Wild Cards_ Jokers Wild Part 3

The cyclops put one booted foot up on a bin of fish, kicked, and sent it crashing over on its side. Whitefish spilled out all over the floor. "Please, don't," Gills repeated. His employees were no longer in sight.

Hiram turned and walked toward them, hands shoved casually into the pockets of his jacket. For such a huge man, his pace was surprisingly brisk. "Excuse me," he said to the cyclops. "Is there a problem here?"

The joker youth towered over Gills, who was a small man made even smaller by his twisted spine, but Hiram Worchester was another matter. Hiram stood six foot two, and most people took one look at his girth and guessed that he weighed around three hundred fifty pounds. They were off by about three hundred twenty pounds, but that was another story. The cyclops looked up at Hiram through his thick monocle, and smiled nastily. "Hey, Gills," he said, "how long you been selling whale?"

His companions, who had been standing by the door trying to look bored and dangerous simultaneously, drifted closer. "Look, it's the f.u.c.king Goodyear blimp," the short one said.

"Please, Hiram," Gills said, touching him gently on the arm. "I appreciate it, but . . . everything is fine here. These boys are . . . ah . . . friends of Michael's."

"I'm always pleased to meet friends of Michael's," Hiram said, staring at the cyclops. "I'm surprised, though. Michael always had such good manners, and his friends have none at all. Gills has a bad back, you know. You really ought to help him clean up these fish you knocked over."

Gills's face looked greener than usual. "I'll get it cleaned up," he said. "Chip and Jim can do it, don't . . . don't worry about it."

"Why don't you leave, lard a.s.s?" the cyclops suggested. He glanced at the short kid. "Cheech, get the door for him. Help him squeeze his fat a.s.s right through." Cheech stepped back and opened the door.

"Gills," Hiram said, "I believe we were discussing terms on these excellent lobsters."

The tall boy with the shaved skull spoke up for the first time. "Make 'im squeal, Eye," he said in a deep voice. "Make 'im squeal before you let 'im go."

Hiram Worchester looked at him with genuine distaste and a calm he did not really feel. He hated this sort of thing, but sometimes one was given no choice. "You're trying to intimidate me, but you're only making me angry. I doubt very much that you're actually friends of Michael's. I suggest you leave now, before this goes too far and someone gets hurt."

They all laughed. "Lex," Eye told the bald one, "it's too f.u.c.k in' hot in here. I'm sweating. Need some fresh air."

"I'll cool it right off," Lex said. He looked around, grabbed a small barrel in both hands, hoisted it above his head in a single smooth, powerful jerk, and took a step toward the big plate-gla.s.s windows that fronted on Fulton Street.

Hiram Worchester took his hands out of his pocket. At his side, his right hand curled into a tight, hard fist. A meaningless little tic, he knew; it was his mind that did it, not his hand, but the gesture was as much a part of him as his wild card power. For an instant, he could see the gravity waves shifting hazily around the barrel like heat shimmers rising from the pavement on a hot summer's day.

Then Lex staggered, his arms buckled, and a barrel of salt cod that suddenly weighed about three hundred pounds came crashing down on his head. His feet went out from under him, and he hit the floor hard. The barrel staves shattered, burying Lex under the fish. Very heavy heavy fish. fish.

His friends stared, uncomprehending at first. Hiram stepped briskly in front of Gills and pushed the fishmonger away. "Go phone the police," he said. Gills edged backward.

The short one, Cheech, tried to drag Lex out from under the shattered barrel. It was harder than it looked. The cyclops gaped, then looked sharply back at Hiram. "You did that," he blurted. "You're that Fatman guy." did that," he blurted. "You're that Fatman guy."

"I loathe that nickname," Hiram said. He made a fist, and Eye's monocle grew heavier. It fell off his face and shattered on the floor. The cyclops screamed an obscenity and swung at Hiram's ample stomach with a chain-wrapped fist. Hiram dodged. He was a lot nimbler than he looked; his bulk varied, but he'd kept his weight at thirty pounds for years. Eye came after him, screeching. Hiram retreated, clenching his fist and making the joker heavier with every step, until his legs collapsed under his own weight and he lay there moaning.

Cheech was the last to make his move. "You ace f.u.c.k," he said. He held his hands out in front of him, palms flat, some kind of karate or kung fu or something. When he leapt, his metal-shod boot came pistoning toward Hiram's head.

Hiram dropped to the sawdust. Cheech leapt right over him, and kept going, weighing rather less than he had a moment ago. The force of his leap carried him into a wall, hard. He hit, rolled, tried to come up with a bounce, and discovered he was so heavy he couldn't get up at all.

Hiram rose and brushed the sawdust off his jacket. He was a mess. He'd have to go home and change before going on to Aces High. Gills edged up to him, shaking his head. "Did you get the police?" Hiram asked.

The old man nodded.

"Good. The gravity distortion is only temporary, you know. I can keep them pinned down until the police arrive, but it takes a lot out of me." He frowned. "It's not healthy for them either. All that weight is a terrible strain on the heart." Hiram glanced at his gold Rolex. It was past 7:30. "I really have to get to Aces High. d.a.m.n, I didn't need this nonsense, not today. How long did the police-"

Gills interrupted him. "Go. Just go." He pushed at the larger man with gentle, insistent hands. "I'll handle it, Hiram. Please, go."

"The police will want me to give a statement," Hiram said.

"No," Gills said. "I'll take care of it. Hiram, I know you meant well, but you shouldn't . . . I mean . . . well, you just don't understand. I can't press charges. Go, please. Stay out of it. It will be better."

"You can't be serious!" Hiram said. "These hoodlums-"

"Are my business," Gills finished for him. "Please, I ask you as a friend. Stay out of it. Go. You will get your lobsters, very fine lobsters, I promise."

"But-"

"Go!" Gills insisted. Gills insisted.

His hoa.r.s.e grunts and the beat of his groin against hers set a counterpoint to the ticking of the bright yellow dimestore "Baby Ben" alarm clock on the bedside table. Roulette pulled her topaz eyes from Stan's brown ones, watched the second hand sweeping smoothly across the face of the clock.

Time. The ticking of a clock, the wash of blood through her veins driven by the inexorable beating of her heart. Fragments of time. Fragments marking the pa.s.sage of a life. Ultimately it came down to this. It respected neither wealth, nor power, nor saintliness. Sooner or later it came, and silenced that steady pulse. And she had her orders.

Roulette reached up, softly touched Stan's temple.

She drew breath-a gathering of will and power-but there was no release. It required hate, and all she felt was uncertainty. She lay back, and summoned an image of horror. The The agony agony of of labor, knowing labor, knowing it it would would soon soon end, and end, and she she would would hold hold her her child, and child, and all all pain pain would would be be forgotten. forgotten. The The doctor's doctor's eyes eyes widening widening in in terror. terror. Struggling Struggling up up to to gaze gaze at at the the thing thing between between her her legs legs . . . . . .

Her taut belly went flaccid, and an added warmth washed through her v.a.g.i.n.a, an imitation of pa.s.sion as the poisonous tide flowed free. Howler's eyes suddenly bulged, his mouth worked, and he recoiled from her, his rapidly swelling c.o.c.k rasping harshly along the soft tissues of her v.a.g.i.n.a with his abrupt withdrawal. Hands wrapped protectively about his quivering discolored member, he gagged several times and emitted a choking scream. A glob of spittle ran over his chin in a thin thread, and the dresser mirror exploded in a crystal waterfall littering the bed with gla.s.s fragments. The baby Big Ben took the edge of the spreading wave of sound. Its crystal shattered, freezing the hands, and as the blow reached the clock's inner works the alarm gave a tinny, dispirited squawk as if it were complaining about its sudden and unfair demise.

Sound like a fist took Roulette across the right cheek raising a mottled bruise on the cafe cafe au au lait lait skin, coaxing a trickle of blood from her ear. Indrawn breath caught in her throat like a jagged block, and sickness filled her belly. Howler's agonized face hung above her, and she knew she was looking at death. His chest was heaving, lips skinned back from teeth, and a tide of blue-black was rising from his now completely black and swollen p.e.n.i.s into his groin and belly. skin, coaxing a trickle of blood from her ear. Indrawn breath caught in her throat like a jagged block, and sickness filled her belly. Howler's agonized face hung above her, and she knew she was looking at death. His chest was heaving, lips skinned back from teeth, and a tide of blue-black was rising from his now completely black and swollen p.e.n.i.s into his groin and belly.

The rumpled satin comforter gave no purchase to her flailing legs. She felt as if she were swimming on gla.s.s. With a final, desperate flounder, she got to her knees, and threw an arm around the ace's chest. Her other hand tangled in his sweat-matted hair, and she yanked his head around so he faced the wall separating bedroom from living room. A life-ending, time-stopping scream echoed to the fringes of the universe and back again, and the wall exploded. Plaster dust spun in lazy spirals, catching at the throat, and filling the nostrils. Rubble fanned across the living room floor, and the far wall was bulging. For an instant Roulette contemplated that sagging wall; pictured it falling, pictured the fat, lower-middle-cla.s.s couple in the next apartment staring at the tableau she would present. Naked woman holding naked man-c.o.c.k swollen to stallion proportions, whole body swelling as the poison exploded blood cells, the trail of the poison marked by blue-black discolorations.

Another convulsion shook Howler, but his throat had swollen, closing off the vocal chords. The sweat-drenched skin of his back was cold and clammy against her flattened b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and the stink of released bladder and bowel filled the room. Gagging, she pushed him away, crawled off the bed, and huddled in on herself on the floor by the bed.

Destruction at the Cloisters. He He had implied it was Turtle who had crumbled the stone walls. . . . had implied it was Turtle who had crumbled the stone walls. . . . But But he he lied! lied! He promised there would be no risk even though this was the first ace she had ever killed. He promised there would be no risk even though this was the first ace she had ever killed. And And he he lied lied. She touched a hand to her ear, and gazed in fascination at the congealed blood that stained her fingers. A sense of betrayal ate its way through to conscious thought, and resolved itself into anger. He He knew, and knew, and didn't didn't warn warn me me. Had he wanted her to die here? But who then would kill Tachyon for him?

Sirens reminded her of her danger. She had been so immersed in contemplation of death and betrayal that she had forgotten reality. No one in lower Manhattan could have missed that death cry. She was running out of time. And if she wanted to survive, to attain her final goal, she too had to run. She pushed back her tangled hair, the tiny pearls and crystals braided into the long strands catching on her fingers, tugging at her scalp. She jammed stockings and garter belt into her purse, flung on her dress, and pushed her feet into high-heeled sandals.

A last glance around the shattered room to see if she had left any trace of her presence-aside from the obvious one, of course, the bloated body on the bed.

I always always wanted wanted to to be be special special.

An inarticulate cry burst from her, and she ran for the fire escape. One spiked heel slipped through the iron grating underfoot, and with a curse she pulled off the shoes. Holding one in each hand she ran down the five flights to the first floor, and lowered the ladder to the filthy, garbage-strewn pavement of the alley. Gla.s.s from a hundred broken windows lay like a sparkling snowfall among rotting lettuce leaves, plastic six-pack dividers, stinking cans. It crunched underfoot as she reached the ground, and one splinter drove deep into her heel.

She whimpered, pulled it out, and worked on her shoes. Teta.n.u.s shot, I'll need a teta.n.u.s shot. I haven't had one since that month Josiah and I spent in Peru.

The thought of her ex-husband set memory in motion. Jerking forward like a train gaining momentum. Images jostling and shattering like the frames of a nightmare film running at double speed . . . until no coherent pictures remained, just an undifferentiated blur of pain and grief and gut-burning fury culminating in a spewing sense of relief when she had released the tide, and Howler had died.

Out of the alley and onto the street. Trying to set the right tone. It would be suspicious to simply ignore the insurance company's nightmare and glazier's delight that surrounded her. Yet she could not bring herself to join the gaping jostling throng, many still in pajamas and bathrobes, who gathered in clumps and gawked at the gla.s.s-littered street and the parked cars with frosted or demolished windows. Better perhaps to ape a young working woman; interested but concerned with getting to work on time- A police car shot down the street, braked suddenly as it pa.s.sed her, jerking the two occupants like test-car dummies. Flat, bloodshot eyes raked over her, and she forced herself to face the cop's suspicious glance though fear was fluttering in her belly. It was a predominantly white neighbor-hood, and though she was dressed with understated elegance her dress was clearly for evening.

Hooker.

The thought read clearly on the bloated, pink face, and she felt a stir of resentment. Cla.s.s of '70, Va.s.sar, master's in economics. Not a prost.i.tute, you a.s.shole. But she was careful to keep her expression neutral.

A man ran out of Howler's apartment building, arms wind milling about his head, mouth opening and closing though no words could be heard over the cry of the sirens. The cop, distracted, lost interest in Roulette. He growled something to his partner, and jerked his thumb toward the building. The car rolled on, and Roulette forced herself back into motion.

The fear was back. Fueled not by the presence of the tangible pursuers who gathered behind her, but by the baying of her soul hounds who loped easily at her flanks. They were waiting for the time when the doubt and horror and guilt that had been growing with every kill would overwhelm her, bear her down, and then they would move in and destroy her. They were there now-waiting. She could hear them. She hadn't been able to hear them before. She was going insane. And if she killed again, what would happen? But she had to. And to have Tachyon dead would make even madness bearable.

CHAPTER 3.

8:00 a.m. a.m.

The stone lions guarding the staircase before the main entrance of the New York City Public Library might as well have taken the day off. The library was closed and the staircase was deserted.

Jennifer, having gone back to her apartment to have a light breakfast and to change into a conservative suit with a black skirt, black jacket, and white blouse, reached out and patted one on the side as she went by anyway, in seeming encouragement of a job well done. She let herself into the building with her key, and then locked the door again behind her. The soles of her shoes clicked loudly, echoing eerily in the library's vast antechamber.

"Morning, Miss Maloy," an old man wearing a rumpled uniform greeted her as she made her way through the cavernous central room back toward her desk near the first-floor stacks.

"Good morning, Hector."

"Not going to the parade?" The old man was one of the security guards. He liked to tell stories of when he'd seen Jet boy battling the zeppelins over Manhattan back when he was a cop and what it was like in the first few horrible moments of the new age, when the wild card virus had been released and the world had changed, suddenly and forever.

"Maybe later," she said. She liked the old man, but now was not the time to get caught up in his interminable reminiscences. "I have some work to do. A project I want to finish."

Old Hector clicked his tongue against his dentures and shook his head.

"You work too hard, Miss Maloy, a pretty young thing like you. You should get out more."

"I will. I just thought that today would be a good day to finish this project of mine. What with the library being closed and all."

"I get your hint. I get your hint," the old man said good-naturedly, moving off along the darkened row of tables. "Never saw a girl liked books so much and going out and having fun so little," he muttered half to himself.

Jennifer went back into the stacks, keeping an eye on Hector, making sure he was going on his desultory rounds. It wouldn't do, she told herself, to have him come upon one of the reference librarians poring over a catalog with a couple of books full of rare stamps on her desk. It wouldn't do at all.

The noise level inside the Crystal Palace was still low enough to listen in on individual conversations, but Spector wasn't interested in eavesdropping. He headed straight for the bar, sat down, and started drumming his fingers on the polished wood. Sascha, alone behind the bar, was busy making a brandy alexander for a blond woman in a tight red-and-white cotton dress. Sascha's eyeless face gave Spector the creeps.

"Hey," Spector said, just loudly enough to get Sascha's attention. "I need a double shot of Jack Black."

"I'll be with you in a minute."

Spector nodded and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. He was too scared to eat, but he could always drink. s.h.i.t, he thought, I should have agreed to whatever he wanted. That twisted old f.u.c.k can make mincemeat out of me. He put his hand over his mouth and tried to slow his ragged breathing.

He turned around, afraid that the Astronomer might be right behind him. Only a few people would have the b.a.l.l.s to start something at the Crystal Palace, but the Astonomer wouldn't even think twice about it.

G.o.d, I really don't want that b.a.s.t.a.r.d after me. Maybe he'll be too busy with the others. Even the Astronomer will have trouble taking them all on.

"Your drink."

Spector jumped at Sascha's voice, then turned around. "Thanks." He fished in his pocket for a five and tossed the crumpled bill onto the bar. Sascha hesitated for a moment, then picked up the money and walked away.

Spector picked up the gla.s.s and downed the whiskey. Got to keep moving. Maybe he won't look for me in Brooklyn. He laughed softly to himself. Maybe the next President will be a joker.

The air was chill and calm as he stepped outside. He rubbed his palms together and walked quickly down the street, toward the nearest subway.

The first time she killed it had been by accident-if such a thing can ever be termed an accident-and even now she could excuse it because toads like Sully really shouldn't be allowed to breed and multiply.

She had just lost her job. Her fingers tightened, and sugar and stale doughnut crumbs pattered onto the plastic plate. It had been presented as a leave of absence, but she knew better. For weeks the whispers had haunted her; creeping about the corners of the office part.i.tions, echoing in the washrooms, leaving a tangible mark on every face. Poor Poor thing . . . husband thing . . . husband is is divorcing divorcing her . . . Is her . . . Is it it true? . . . she true? . . . she had . . . a had . . . a monster? monster?

Several of her pregnant friends dropped her as if her very presence could mutate their child, and the fear was not helped by a disquieting rumor out of the CDC that two anomalous cases of the wild card virus had arisen that could only be explained if the disease was in fact contagious. Frankhad been kind that day when he called her into his office, but very firm. Her presence in the office was affecting worker morale and productivity. And didn't she really need some time alone to come to grips with What Had Happened To Her? So why not take a little time?

Weeks later, money running low, and her spirits just as low, she found Sully Thornton at her door. He was a pathetic little toady who continually brayed about being one of Josiah's "business a.s.sociates." Roulette had never particularly noticed him doing any business when he had been present at Small woods. Instead he had concentrated on lapping up all the free booze he could hold, and trying to press soggy drunken kisses on her whenever he caught her alone. She had slapped him once, and after a neighing t.i.tter that set his prominent Adam's apple to bobbing, he had boozily explained that he was just "emulatin' old grandpa Thornton, with his fascination for dusky women. Just runs in the blood." Yeah Yeah, she'd thought sourly, like like whuppin' whuppin' on on the the boys, and boys, and f.u.c.kin' f.u.c.kin' the the mammies. mammies. Just Just comes comes natural natural.

Sully had mouthed something about wanting to look her up because Josiah had treated her so bad, and could he buy her dinner, and he'd heard she'd lost her job, and did she need a "little loan?" She didn't miss the meaning, and despite her revulsion with the man she accepted. Being broke ruins a person's standards.

Late that night, as he'd lain groaning and panting atop her, she had remembered the bone-cracking release as her baby was born, and raised herself up on her elbows, and had seen . . . No! No! Then had come a release of another kind, and Sully had died. Then had come a release of another kind, and Sully had died.

Her eaters of the soul had begun to torment her within hours of Sully's death. And if Judas had not found her perhaps she would have ceased to deal in death. But the Astronomer's ace hound did find her, and took her to the Cloisters, and the Astronomer had spoken to her hidden places, nurturing her festering hate, promising that she would have her final revenge, and that when the last kill was made he would give her peace-remove forever the memory of her child.

The Astronomer had used her sparingly, eager to keep her secret and very effective. And she was effective. Today marked the third kill she had made for her awful master, and each time it was worse. She gulped down some of the Sunshine Cafe's enamel-stripping coffee, trying to wash away the sick taste of death that lay on her tongue.

This time he would know. He would sense her guilt and doubt, and react, and she was scared to disappoint-No. She was just scared. Terrified of him. Of his powers. Of his obsessive drive to destroy. First TIAMAT. Now those who had denied him his ultimate victory.

What if she just never went back?

No, without him there could be no final catharsis, no final release from the memory of monsters. He could have all the rest, but Tachyon was hers. The alien had destroyed her life. She would repay him by destroying his. That was her obsession, and it had wedded her to the Astronomer in an unholy union of hate and vengeance, and it was far stronger a bond than love.

"Lady, I don't rent tables by the hour," growled the proprietor of the Sunshine Cafe, who was living proof that the generators of cheerful advertising were under no obligation to follow it.

She tossed money onto the table, and decided to be grateful for the interruption rather than irritated. Her greasy-spoon haven had been removed. She had to go.

To face him.

Normally Hiram liked to ride through the city streets, to watch the ebb and flow of the human drama on the side walks of Manhattan through the frosted-gla.s.s windows of his Bentley, while his driver worried about grid lock and kamikaze cabs. But today Jokertown and surrounding neighborhoods would be chaos, as the jokers took to the streets and thousands of tourists flowed into the city for the parades, street fairs, fireworks, and other celebrations that marked Wild Card Day.

To avoid the crush, Hiram told Anthony to take the FDR Drive, and even so the traffic was a horror. He would have preferred to return to his apartment to change, but there wasn't time. They went directly to the Empire State Building.

Velvet ropes had been hung in front of the express elevators to Aces High, and a tasteful gold-lettered sign said CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY. CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY. Hiram hopped over the rope lightly, no feat at all for a man who weighed only thirty pounds, but it always raised a few eyebrows in the lobby. The elevator took him straight up to the restaurant's foyer. Hiram hopped over the rope lightly, no feat at all for a man who weighed only thirty pounds, but it always raised a few eyebrows in the lobby. The elevator took him straight up to the restaurant's foyer.

As the doors opened, he heard his head chef shouting at someone. The saucier, no doubt; they were constantly arguing. A janitor was sweeping out the cloakroom as Hiram emerged from the elevator. "Make sure you empty the ashtrays, Smitty," Hiram told him. He paused a moment, looked around the room. The marble floor was gleaming, the couches had been freshly cleaned. All the walls were hung with framed photographs of celebrities: politicians, sports figures, s.e.x symbols, socialites, writers, film stars, newsmen, and a myriad of aces. Most had scrawled warm personal inscriptions to Hiram across their likenesses. He stopped to straighten the picture of Senator Hartmann and the Howler that had been taken the night the senator had been reelected, then swept through the wide double doors into the restaurant itself.

Paul LeBarre's voice was much louder in here, even through the hubbub. Workmen were setting up round banquet tables for the party, and moving the everyday tables into storage. Cleaning crews were polishing the floors, the long curved bar, and the magnificent art deco chandeliers that gave Aces High so much of its ambience. The wide doors to the Sunset Terrace had been thrown open to air out the room, and a stiff New York wind was blowing. Dimly, from far below, Hiram could hear the sounds of traffic and police sirens.

Curtis, his maitre d' and good right arm, came up to Hiram Worchester with a dozen stiff pieces of poster board under one arm. He was a tall slender black man with white hair. Tonight, in his tuxedo, he would look splendid, elegant, even a bit austere. Right now, dressed in a flannel shirt and a pair of worn dungarees, he just looked harried.