be a little afraid to Ralphy, even when he was in a good mood.

  Even so, Vito couldn’t help but notice that the Man was deliberately acting deferentially to this joker who couldn’t keep his forked tongue in his mouth. Thus far in the course of their conference, whenever Wyrm had raised his voice, the Man had soothed his feelings. When Wyrm made demands, the Man had said he would see what he and the boys could do to strike a balance. And whenever Wyrm dared the Man to step over a line, the Man politely declined. Vito had to admit to nursing some concern for the future of the Five Families, if they’d have to kowtow to the jokers to survive.

  “Besidesss, a man diesss a little every day,” said Wyrm with a cryptic smile. “What di
fference doesss it make if he diesss all at once?

  The Man laughed. His smile was condescending. If Wyrm noticed the implied insult, he gave no indication. “Once I believed as you,” said the Man. “I took delight in times of trouble and took great relish at seeing my enemies fall. But that was before I got married and began raising a family. I began to yearn for a more orderly way of resolving differences. That is why we are meeting now, so that we can resolve our differences like civilized human beings.”

  “I’m not particularly human.”

  The Man’s face reddened. He nodded. “Forgive me. I did not mean to offend.”

  Vito glanced at Ralphy, leaning against the wall beside a desk. Ralphy’s cheek was twitching, a sign he was getting suspicious. The fingers of his right hand twitched too. Ralphy and the Man exchanged glances, and then as the Man turned back to Wyrm, Ralphy looked meaningfully at Mike and Frank, who sat on the bed, carefully watching the proceedings. Mike and Frank nodded.

  Vito wasn’t exactly sure of the meaning of all those signals, but he definitely wasn’t going to ask.

  “There has been much killing, much bloodshed,” said the Man. “And for what? I do not understand. This is a big town. It is a gateway to the rest of the country. Surely there is enough business for all.”

  Wyrm shrugged. “You don’t underssstand. My asssociates strive for sssomething more than just lining their pocketsss.”

  “That is what I am trying to say,” replied the Man, “though please don’t get me wrong. Greed is a great and noble thing. It makes the world go round. It makes for the bull market.”

  Wyrm shrugged. “Bull or bear, it isss all the same to the man who ownsss the building where the market standsss. My asssociates claim our fair share of every businesss operating in thisss market. What you get out of it isss your own affair, but you will have to bargain with usss first.”

  Ralphy stood straight up. Mike and Frank both reached toward the guns in the holsters beneath their jackets, but they were restrained by a signal the Man made with his forefinger. The silence filled the room like the scent of a crisp pizza in a microwave, and Wyrm ran his forked tongue over his face as if anticipating the tasty morsels to come.

  Vito debated which way he should duck.

  The Man stared at Wyrm for several moments. He thoughtfully rubbed his double chin. He put his cigar in his mouth, took a lighter from his pocket, and in a few seconds had filled the room with the pungent odor of burning Cuban tobacco. “Vito, I am hungry.” He reached for his wallet, which Ralphy took and gave to Vito. “Take my credit cards,” said the Man, “and go to that sushi bar across the street. Order a generous selection. For six! Who knows? By the time you return, our business might be concluded and we’ll be comfortably watching a hockey game. Isn’t that right, Mr. Wyrm?”

  Wyrm hissed in agreement.

  “It’s amazing how the game becomes much more exciting every year,” said the Man, settling back comfortably in his chair. “Tonight’s Ranger game should be a good one, shouldn’t it, Mr. Wyrm?”

  This time Wyrm merely nodded.

  Hustling down the hall toward the elevator, Vito realized how relieved he was to be out of Wyrm’s company, he imagined the Man would feel the same way, and Vito admired the manner in which his boss hid his discomfort. Wyrm seemed not to notice.

  Of course you could never really be sure what a joker noticed, and what he simply chose to ignore.

  VII

  “What is it you people want?” the Man asked Wyrm angrily after Vito had left. “We’re both businessmen. What is it that we can reasonably do to help us live together?”

  Wyrm hissed. “Yesss, that isss the question. The organization I represssent, like the organization you represssent, isss very large. It already hasss consssiderable influence. Ssso naturally it wantsss more.”

  The Man puffed his cigar. “Your ambition has not escaped me,” he said sarcastically.

  Wyrm grinned. “I didn’t think it would. I am merely emphasssizing that, like yourself, I can’t make promisesss for othersss.”

  “Oh, but I can,” said the Man, making a subtle gesture that restrained Ralphy from giving “the signal” to Mike and Frank. “And I gather you can too, otherwise you wouldn’t have taken the trouble to have this meeting with us—alone. We’re not naive, Mr. Wyrm. You must have some bargaining leeway, otherwise there’d be no point in you being so very, very alone.”

  “You are alone, aren’t you?” said Ralphy, completely ignoring the irate glare the Man shot at him as he walked past Wyrm to the window and peeked out the curtain, looking to the streets below.

  “Of courssse,” Wyrm replied.

  Suddenly they heard the sounds of two men arguing in the hall. The tone quickly became violent. They heard the sound of a fist striking a jaw. Someone grunted and thumped hard against a wall. The impact made the floor shake. One of the men snarled a curse and then went thump! against the other wall, twice as loud as before.

  Ralphy turned from the window and said to Mike and Frank, “Check it out.” The noise of the altercation in the hallway continued unabated.

  Mike and Frank walked from the room. Ralphy followed them to the door to make certain it was locked. They heard Mike say something, then the hallway quieted down.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” the Man said.

  “What quessstion isss that?” asked Wyrm, glancing up at Ralphy as the enforcer returned to his position at the window.

  “What can we do to help us live together?”

  “Oh, I think I can come up with a reasssonable anssswer.”

  Then there was a knock at the door.

  “What is it?” Ralphy called out.

  “You better’d come here.” It was Frank.

  “Good,” said the Man, responding to Wyrm’s remark. “The Calvino interests want to be reasonable.”

  Wyrm hissed, his tongue darting in and out.

  Ralphy opened the door and barked, “What, for Christ’s sake?”

  His answer was a gunshot. The bullet ripped a hole the size of a silver dollar in Ralphy’s back and sprayed the room with bright red blood. Ralphy was dead before he hit the floor. He twitched, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

  Standing in the doorway were two toughs wearing Mackintosh coats. Their faces were concealed by plastic masks that, even in his state of surprise and shock, the Man found to be strangely, disturbingly familiar. Between them was Frank, a gun held to his head.

  There was another shot, and an eruption of blood and brains sprayed from Frank’s temple and splattered the door. Frank slumped to the floor.

  “Mike?” said the Man softly. It had been many years since he had personally witnessed violence. He hadn’t refrained because he was afraid, or gotten soft in his old age, but because his lawyers had advised him to conduct his affairs in this manner. So he was a little slow to react, a little slow to realize he was one hundred percent alone.

  By the time he stood up, with the intention of calling to his men on the street, Wyrm had already grabbed him. The Man struggled, but Wyrm was too strong. The Man was like a rag doll in his grip.

  The last thing the Man saw was Wyrm’s open mouth, coming closer to his face. The Man closed his eyes in panic and kept them closed as Wyrm kissed him. The Man tried to scream, then unconsciousness claimed him as Wyrm bit off his lips and spat them across the floor.

  VIII

  “Where is our food?” the young preacher asked, half-impatiently, half-rhetorically. He saw the waitress coming their way, carrying an array of trays on suspiciously wide arms.

  She stopped at a foursome two booths down and served two plates of steamed seafood in kelp boats, plus one of chilled noodles with peanut-miso sauce and another of a variety of meats and vegetables deep-fried tempura style. A large bowl of rice and replenishment of refreshments were quickly added for the entire table.

  The air conditioner carried a fresh whiff of the tempura to the young preacher, and his mouth watered in ant
icipation. The worm of envy gnawed in his soul as he made a quick inspection of the lucky ones whose food had already arrived. They were a team of double-daters. Three, including an Oriental man, seemed normal enough, but he found himself unable to pry his eyes away from the scarlet-skinned victim of the virus, a beautiful woman with soft pink compound eyes like a butterfly’s, and two large blood-red antennae protruding from her forehead. She wore a low-cut gown that revealed her shape to be enticingly, even staggeringly normal. He deduced that the scintillating silver cape hung up on a nearby coatrack belonged to her.

  The dining area of the sushi bar itself was L-shaped, with the front door and the cash register in the middle corner. The young preacher and Belinda May sat in the row of booths at the discreet furthermost edge of the shorter corridor, which was hidden from the storefront window that ran along most of the longer corridor. The young preacher distracted himself from the beautiful ace by watching the fish-faced maître d’ seat a couple who laughed and made jokes between themselves. At the register booth was a somber young man whose slick black hair made him resemble some juvie or punk from a gangster movie.

  “Leo, you’re staring at that woman,” said Belinda May, a mischievous light appearing in her eyes.

  “I was not. I was looking at that boy.”

  “Hmmm. I bet he’s some kind of fledgling gangster. They’re all over the streets tonight, for some reason. Did you notice?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Anyway, you were looking at that ace earlier.”

  “Well, yes. Who is she?”

  “Her name is Pesticide. She’s becoming quite well-known, thanks to that society column she writes for the Jokertown Cry. Anyway, if you’re going to stare at any woman tonight, it’s going to be me.”

  The young preacher raised his cup of coffee as if to make a toast. “It’s a deal.”

  Then the worm of envy finally knew defeat, as the waitress brought their meal. In a few moments all thoughts of small talk were erased as the young preacher reached out for a piece of hirame flounder, its tender white color, like glistening ivory, beckoning him like a white, cool light. The cold rice was scrumptious, the taste of the flounder delectable.