Wild Cards V (15 page)

Tom drank a mouthful of coffee, got up from the table, and shut off the TV. Fuck it all, he thought. Now that he'd decided that the Turtle was going to stay dead, maybe it was time that he buried the remains. He had a notion or two about that. If he handled it right, maybe by this time next year
he
could afford to take a trip around the world too.

 

Concerto for Siren and Serotonin

II

CHECKING TO SEE THAT
no one was watching, Croyd dropped a pair of Black Beauties with his espresso. He cursed softly as a part of the sigh that followed. This was not working out as he had anticipated. All of the leads he had tried during the past days had pretty much fizzled, and he was further along into the speed than he cared to be. Ordinarily this would not bother him, but for the first time he had made two separate promises concerning drugs and his actions. One being business and one being personal, he reflected, they kind of caught him coming and going. He would definitely have to keep an eye, or at least a few facets, on himself so as not to mess up on this job, and he didn't want to turn Water Lily off on their first date. Usually, though, he could feel the paranoia coming on, and he decided to let that be his indicator as to his degree of irrationality this time around.

He had run all over town, trying to trace two leads who seemed to have vanished. He had checked out every possible front on his list, satisfying himself that they had only been randomly chosen rendezvous points. Next was James Spector. While he hadn't recognized the name, he did know Demise. He had met him, briefly, on a number of occasions. The man had always impressed him as one of the sleazier aces. “If it's Demise, don't look in his eyes,” he hummed as he signaled to a waiter.

“Yes, sir?”

“More espresso, and bring me a bigger cup for it, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“For that matter, bring me a whole pot.”

“All right.”

He hummed a little more loudly and began tapping his foot. “Demise eyes. The eyes of Demise,” he intoned. He jumped when the waiter placed a cup before him.

“Don't sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you.”

The man began to fill the cup.

“Don't stand behind me while you're pouring. Stand off to the side where I can see you.”

“Sure.”

The waiter moved off to Croyd's right. He left the carafe on the table when he departed.

As he drank cup after cup of coffee, Croyd began thinking thoughts he had not thought in a long while, concerning sleep, mortality, transfiguration. After a time he called for another carafe. It was definitely a two-carafe problem.

The evening's snowfall had ceased, but the inch or so that lay upon the sidewalks sparkled under the streetlamps, and a wind so cold it burned whipped glittering eddies along Tenth Street. Walking carefully, the tall, thin man in the heavy black overcoat glanced back once as he turned the corner, breath pluming. Ever since he'd left the package store he'd had a feeling that he was being watched. And there was a figure, a hundred yards or so back, moving along the opposite side of the street at about the same pace as himself. James Spector felt that it might be worth waiting for the man and killing him just to avoid any possible hassle farther along the way. After all, there were two fifths of Jack Daniel's and a six-pack of Schlitz in his bag, and if someone were to accost him abruptly on these icy walks— He winced at the thought of the bottles breaking, of having to retrace his path to the store.

On the other hand, waiting for the man and killing him right here, while holding the package, could also result in his slipping—even if it was only when he leaned forward to go through the man's pockets. It would be better to find a place to set things down first. He looked about.

There were some steps leading up to a doorway, farther along. He headed for them and set his parcel down on the third one, against its iron railing. He brushed off his collar and turned it up, fished a package of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one out, and lit it within cupped hands. He leaned against the rail then and waited, watching the corner.

Shortly a man in gray slacks and a blue blazer came into sight, necktie whipping in the wind, dark hair disheveled. He paused and stared, then nodded and advanced. As he came nearer, Spector realized that the man was wearing mirrorshades. He felt a sudden jab of panic, seeing that the other possessed an adequate first line of defense against him. It wasn't likely to be an accident either, in the middle of the night. Therefore, this was more than some strong-arm hood on his tail. He took a long drag on his cigarette, then mounted several steps backward, slowly, gaining sufficient height for a good kick at the other's head, to knock the damned things off.

“Yo, Demise!” the man called. “I need to talk to you!”

Demise stared, trying to place him. But there was nothing familiar about the man, not even his voice.

The man came up and stood before him, smiling. “I just need a minute or two of your time,” he said. “It's important. I'm in a big hurry and I'm trying for a certain measure of subtlety. It isn't easy.”

“Do I know you?” Demise asked him.

“We've met. In other lives, so to speak. My lives, that is. Also, I believe you might once have done some accounting for my brother-in-law's company, over in Jersey. Croyd's the name.”

“What do you want?”

“I need the name of the head of the new mob that's trying to take over operations from the kindly old Mafia, which has run this town for half a century or so.”

“You're kidding,” Demise said, taking a final drag on his cigarette, dropping it and moving his toe to grind it.

“No,” said Croyd. “I definitely require this information so I can rest in peace. I understand you've done some work other than bookkeeping for these guys. So tell me who runs the show and I'll be moving along.”

“I can't do that,” Demise answered.

“As I said, I'm aiming for subtlety. So I'd rather not work this the hard way—”

Demise kicked him in the face. Croyd's glasses flew over his shoulder, and Demise found himself staring into 216 glittering eye-facets. He was unable to lock gazes with the points of light.

“You're an ace,” he said, “or a joker.”

“I'm the Sleeper,” Croyd told him as he reached out and took hold of Demise's right arm, then broke it across the railing. “You should have let me be subtle. It doesn't hurt as much.”

Demise shrugged even as he winced. “Go ahead and break the other one too.” But I can't tell you what I don't know.”

Croyd stared at the arm hanging at Demise's side. Demise reached across and caught hold of it, twisted it into place, held it.

“You heal real fast, don't you?” Croyd said. “In minutes, even. I remember now.”

“That's right.”

“Can you grow a new arm if I tear one off?”

“I don't know, and I'd rather not find out. Look, I've heard you're a psycho and I believe it. I'd tell you if I knew. I don't enjoy regenerating. But all I did was a lousy contract hit. I've got no idea who's on top.”

Croyd reached out with both hands, catching hold of Demise's wrists.

“Breaking you up may not do much good,” he observed, “but there's still room for subtlety. Ever have any electroshock therapy? Try this.”

When Demise stopped jerking, Croyd released his wrists. When he could speak again, Demise said, “I still can't tell you. I don't know.”

“So let's lose a few more neurons,” Croyd suggested.

“Cool it a minute,” Demise said. “I never learned the names of any of the big guys. Never meant dick to me. Still don't. All I know is this guy named Eye—a joker. He just has one big eye and he wears a monocle in it. He met me once, in Times Square, gave me a hit and paid me. That's all that matters. You know how it is. You freelance yourself.”

Croyd sighed. “Eye? Seems I've heard of him someplace or other. Where can I get hold of the guy?”

“I understand he hangs around Club Dead Nicholas. Plays cards there awhile on Friday nights. Kept meaning to go by and kill the fucker, but I never got around to it. Cost me a foot.”

“‘Club Dead Nicholas'?” Croyd said. “I don't believe I know that one.”

“Used to be Nicholas King's Mortuary, near Jokertown. Serves food and booze, has music and a dance floor, gambling in a back room. Just opened recently. Kind of Halloween motif. Too morbid for my taste.”

“Okay,” Croyd said. “I hope you're not bullshitting me, Demise.”

“That's all I got.”

Croyd nodded slowly. “It'll do.” He released the other and backed away. “Maybe then I can rest,” he said. “Subtle. Real subtle.” He picked up Demise's package and put it in his arms. “Here. Don't forget your stuff. Better watch your step too. It's getting slippery.” He continued to back away, muttering to himself, up the street, to the corner. Then he turned again and was gone.

Sinking to a seated position on the stoop, Demise cracked open a fifth and took a long swallow.

 

Jesus Was an Ace

by Arthur Byron Cover

In these times of trouble and dark travail; in this fertile land where the handiwork of Satan is on the verge of bearing fruit: you don't need to pussyfoot with Marx; or stick your nose in Freud; you don't need the help of liberals like Tachyon; you don't need to open yourself up to anyone but Jesus—because he was the first and the greatest ace of them all!

—REVEREND LEO BARNETT

I

THERE ARE A FEW
blocks or so between Jokertown and the Lower East Side that nats and virus victims alike call the Edge. No one knows which group originated the term, but it applies equally to either side. A joker might think of the place as the edge of New York, a nat as the edge of Jokertown.

People come to the Edge for the same reasons why some people watch a slasher movie, or see a good speed metal rock concert, or get wasted on the designer drug in fashion at the moment. They come to the Edge drawn by the illusion of danger, a safe, fleeting illusion that gives them something to talk about at parties attended by people too timid to go to the Edge themselves.

The young preacher thought about that as he watched the television news team wandering the street below through the bathroom window of the cheap hotel room he had rented for the night, though he had intended to use it for only a few hours. The team consisted of a male reporter in a coat and tie, a Minicam operator, and a sound man; the reporter was stopping pedestrians, nats and jokers alike, jabbing his microphone into their faces and trying to get them to say something. For a long, torturous moment the young preacher was afraid his tryst with Belinda May was the story the news team was searching for, but he comforted himself with the notion that the news team no doubt prowled this vicinity routinely. After all, where else did they have a better chance of finding a strong visual lead-in for the eleven o'clock news? The young preacher didn't like to think sinful thoughts, but under the circumstances he relished the hope the news team would be distracted by a spectacular auto accident a few blocks away, with lots of visual flair in the form of fire and crumpled hoods—but with no fatalities, of course.