The City That Never Sleeps

by Walton Simons

  The blocks sped by as they moved deeper into Jokertown. His ride was nimble, but didn’t put too much effort into avoiding obstacles. Trash cans were trodden or kicked and left emptied of their contents. He’d even jumped on an old ’68 Dodge Dart and crushed the hood.

  They were halfway down a particularly narrow alley when a police growler stopped in front of them and flipped on its rotating red-and-blues. Spector was surprised for an instant. Normally cops from the Jokertown Precinct didn’t make waves. Must be a couple of go-getters.

  A moment later the joker was effortlessly scaling the wall. Spector hung on for dear life until they reached the top and sped away over the tops of the buildings.

  “Don’t like cops?” he asked.

  “They can be a pain slow us down who needs that?” The words butted together like cars on a gridlocked freeway.

  After Mr. Newt’s wild ride finally came to an end, Spector smelled Chinese food. “Are we eating?” he asked.

  The joker shook his head as Spector dismounted. “Need a drink. Squisher’s.” He headed down the stairs, opened the door, and squeezed himself through the doorway.

  Spector guessed pizza was off the agenda, at least for now. Spector had heard about Squisher’s Basement, but had never been particularly interested in going there. Still, he walked down the stairs, making sure his mask was securely on his face. Being recognized as a non-joker would probably lead to trouble.

  The interior of Squisher’s smelled like week-old fish sticks soaked in urine, but the atmosphere was still homey in a battered kind of way. Behind the bar was a massive fish tank inhabited by a manatee/octopus joker. Squisher himself, no doubt. The place was decently crowded, a few jokers at the bar and a couple opposite each other in a booth. There was a crowded table where a group of albino-looking jokers crowded around another joker with a giant head. Looking closer, he saw their faces were smeared with greasepaint. The pasty-faced bunch was uniformly muscular and dressed in similar clothing; a gang, maybe.

  Spector hated gangs. On first glance he thought they were octuplets, but on looking a bit closer he saw that they weren’t actually identical, just similar.

  “We should get one of the big-boy booths in the back,” said Spector’s amphibian companion.

  The big-boy booths were clearly for jokers in the extra-large range. Spector stood over six feet, but had to hoist himself up onto the bench seat. His legs swung like a kid’s beneath him. The joker eased in comfortably opposite him.

  “A pitcher of beer and a shot of whiskey,” he said. “My friend will have…” He turned to Spector.

  “A double shot of bourbon, with a straw. And keep it coming.”

  The waitperson was a short joker with multiple arms and a semitransparent, ghostlike appearance. It placed the drinks down in a practiced manner. Spector handed it a twenty. The joker nodded and bobbled away.

  Spector slid the straw through the mouth-hole of his mask and took a long, satisfying draw of bourbon. It wasn’t Jack Black, but it would get the job done.

  “So, what do you do for fun down here?”

  The joker shrugged. “Same as anyplace else, just a little dirtier here. And cheaper,” he said, raising his glass.

  “I’ll drink to that.” Spector clinked his shot glass against the joker’s beer mug and took another swallow.

  Spector’s friend pulled out an amber bottle and poured a half-dozen pills into his oversized palm. He then downed them with a massive gulp of beer.

  “What exactly are those for?”

  “Energy, plus keeps the sandman away.”

  Speed, Spector thought. “Do you know where I could get something for pain? Still pretty beat up and I can’t go to the doctor. Someone might spot me.”

  The joker cocked his head and belched. “No, just these. I did know somebody who had pain pills: who that was can’t remember.”

  Spector sighed and took another slug of bourbon. If he could find a pain-med supplier it would make his life easier. Hell, he’d even let them live if they weren’t too much of an asshole. Drug dealers usually were, though.

  “Let me know if it comes back to you.”

  An eyeball floated past Spector’s left shoulder and pivoted so that the business end was facing him. He wondered if he could kill the orb’s owner. Probably.

  Newt-man snatched the eyeball out of the air, tossed it into his mostly full beer glass, and gave the glass a shake.

  There was a scream from table with the gang and several members stood angrily, each assuming a fighting posture.

  Spector’s friend fished the eyeball out of his beer and blew the foam off it, then let it go. The eye floated quickly back toward the joker with the massive head. Each of the muscle-punks was standing and pointing in a way that might be threatening to the average Joe.

  “Keep your eyes to yourself, Sue,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Squisher poked his head out of the top of his tank with what Spector figured was a really unhappy look on his manatee-like face.

  “Hey, how about those Knicks?” Spector said, turning his back to the oversized aquatic joker. A stream of water caught him in the back of the head.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Newt-thing pushed himself up from the table and finished his mug of beer in a couple of swallows.

  Spector followed him outside, turning up his collar to the biting cold. “So, who is this Sue?”

  “Sue Maroo. Joker with lots of detachable eyes. She snoops for certain parties, yes parties. Other things, too. Nasty things. Her boys help her. Mostly rejects from other gangs. Little shits. Sue and I have had a couple of run-ins. She wound up with the short end of the stick. Yes, yes.” He blinked his eyes rapidly. “Hey, speaking of the Knicks, I’ve got some tickets to tomorrow night’s game with the Celtics.” He inserted a pair of knobby fingers into a pouch on his waist and produced a ticket. “You should come. We’ll have a great time.”

  Spector took the ticket out of what might have been politeness. The joker’s enthusiasm was a tough headwind to buck. “The Celts are great again this year.”

  “Yeah, but the Knicks have Patrick Ewing.”

  Spector shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Sure. We still need to eat, right. Let’s get a pizza.”

  His companion was crazed as far as Spector was concerned, but he was still hungry. “Why the hell not.”

  * * *

  The movie wasn’t what he’d hoped it would be. One of the art-house theaters was showing An American in Paris and Spector had figured watching it might be a good way to put himself in an international state of mind. It wasn’t working. Gene Kelly could sing and dance. Hell, seemed like everyone could sing and dance. Nothing was real, though. It was set in Paris, but it was pure Hollywood.

  Spector fished the few remaining bits out of his popcorn and chewed them silently, then left his seat and walked across the sticky floor to the exit.

  Outside, the frigid wind whipped his clothes and chilled his exposed skin. At least the sun was out for now. Spector looked around slowly. New York felt the way a big city should: cold, filthy, oppressive, and uncaring.

  He had plenty of cash, so Spector flagged a cab for a ride back to his apartment. The cabbie didn’t have anything to say, which was good because Spector was in the mood to kill someone and he didn’t feel like grabbing another ride just to get home.

  Spector had the cab drop him a block away from his apartment. He was feeling uneasy and didn’t know why, so he let his paranoia get the better of him. He spotted a black Olds parked outside his apartment building, engine running. As he walked by he saw a young woman in the back seat looking at a notepad. Probably a grad student from NYU or Columbia doing her thesis on how the other half lives. He moved carefully up the stairs, which were coated in half ice, half slush, and entered the building with a backward glance at the car. The young girl was watching him, but looked away when he returned her gaze.

  His apartment was cold, so he turned up the heat and poured a
tumbler with a few inches of Jack Black. A couple of swallows helped warm and numb him. He dropped himself onto the couch and turned on the TV. He didn’t bother to change the channel from the soap opera that was playing.

  Someone rapped on his door.

  Spector hauled himself up off the couch and cracked the door open. It looked like the woman from the car, but he wasn’t sure. She had shoulder-length brown hair, thick-lensed glasses, and more attitude than a person her age was entitled to.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Ms. Davis. I’m Carl’s replacement. He’s afraid of you. For the record, I know who you are and I’m not afraid of you.” She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes.

  Spector shook his head. “Then you’re too stupid to be a lawyer. Or much of anything else, Miss Davis.”

  “Ms.”

  He partly wanted to punch her and partly wanted to kill her. Spector didn’t want a corpse in his apartment, though. And he didn’t much like killing women. Not that women didn’t deserve it just as much as men, but tombstoning one made him think of his time with the Astronomer. Those were bad times he wanted to put in the rearview mirror.

  “We have a very lucrative opportunity for you. The benefits would include not only cash reimbursement, but also many of the items I understand have been previously discussed with you.” She looked directly into his eyes. “Are you interested?”

  “Depends,” Spector replied, moving over to the table to pick up his bottle of Jack Black. He took a swallow. This kid was trying too hard. People with too much to prove were almost always more trouble than they were worth.

  “All the information you need is in this folder.” She presented it to Spector, who ignored it. “The subject is a high-priority item as he’s an ace. Just freelance, but we want to remove any enhanced individuals from the opposition side of the board. He may already be working for them.”

  Spector snarled at her, “Fuck no. No aces.” He pushed her toward the door and opened it, then shoved her hard through the doorway. “Aces can get me killed.”

  “I hope you’ll reconsider. His name is Cro—” Spector slammed the door shut before she could finish another syllable. They didn’t care if he got killed again. What the hell did he need financial experts for anyway?

  He refilled his tumbler with bourbon. Maybe he’d go to the Knicks game and take his mind off things for a while.

  * * *

  The crowd outside the Garden was cold and surly, holidays be damned. Spector didn’t like crowds. If a situation got out of hand it was hard to decide who to kill first. Plus, he just didn’t like people much. Inside the arena smelled of dirty slush, and, once the people removed their coats, the dank sweat of partisan hatred peculiar to sports fans. The talk from the people around Spector wasn’t optimistic. The hated Celtics were the best team in the Eastern Division, with a frontline of Bird, McHale, and Parrish. Plus Ainge and D.J. at the guards. The Knicks had Pat Ewing, who was great but still somewhat new to the league. The Knicks had other good players, but it was still likely to be a slaughter. Spector had never been a big Knicks fan. He’d seen Dr. J play for the Nets back in the old ABA. The ABA was long gone, and Julius had decided to hang it up at the end of last season.

  Spector got in line for something to drink. Beer didn’t do much for him, but he had some Jack Black to sweeten it up once he took his seat.

  He spiked his beer with bourbon and finished it before warmups were done. There was no way a giant crazed joker was going to make it into the Garden, so he’d have room to spread out if he wanted.

  A young, bearded guy with thick glasses was sitting a few seats down. His orange and blue cap marked him as part of the home crowd, and he chanted, “Let’s go Knicks! Let’s go Knicks! Let’s go Knicks!” for upward of a solid minute. Spector was getting irritated—not homicidal irritated but please-shut-the-fuck-up irritated. The Knicks fan finally quit yelling.

  He was comfortably numb by the time tip-off arrived. The crowd noise, which had been little more than a buzz, grew to a roar as the game got underway.

  On their first possession the Celtics worked the ball around until it wound up in Bird’s hands in the left corner. He lowered his shoulder into the defender to make space and shot. The ball swished through the net to a groan from the hometown fans.

  The rest of the first quarter saw the lead change hands several times. Neither team led by more than five points, but the Celts were up three at the end of the first twelve minutes.

  Spector heard a commotion from the upper deck. There were a few screams mingled in with the general hubbub. He craned his neck to see what was going on. A large, dark form clambered over the upper deck railing and jumped, landing with a massive thud in the aisle between his section and the adjacent one.

  It was the joker, of course. Spector had really thought there was no way for him to get inside, but he’d underestimated the creature’s determination.

  Newt-thing had purchased three seats and Spector was in the center one, which was clearly a mistake.

  “Mind moving over, buddy buddy,” he said, gesturing with his oversized hands.

  “Not at all,” Spector replied, “just keeping it warm for you.” He took the next seat over.

  The joker gingerly tore the armrest from between his two seats and dropped it on the floor. He leaned over. “Would you mind buying us a couple of beers, and maybe some pizza? If I try to move, people will make trouble.”

  “It’s on me, big guy,” Spector said. He figured this situation was going to be trouble no matter what. Being in the concourses right now was probably his best play.

  The line at the concessions wasn’t bad. Spector had a pizza and a couple of beers in less than five minutes. He hadn’t heard any crowd noises that were out of the ordinary. Nothing that resembled the death screams of people being torn to pieces by a giant newt.

  As he headed back down his aisle, Spector spotted a couple of security guys talking to each other, but they didn’t look like they were inclined to do anything. Yet.

  Spector made it back to their seats and realized there was no way he was getting by the joker. He handed him the beers and said, “I’ll get by behind and come over.”

  “Okay. Pizza, goooood. So hungry.”

  As he was sliding by two men to reach a place where he could step over a vacant seat, one of them said, “You know, your friend is making it really hard to see the game.”

  “Feel free to tell him about it,” Spector replied, dropping into his seat. He didn’t give them another thought. The joker daintily handed him a beer between a massive thumb and first finger.

  The Celtics started to pull away in the second quarter, mostly by feeding the ball to McHale and Parrish down low. At one point Ewing sent a Parrish shot into the second row. That drew a thunderous cheer from the Knicks fans. Spector chugged his beer.

  “Might want to take it easy with that.” The joker pointed to Spector’s cup. “I put a little pick-me-up in there. Great for staying alert.”

  Spector felt a tingle under his tongue. “Speed?”

  The joker nodded. “Helps keep me awake. I’m going to crash before too much longer if I don’t keep a bunch in my system.”

  Spector stared into the cup. What remained of the foam was dissipating into small clumps of bubbles. He’d never taken speed before. His whole deal was deadening his senses, not pushing them to the max. He felt the pain surging inside him. It hurt more than usual, but felt different. Normally the sensation of sharing his death was like pushing goo into another person’s mind. Now he felt like lightning in a bottle. The sensation of power almost made up for additional pain.

  “You can’t stay here, big guy.” Spector looked over and saw a couple of security personnel talking to his newt companion.

  The joker let out a rumbling laugh. “Feel free to drag me out if you can. It’s not even halftime yet and I’m here to see the game.”

  The uniformed men looked at each other, hopelessness and anger on their faces.
>
  “We’ll help you get this ugly fuck out of here.” One of the men sitting behind big newt stood and thumped his sizable chest. The man next to him got up, too. “We haven’t been able to see shit since he sat down.”

  The joker stood quickly, a slice of pizza disappearing into his mouth. “You just need a different seat, friend.” He took the man under the armpits with his blotched hands and tossed him screaming into the upper deck of the Garden. He grabbed the man’s buddy by his jacket. “What about you?”

  “Don’t throw me up there!”

  Newt-man looked around several times, then smiled. “Fair enough.” He turned and launched the man into the Celtics bench, knocking players and staff onto the court like bowling pins.

  Spector laughed out loud. This was better than any game. The entire Celtics bench charged the stands. The Celts on the floor looked at each other for a second then followed their teammates in the melee. Danny Ainge was screaming.

  Spector felt something wet and cold hit the back of his head. Beer. He turned and saw a man pointing at him and smiling.

  “Fuck you, buddy.” He killed the asshole in an instant. It felt good. The dead man dropped onto the seat in front of him like a sack of potatoes.

  People in the stands around Spector were going apeshit. A knot of Celtics fans had poured down the aisle and were whaling away on the joker, but it wasn’t going well for them. The joker picked up one man in each oversized mitt and smacked them together, then head-butted another. Uniformed security officers were trying to intervene at courtside, but several of the Celtics players were fighting their way up the aisle. Danny Ainge’s green uniform was spattered in blood. It looked very festive. Spector was thinking it might be a good time to kill his way out of this mess when he caught a sucker punch to the right side of his head and a couple more to his ribs. He fell breathless to the concrete and looked for his assailant.