Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel

by George R. R. Martin

  He improvised. He was still largely unable to visualize lower Manhattan—had they been uptown, say, Seventy-second Street, it would have been easier. But here? “Uh, corner of Essex and Delancey,” he said, naming the only two major streets he knew.

  “See you in ten minutes,” Sheeba said.

  Jamal grinned. It wouldn’t be ten minutes. The Midnight Angel’s metabolism ran hot, requiring at least half a dozen meals every day. (What would it be like when she hit menopause? he wondered. Would she slow down? Or would she blow up like a fat tick?) The moment she hit the street, she would see some food cart, and that would add ten minutes to the trip. And beat hell out of Sheeba’s per diem.

  Which would allow Jamal Norwood to find the corner of Delancey and Essex.

  Jamal liked to run, as long as he was in gym gear, wearing sneakers and on grass or at the very least a track. Running down a hard and broken Manhattan sidewalk in suit and dress shoes was not only far from his idea of decent exercise, it was too damned slow, especially with the afternoon crowds.

  It was also too damned public. He caught a startled double take of recognition on at least two faces, and heard one construction worker hollering, “Yo, Stuntman!”

  He pretended not to notice. He kept hoping that his exposure on American Hero would fade. No luck, alas.

  It took him thirteen minutes to reach the corner of Essex and Delancey from the Jokertown Clinic. And when he did—

  He was on the northeast corner, about to cross with the light, when something flashed in his peripheral vision. A battered white van made a hard left headed south, so close to the corner that Jamal and the other pedestrians could feel the slipstream. “Shit goddammit!” a young man shouted.

  Jamal glanced at him—a mistake. What he saw was an African-American joker, his upper half human-shaped, his nether regions more appropriate to a giant snake … if a giant snake adorned itself with rings of yellow, red, and black.

  The social protocols required Jamal to say something. “Hey.”

  He hoped to disengage at that point, but it was too late. “Hey, you’re Stuntman!”

  Busted for the second time in a few minutes. American Hero had fattened Jamal’s bank account, undeniably a good sign, and had led to his meeting Julia, a jury-is-still-out sign, but in most other ways had proved to be a disaster.

  Especially when it came to anonymity. Working in Hollywood had exposed Jamal Norwood to the perks and the price of fame, and it had quickly become obvious that the price far outweighed the perks. “Guilty.”

  “Marcus!” the kid said, indicating himself. “What are you doing here, man?”

  “Just … going from point A to point B.” This joker wasn’t likely to be satisfied with that, but it was all Jamal was offering. Maybe an autograph, if really pressed.

  “Oh, wait,” the kid said. “Yo, Father!”

  Christ, now what? Jamal had barely formulated the thought when Father Squid appeared out of the crowd. Jamal realized that, in addition to cooking food and auto exhaust, he had been smelling the sea. Father Squid was the source: big, tentacle-faced, wearing a black cassock, he also reeked of brine. The good father turned to Jamal. “Stuntman himself! What are you doing here? Thought you were working as a secret agent or something.”

  “Something like that,” Jamal said. “Protection for candidates.”

  The priest laughed long and loud. “Shielding the Holy Roller! What a task that must be!”

  “Maybe that’s why they don’t know shit about anything going on in the streets,” Marcus said.

  “Charity, Marcus,” the priest said.

  Jamal was annoyed. “What’s he talking about?”

  One of Squid’s tentacles uncurled in the direction of the nearest telephone pole. In addition to the usual long-past concert and job postings, the pole held three different homemade posters, the most prominent showing a joker named John the Pharaoh under the heading, Have you seen him? Missing since May 1!

  “What’s going on?” Jamal said.

  “A bunch of jokers have disappeared,” Marcus said. “I can’t believe SCARE doesn’t know about this.”

  “SCARE might,” Jamal said. “My team doesn’t.”

  “That sucks,” Marcus said.

  Squid placed a calming tentacle on Marcus’s shoulder. “The local police aren’t stepping up. We can hardly expect the Feds to do what Fort Freak won’t.”

  “How many have there been?” Jamal said. After five years with SCARE, he was finding it easy to slip into an investigative role.

  “At least half a dozen,” Father Squid said.

  “That’s a big number,” Jamal said, feeling alarmed. SCARE should know about this—

  Suddenly Marcus started. “Who’s that?”

  A black Ford Explorer pulled up across the street. Jamal’s phone buzzed.

  “My team.” He turned to the priest. “I’ll make sure someone looks into this.”

  “You can reach me at Our Lady of Perpetual Misery.”

  “I know the place.” As he turned to cross the street, he hoped he had gotten away without making too many promises. Squid and Marcus made him nervous.

  He would not have believed that the sight of a black Ford Explorer with the Midnight Angel in the front seat would ever have made him happy.

  Galahad in Blue

  by Melinda M. Snodgrass

  Part One

  OFFICER FRANCIS XAVIER BLACK—known to his fellow officers as Franny—came whistling through the doors of New York’s 5th Precinct ready to defend truth, justice, and the American Way in Jokertown. Only to be viciously elbowed by Bugeye Bronkowski.

  The blow was so hard and so unexpected that it sent Franny stumbling into the chairs lining the walls of the waiting room. Mrs. Mallory reached up and stopped his tumble before he landed in her lap. Louise Mallory was a diminutive woman whose hulking joker son Davy ran with the Demon Princes. But Davy wasn’t too bright, and he certainly wasn’t very lucky. He was constantly getting arrested.

  Franny righted himself and looked at Sergeant Homer Taylor, currently manning the front desk. But Wingman didn’t say a word. Bugeye stomped through the gate and back into the precinct. “What’s up his ass?” Franny asked Homer.

  Wingman gave his drooping wings a shake that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a dying bat. “Couldn’t say,” he said, in tones that indicated he knew exactly what had precipitated the assault.

  Franny let it go and turned back to his rescuer. “Thank you, Mrs. Mallory, sorry I … stumbled. Here to bail out Davy?”

  “Yes, that boy just keeps getting into hijinks.”

  “He does that.”

  “CO wants to see you in his office,” Wingman grunted.

  It was never a good thing when a patrolman was called into the brass’s office. Franny’s stomach became a small, hard knot against his spine. He wished he hadn’t eaten such a big breakfast.

  As he moved through the bullpen Franny became aware of the eyes. Everyone was staring at him. There were a few disgusted head shakes and several people looked pointedly away. God, what have I done?

  Beastie, all seven feet of him, fur, horns, and claws, stumped up to him, and laid a hand on Franny’s shoulder. The brown eyes gazing down at him were sorrowful and sympathetic. “Oh, Franny, dude.”

  Nothing else was forthcoming. Beastie mooched on. Franny made his way to Deputy Inspector Maseryk’s office. At his knock the nat yelled a come in. Franny obeyed.

  “Sir.”

  “Sit down, Black.”

  Franny took the proffered chair, but found himself perching on the edge as if preparing for flight.

  “You took your lieutenant’s exam.”

  “Yes, sir, I know I’m not technically eligible to be promoted, but I figured I could get in some practice.”

  “Well, you aced the damn thing.” Maseryk’s tone didn’t make it sound like a compliment.

  “Good?” Franny said diffidently. When there was no response he added an equally uncertain, �
�Thank you?”

  “The damn brass down at One Police Plaza have decided in their infinite wisdom to promote you early.”

  Franny sank against the back of the chair. It was all becoming horribly clear. This was why Bugeye had hit him. Resentment curdled his gut—how was it apparently everybody in the precinct had known about this before he did? He gave voice to none of that however. “That seems … ill advised,” he managed.

  “To put it mildly.”

  “So, why—”

  “Because we’ve been taking a beating over the corruption that’s been uncovered in the two-oh.”

  “Oh.”

  “The damn press just won’t let up so the brass decided to give them a new narrative. All about famous captain’s son steps up.” His tone underscored the irony. “But a story about a flatfoot isn’t news. A promotion, that’s news … and fortunately the media vultures all have ADD. They’ll stop writing about the two-oh and write about you until another scandal comes along.”

  Franny’s first impulse was to refuse, to not be a hand puppet for the Puzzle Palace, as the plaza was sometimes called. Balanced against that was the drive to live up to his father’s memory. To be not just a good cop, but maybe a great one. He had always wanted to make detective. His work thus far didn’t involve much investigation. It involved a lot of intimidation and running after people. Plainclothes, no more walking a beat; that’s when he realized he’d miss his beat and the people who depended on him—Mr. Wiley who ran the mask and cloak shop, Tina who managed the Starbucks, Jeff the bellman at the Jokertown Hyatt who spent most of his day out front carrying luggage and parking cars so he watched the world go by, and often reported what he saw to Bill and Franny.

  Bill! Shit! How would his partner react to this?

  He also had to acknowledge that he was ambitious. You aced it. The captain’s words danced through his mind. Damn right he had. He’d gone to law school, passed the bar on the first try. No, he couldn’t refuse. Franny stood and held out his hand. “Thank you, sir. I’m honored. I’ll try to live up to your expectations.”

  “You’ve already failed in that regard. I thought you’d have the good sense to turn it down.” Maseryk shuffled through papers. “Okay, I’m pairing you with Michael Stevens.”

  “But he’s a nat too.”

  “I’m aware of that, but his partner just got transferred, and nobody else was willing to be broken up just to accommodate you. I’ll fix it as soon as I can, but for right now you’re with Stevens. Next, we’ve got a situation. Jokers have gone missing. Mostly loners, people without family or roots in the community. I think it’s a tempest in a teapot. People like that drop off the radar all the time, but Father Squid is busting my ass over it, and we don’t need another media feeding frenzy. So, as of now you’re in charge of the joker investigation.”

  “Is Michael going to work with me on that?”

  “No, Michael has a real case to investigate. Go find your desk.”

  “Yes, sir. Should I go home and change?”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you. Wait until tomorrow to rub their noses in it.”

  Franny slunk out of the office. Before he found his desk and new partner he went to find his old partner. Bill would be expecting him to join him on patrol … or not. Maybe Bill had gotten the word like everybody else.

  He found the big Chinese-American officer in the locker room. Bill clipped his nightstick onto his belt, and turned when he heard Franny’s footsteps. They looked at each other, each waiting for the other to speak. Bill slammed the locker door, and headed for the door. “I won’t be going out with you today,” Franny said.

  “I heard,” Bill said in a high-pitched, squeaky voice, so at odds with his massive form.

  Since no congratulation had been uttered, Franny had at least hoped for noncommittal. Instead there was ice edging Bill’s words. “Look, I didn’t ask for this.”

  “Didn’t turn it down either.”

  “Would you?”

  “No, but I’ve got eleven years in on the force, not two. I’ve taken the lieutenant’s exam three times. But you get promoted, and you’re not even one of us.”

  “Yeah, I’m a nat. Why don’t you just say it?”

  “Not that, you moron.”

  “What then?”

  “You’re not Chinese.”

  “What?” Franny said, not following the logic at all.

  “We’ve got jokers in this station. We’ve got aces, but we’re on the edge of Chinatown, and only two of us are ethnic Chinese, and only a handful of us speak Chinese. How are you going to investigate crimes in my neighborhood when you can’t even speak the language?”

  “Get a translator.”

  Bill snorted. “Yeah, that’s gonna work real well.”

  “Look, Bill—” But the big man turned his back on Franny and walked out of the locker room.

  Back in the bullpen, Franny located his desk. It backed up to another desk, which belonged to Michael Stevens. The cops at the station loved to gossip and leer about Stevens—two live-in girlfriends and ace daughter. And I can’t even get a date, Franny thought. SlimJim McTate gave him an encouraging smile and handed him a file. “Here’s the list of missing jokers.”

  Franny had just started to look through them when he became aware of someone staring at him. He looked up to find Apsara Na Chiangmai standing at the side of his desk, smiling down at him. Apsara was the file clerk for the precinct, and the most beautiful girl Franny had ever seen. Dark hair hung to her curvaceous ass, and her oval face had skin as smooth and perfect as old ivory. He’d tried to ask her out back when he first started work at the Five, only to be turned down. It had been done with charm and a smile, but it had still been a shutdown. Now here she was. She drew in a deep breath, preparing to speak, which thrust her amazing rack almost into his face. “Detective Black, I wanted to offer you my congratulations,” she said in fluting tones.

  “Ah … oh … thanks.”

  “Would you like to ask me out?”

  “Ummmm…”

  Ties That Bind

  by Mary Anne Mohanraj

  Part One

  DETECTIVE MICHAEL STEVENS WALKED into the Jokertown precinct and paused, blasted by noise that didn’t help his pounding head. It had been a shitty day even before he came into work. Michael had woken with a raging hard-on, but he’d somehow slept through his alarm. Both of his girlfriends were already up and dressed, and his daughter was up too and hollering for her breakfast, so there was no chance of persuading one of the women to come back to bed, even if he hadn’t been late. And then Minal had gotten distracted by Isai pissing all over the kitchen floor, so the eggs had gotten overcooked, and if there was one thing Michael hated, it was dry eggs. Also, piss on his kitchen floor. Isai was supposedly done with potty training, but sometimes, she got distracted. He’d finally escaped the family drama and taken the subway to work, jammed between a guy covered in spikes and a woman who smelled like rotted meat. Michael had entered into the precinct with a sigh of relief, only to be greeted by this wave of noise slamming at him, like a steel spike jackhammering on his head.

  Not a wild card–powered wave, just the normal morning frenzy at Fort Freak. What you’d expect in a station where a handful of underfunded cops tried their damnedest to keep the peace in an increasingly strange and difficult borough of New York City. Perched on the front desk, where she had no business being, Apsara leaned over, making sure that the desk sergeant had a full view of her generous assets. Hey, sweetheart. Got something for me? Her voice loud enough to carry over the noise. Darcy the meter maid was just leaving the room, thankfully—he didn’t need to hear her ranting about law and order and a civil society again.

  Sure, that was why Michael had become a cop, to protect and serve. In the deepest parts of his soul, that desire was what pulled him through his days, the need to be a great cop, to prove himself. He’d grown up watching his folks struggle just to make ends meet; he’d promised himself that someday he’d have a job
that was more than just a way to put food on the table and clothes on your back. Michael had never loved school, but he’d gritted his teeth and plowed through. He’d spent late nights over his books at the scarred Formica table in his mother’s kitchen, while she cooked bi bim bop and they waited for his dad to come home from his second job. Michael’s folks had skipped vacations, skipped meals, even skipped Sunday church sometimes because they were embarrassed by their threadbare clothes. Clothes they hadn’t replaced because the money had gone to pay for Michael’s grammar school uniforms, his high school books, his college application fees.

  He owed them so much that it stuck in his throat, love and gratitude tangled up with resentment. Michael had been determined to pay them back for it, and eventually he had, at least a bit. When he’d made detective, the pay bump had been enough that he could finally put the down payment on a condo for them, and help them out every month with the mortgage. He’d worked as hard as he could to rise above, to be better than everyone else—a better student, a better cop, and now, a better detective. Michael Stevens was determined to be the best damn cop on the force. But unlike Darcy, he didn’t need to talk about it all the time.

  The door banged open and a kid scuttled in, shrieking. Really shrieking, in a voice pitched three octaves above normal. The hammering in Michael’s head escalated along with it, and he fought the urge to cover his ears with his hands. That wouldn’t look professional, but damn, if someone didn’t shut that kid up—oh, thank God. Beastie had him, and was covering that horrible mouth with one warm furry paw. There were days when Michael wondered why he didn’t just walk away from all the crazy here. He was a nat—untouched by the virus, at least so far. After the success they’d had a few years ago in taking down the Demon Princes, he could have transferred to any other city he wanted, left the freaks and weirdos behind to protect normal citizens instead. Michael could have risen through the ranks, become a captain, maybe more. He’d thought about going to D.C., applying to join the CIA or SCARE. But in the end he’d chosen to stay in Jokertown.