Wild Cards V

by George R. R. Martin

  “You are the Sleeper.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. And if I give you this information, what do you think will happen to me?”

  “Nothing. Who’s to know?”

  Latham sighed. “You place me in an extremely awkward position.”

  “That was my intention”—Croyd glanced at his watch—”and I’m on a tight schedule. I should have begun beating the shit out of you about a minute and a half ago, but I’m trying to be a nice guy about this. What should we do, counselor?”

  “I will cooperate with you,” Latham said, “because I don’t think it will make an iota of difference in what is going on right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can give you a name, but not an address. I do not know from where they do business. We have always met in no-man’s-land or spoken over the telephone. I cannot even give you a telephone number, however, for they have always gotten in touch with me. And I say that it will make no difference because I do not believe that the interests you represent are capable of doing them harm. This group is too well staffed with aces. Also, I am fully convinced that they are going to manage what we might refer to as a “corporate takeover” very soon. Should your employer wish to save lives and perhaps even settle for a bit of pocket money as something of a retirement bonus, I would be happy to try to arrange the terms for such an agreement.”

  “Naw,” Croyd said, “I don’t have any instructions for that kind of deal.”

  “I’d be surprised if you did.” Latham glanced at his telephone. “But if you would like to relay the suggestion, be my guest.”

  Croyd did not move. “I’ll pass the word along, with the name you’re going to give me.”

  Latham nodded. “As you would. My offer to negotiate does not assure the acceptance of any particular terms, though, and I feel obliged to advise you that it may not be acceptable at all to the other side.”

  “I’ll tell them that, too,” Croyd said. “What’s the name?”

  “Also, to be completely scrupulous, I ought to tell you that if you force me to divulge the name, I have a duty to inform my client that this information has been given out, and to whom. I cannot take responsibility for any actions this might precipitate.”

  “The name of my client has not been stated either.”

  “As with so much else in life, we must be guided by certain suppositions.”

  “Stop beating around the bush and give me the name.”

  “Very well,” Latham told him. “Siu Ma.”

  “Say again.”

  Latham repeated the name.

  “Write it down.”

  He jotted the name on a pad, tore off the sheet, and handed it to Croyd.

  “Oriental,” Croyd mused. “I take it this guy is head of a tong or a triad or a yakuza—one of those Asian culture clubs?”

  “Not a guy.”

  “A woman?”

  The attorney nodded. “Can’t give you a description either. She’s probably short, though.”

  Croyd looked fast, but he could not decide whether the residue of a smile lay upon the other’s lips.

  “And I’ll bet she’s not in the Manhattan directory either,” Croyd suggested.

  “Safe bet. So I’ve given you what you came for. Take it home, for all the good it will do you.” He rose then, turned away from his desk, moved to a window, and stared down into traffic. “Wouldn’t it be great,” he said after a time, “if there were a way for you wild card freaks to bring a class action suit against the Takisians?”

  Croyd let himself out, not totally pleased with what he had let himself in for.

  Croyd required a restaurant with a table within shooting distance of a pay phone. He found what he was looking for on his third try, was seated, placed his order, and hurried to make his first call. It was answered on the fourth ring.

  “Vito’s Italian.”

  “This is Croyd Crenson. I want to talk to Theo.”

  “Hold on a minute. Hey, Theo!” Then, “He’s coming.”

  Half a minute. A minute.

  “Yeah?”

  “This Theo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell Chris Mazzucchelli that Croyd Crenson’s got a name for him and needs to know where he wants to hear it.”

  “Right. Call me back in half an hour, forty-five minutes, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Croyd phoned Tavern on the Green then and was able to make reservations for two at eight-fifteen. Then he phoned Veronica. It was answered on the sixth ring.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounded weak, distant.

  “Veronica, love, it’s Croyd. Not to be carried away, but I think I’m just about done with this job and I want to celebrate. What say we cut out about seven-thirty and start doing it?”

  “Oh, Croyd, I really feel shitty. I ache all over, I can’t keep anything down, and I’m so weak I can hardly hold the phone up. It’s gotta be flu. All I’m good for is sleeping.”

  “I’m sorry. You need anything? Aspirins? Ice cream? Horse? Snow? Bombitas? You name it and I’ll pick it up.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet, lover. But no. I’ll be okay, and I don’t want to expose you to this thing. I just want to sleep. Okay?”

  “All right.”

  Croyd headed back to his table. His food arrived moments later. When he finished it, he ordered again and rolled a pair of pills between his thumb and forefinger. Finally he took them with a swallow of iced tea. Then he ordered again and checked various of his personal phones for messages till his next order arrived. He went back and took care of it, then buzzed Theo again.

  “So what’d he say?”

  “I haven’t been able to get hold of him, Croyd. I’m still trying. Get back to me in maybe an hour.”

  “I will,” Croyd said, and he called Tavern on the Green and canceled his reservation, then returned to his table to order a few desserts.

  He phoned before the hour had run as there were a number of matters he was anxious to attend to. Fortunately Theo had made a connection in the meantime, and he gave him an apartment address on the Upper East Side. “Be there nine o’clock tonight. Chris wants you to make a full report to the management.”

  “It’s just a lousy name I could give him over the phone,” Croyd said.

  “I am only a message service, and that is the message.”

  Croyd hung up and paid his tab, the afternoon open before him.

  As he stepped outside, a short, broad-shouldered man with an Oriental cast to his features emerged from a doorway perhaps ten feet to the left, hands within his blue satin jacket, gaze focused on the ground. As he turned toward Croyd, he raised his head and their eyes met for a moment. Croyd felt later that he had known in that instant what was to occur. Whatever the case, he knew for certain a moment later when the man’s right hand emerged from his jacket, fingers wrapped in an unusual grip about the hilt of a long, slightly curved knife, its blade extending back along the man’s forearm, edge outward. Then his left hand emerged as he moved forward, and it held a matching blade in an identical grip. Both weapons moved in unison as his pace accelerated.

  Croyd’s abnormal reflexes took over. As he moved forward to meet the attack, it seemed as if the other had suddenly dropped into slow motion. Turning to match the double-bladed pass, Croyd reached across a line of gleaming metal, caught a hand, and twisted it inward. The weapon’s edge was rotated back toward the attacker’s abdomen. Its point entered there, moved diagonally upward, and was followed by a rush of blood and innards. As the man doubled, Croyd beheld the white egret that decorated the jacket’s back.

  Then the window at his side shattered and the sound of a gunshot rang in his ears. Turning, drawing his collapsed assailant before him, he saw a dark, late-model car moving slowly along the curbside, almost parallel to him. There were two men in the vehicle, the driver and a passenger in the rear seat who was pointing a pistol in his direction through the opened window.

  Croyd moved forward and stuffed the
man he held into the car. He did not fit through the window easily, but Croyd pushed hard and he went in nevertheless, losing only a few pieces along the way. His final screams were mixed with the roar of the engine as the car jumped forward and raced off.

  It had been, he realized, a kind of proof that Latham had told him the truth and nothing but, though not necessarily the whole truth; and by this he was pleased with his work, after a fashion. Now, though, he had to start looking over his shoulder and keep it up till he had his money. And this was aggravating.

  He stepped over some of his attacker’s odds and ends and felt in his pocket for one of his pillboxes. Aggravating.

  As Croyd approached the apartment building that evening, he noted that the man in the car parked before it appeared to be speaking into a small walkie-talkie and staring at him. He’d grown very conscious of parked cars following the second attempt on his life, a little earlier. Massaging his knuckles, he turned suddenly and stepped toward the car.

  “Croyd,” the man said softly.

  “That’s right. We’d better be on the same side.”

  The man nodded and shifted a wad of chewing gum into his left cheek. “You can go on up,” he said. “Third floor, apartment thirty-two. Don’t have to ring. Guy by the door’ll let you in.”

  “Chris Mazzucchelli’s there?”

  “No, but everyone else is. Chris couldn’t make it, but it don’t matter. You tell those people what they want to know. It’s the same as telling him.”

  Croyd shook his head. “Chris hired me. Chris pays me. I talk to Chris.”

  “Wait a minute.” The man pressed the button on his walkie-talkie and began speaking into it in Italian. He glanced at Croyd after a few moments, raised his index finger, and nodded.

  “What’s comin’ down?” Croyd asked when the conversation was concluded. “You find him all of a sudden?”

  “No,” the guard answered, shifting his wad of gum. “But we can satisfy you everything’s okay in just a minute.”

  “Okay,” Croyd said. “Satisfy me.”

  They waited. Several minutes later a man in a dark suit emerged from the building. For a moment Croyd thought it was Chris, but on closer inspection he realized the man to be thinner and somewhat taller. The newcomer approached and nodded to the guard, who nodded at Croyd and said, “There he is.”

  “I’m Chris’s brother,” the man said, smiling faintly, “and that’s as close as we can get at the moment. I can speak for him, and it’s okay for you to tell the gentlemen upstairs what you’ve learned.”

  “Okay,” Croyd said. “That’s good. But I was thinking about collecting the rest of my money from him too.”

  “I don’t know about that. Maybe you better ask Vince about it. Schiaparelli. He sometimes does payroll. Maybe you shouldn’t, though.”

  Croyd turned toward the guard. “You’ve got the bitch-box. You call the guy and ask him. The other side’s already hit on me today for what I got. If my money’s not here, I’m walking.”

  “Wait a minute,” Chris’s brother said. “No reason to get upset. Hang on.”

  He pointed at the walkie-talkie with his thumb and the guard spoke into it, listened, waited, glanced at Croyd.

  “They’re getting Schiaparelli,” the guard said. After a longer while he listened to a low squawking, spoke, listened again, looked at Croyd again. “Yeah, he’s got it,” he told Croyd.

  “Good,” Croyd said. “Have him bring it down.”

  “No, you go up and get it.”

  Croyd shook his head.

  The man stared at him and licked his lips, as if loath to relay the message. “This does not make a very good impression, for it is as if you had no trust.”

  Croyd smiled. “It is also correct. Make the call.”

  This was done, and after a time a heavyset man with graying hair emerged from the building and stared at Croyd. Croyd stared back.

  The man approached. “You are Mr. Crenson?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And you want your money now?”

  “That’s the picture.”

  “Of course I have it here,” the other told him, reaching into his jacket. “Chris sent it along. It will grieve him that you are so suspicious.”

  Croyd held out his hand. When the envelope was placed in it, he opened it and counted. Then he nodded. “Let’s go,” he said, and he followed Schiaparelli and Chris’s brother into the building. The man with the walkie-talkie was shaking his head.

  Upstairs, Croyd was introduced to a group of old and middle-aged men and their bodyguards. He declined a drink, just wanting to give them the name and get out. But it occurred to him that giving them the money’s worth might entail stretching the story out a bit to show that he’d earned it. So he explained things, step by step, from Demise to Loophole. Then he told them of the attempt to take him out following that, interview, before he finally got around to giving them Siu Ma’s name.

  The expected question followed: Where could she be found?

  “This I do not know,” Croyd replied. “Chris asked me for a name, not for an address. You want to hire me to get that for you, too, I suppose I could do it, though it would be cheaper to use your own talent.”

  This drew some surly responses, and Croyd shrugged, said good night, and walked out, stepping up his pace to the blur level as the muscle near the door looked about, as if for orders.

  It was not until a couple of blocks later that a pair of such street troops caught up and attempted to brace him for a refund. He tore out a sewer grating, stuffed their bodies down through the opening, and replaced it, for his final bit of subtlety before closing the books on this one.

  The Hue of a Mind

  by Stephen Leigh

  Wednesday, 9:15 A.M.

  FOR SEVEN DAYS, SINCE Misha had arrived in New York, she had met nightly with the joker Gimli and the abominations he had gathered around him.

  For seven days she had lived in a festering sore called Jokertown, waiting.

  For seven days there had been no visions. And that was most important.

  Visions had always ruled Misha’s life. She was Kahina, the Seeress: Allah’s dreams had shown her Hartmann, the Satan who danced puppets from his clawed hands. The visions had shown her Gimli and Sara Morgenstern. Allah’s visions had led her back to the desert mosque the day after she’d slit her brother’s throat, there to be given by one of the faithful the thing that would give her revenge and bring Hartmann down: Allah’s gift.

  Today was the day of the new moon. Misha took that as an omen that there would be a vision. She had prayed to Allah for well over an hour this morning, the gift He had bestowed upon her cradled in her arms.

  He had granted her nothing.

  When she rose from the floor at last, she opened the lacquered clothes trunk sitting beside the rickety bed. Misha took off her chador and veils, changing into a long skirt and blouse again. She hated the light, brightly colored cloth and the sinful nakedness she felt. The bared arms and face made her feel vulnerable.

  Misha covered Allah’s gift with the folds of the chador she didn’t dare wear here. She had just hidden it under the black cotton when she heard the scrape of a footstep behind her. Mingled fear and anger made her gasp. She slammed down the lid of the clothes trunk and straightened.

  “What are you doing in here?” She whirled around, not even realizing she was shouting in Arabic. “Get out of my room—”

  She’d never felt safe in Jokertown, not once in the week she’d been here. Always before there had been her husband, Sayyid, her brother, the Nur. There had been servants and bodyguards.

  Now Misha was in a country illegally, living alone in a city full of violence, and the only people she knew were jokers. Only two nights before, someone had been shot and killed in the street outside these ramshackle sleeping rooms near the East River. She told herself that it had only been a joker, that the death didn’t matter.

  Jokers were cursed. The abominations of Allah.r />
  It was a joker standing at the door of her dingy room, staring at her. “Get out,” she said in shaky, accented English. “I have a gun.”

  “It’s my room,” the joker said. “It’s my room and I’m taking it back. You’re just a nat. You shouldn’t be here.” The thin, scrawny shape took a step forward into the light from the room’s one window. Misha recognized the joker immediately.

  Gray-white rags of torn cloth were wrapped around his forehead, and the grimy bandages were clotted and brown with old blood. His hair was stiff with it. His hands were similarly covered, and thick red drops oozed through the soaked wrappings to fall on the floor. The clothing he wore over his emaciated body bunched here and there with hidden knots, and she knew that there were other seeping, unclosing wounds on the rest of his body.

  She’d seen him every day, staring at her, watching. He would be in the hallways outside her door, on the street outside the tenement, walking behind her. He’d never spoken, but his rancor was obvious. “Stigmata,” Gimli had told her when she’d confessed his fear of him the first day. “That’s his name. Bleeds all the fucking time. Have some goddamn compassion. Stig’s no trouble to anyone.”

  Yet Stigmata’s sallow, drawn stare frightened her. He was always there, always scowling when she met his gaze. He was a joker, that was enough. One of Satan’s children, devil-marked by the wild card. “Get out,” Misha told him again.

  “It’s my room,” he insisted like a petulant child. He shuffled his feet nervously.

  “You are mistaken. I paid for it.”

  “It was mine first. I’ve always lived here, ever since—” His lips tightened. He drew his right hand into a fist; the sopping bandages rained scarlet as he brandished it before her. His voice was a thin screech. “Ever since this. Came here the night I got the wild card. Nine years ago, and they kick me out ’cause I don’t pay the last couple months. I told ’em I was gonna pay, but they wouldn’t wait. They’ll take nat money instead.”

  “The room’s mine,” Misha repeated.

  “You got my things. I left everything here.”

  “The owner took them, not me—they’re locked in the basement.”