Jokers Wild by George R. R. Martin

  “What the hell you doin’?” Jack cried. “Aaaaaahhh!” said the reptile brain, flooded with welcomed hormones. Jack felt his body elongate, the vestigial tail extending and swelling, clothing ripping, his snout springing forth before his eyes. The rows of teeth sprang up faster than anything sowed by Cadmus.

  His claws scrabbled for purchase on the hardpacked earthen floor. He hissed with anticipation.

  Hungry, he thought. There was anger, too. But mostly hunger.

  The man with the pistol backed into the corner of the dogleg. He held something shiny in his other hand. He stared unbelievingly at the alligator. “Get the fuck away!”

  Jaws scissoring open wide, the alligator lunged forward. Brief thunder rolled as the pistol flashed and a bullet nicked the creature’s armored hide above one front leg. The jaws slammed closed with incredible force as the man screamed and thrust his hands out in a hopeless attempt to fend off the beast. The pistol skittered away, lost in the darkness. The plastic-wrapped package went into the alligator’s mouth. Along with the hand that held it. Along with part of an arm, the man’s shoulder, and his face. His bubbling screams stopped in a matter of seconds.

  Glass shattered as the monocle spun away and smashed against the tunnel wall.

  The alligator wrenched his jaws away from the remains of the corpse. There was no chewing. The food went down his gullet where the powerful enzymes would take care of assuaging his hunger. He opened his jaws again to roar a challenge.

  No one and nothing answered him. The alligator swung his head heavily from one side of the corridor to the other. On some deep level, he remembered that food was not his only priority this day.

  He started forward into the darkness. There was something he had to do.

  “A cab?” Water Lily said. “I thought we were in a hurry.”

  “It’ll get the job done,” Fortunato said. “We don’t want any grandstand moves. Not today.”

  The cab pulled over and they got in. “Empire State Building,” Fortunato told the driver. He leaned back in the seat. “We don’t need to make targets of ourselves.”

  “It’s the Astronomer, isn’t it?”

  “He just killed Kid Dinosaur. Tore him to pieces. He would have killed Demise, but Demise was tougher than anybody knew. You probably heard about the Howler. So it’s . . .”

  He broke it off. Jane had stopped listening somewhere in the middle. “Kid Dinosaur?” she said.

  Fortunato nodded.

  “Jesus.” She stared straight ahead. Water—not tears—beaded up on her cheeks. Fortunato couldn’t tell if she was going to cry for real or start ripping up the cab’s upholstery. Finally she said, “All right.” The words came out small and strangled. She tried again. “All right. Count me in. Where do we start?”

  This isn’t working, Fortunato thought. She’s not going to go weak and helpless on you. She’s gotten too tough for that. What do you do when they don’t want your protection?

  “Um,” he said. “How about a bodyguard assignment?”

  “What, are you serious? Guarding who?”

  “I was thinking of Hiram Worchester.”

  “Oh. That fat guy?”

  “He identified the Astronomer’s coins. He could be in danger too.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said. “For now.”

  An establishment as celebrated and unique as Aces High drew its share of trouble, and Hiram had long ago resigned himself to the unfortunate necessity of security, but he in­sisted that it be discreet. Peter Chou’s men (and women) were quick, efficient, highly skilled, and very unobtrusive. When it came to dealing with drunks, holdup men, and leapers, no one was better. But the Astronomer was more than they’d been trained to handle.

  Modular Man was about as unobtrusive as a joker in Idaho. The android had a certain male-model handsomeness, although his prefab features were without either character lines or hair. He wore a skullcap to conceal the radar dome built into his head. Twin grenade launchers were mounted on rotating pivots set in the synthetic flesh of his shoulders.

  The shoulder modules popped right out, and normally Hiram insisted that Modular Man check his armament at the door. But today was not the day for normalcy. When the android landed on the balcony and was ushered into his office, Hiram asked him straight out what sort of weaponry he was equipped with.

  “The left module fires tear-gas canisters, and the right is loaded with smoke bombs,” Mod Man said. “The smoke will not affect my radar, of course, but will blind any potential adversary. The tear gas—”

  “I know what tear gas does,” Hiram said curtly. “Your creator is assuming the Astronomer has to breathe. Let’s hope he’s correct.”

  “I could exchange the grenade launcher for an armor-piercing 20mm cannon,” Modular Man said cheerfully.

  Hiram made a choking sound. “If you even think about firing a cannon inside my restaurant, you’ll never set foot in here again.”

  “It’s more like a large machine gun, actually.”

  “Nonetheless,” Hiram said firmly.

  “Would you like me to patrol the perimeter?”

  “I’d like you to sit at the end of the bar and stay out of the way,” Hiram told him. “There’s still a great deal of work to be done. The guests will begin arriving around seven for cocktails. If anything’s going to happen, it should happen well before that.”

  He escorted the android out to the bar and left him in the company of a bottle of single-malt Scotch. On the way to his office, Curtis accosted him. “The lobster was the only thing they bothered to destroy,” he reported. “Some of Gills’s employees are cleaning up the damage. The ones who didn’t run away. Gills was taken to the Jokertown clinic.”

  “Find out who’s in charge, and tell them I want the tuna,” Hiram said. “As much as he has. We’ll do blackened tuna tonight instead of lobster.”

  “Paul will not be amused,” Curtis said.

  Hiram paused at the door to his office. “Let him scream. Then let him cook. If he refuses, I’ll do it myself. I’m not unfamiliar with Cajun cuisine.” He paused thoughtfully. “Alligator has an interesting taste. You don’t suppose that Gills might have . . . no, that’s too much to ask. Oh, and offer a premium price for that tuna. If I hadn’t interfered this morning, none of this would have happened.”

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Curtis said.

  “Why not?” Hiram asked. He snorted. “I remember when I was first diagnosed, back in 1971. After Tachyon assured me that I wasn’t going to die, that I’d been gifted with ex­traordinary powers instead, I determined that I must use those powers for the public good. Absurd, I know, but it was the tenor of the times. I tell you, Curtis, heroism is a ludicrous career choice, although not half so ludicrous as I was in my costume.” He paused thoughtfully, and flicked a piece of lint off the swell of his vest. “It was well-tailored,” he said, “but ludicrous nonetheless. At any rate, my physique was distinctive, masked or no, and my abortive experiment in semi-professional adventuring ended abruptly when a gossip columnist accurately divined my identity. I’m not a modest man, Curtis, but food is what I’m best at. Gills would be a lot better off if I’d remembered that this morning.” He turned away before Curtis could reply, and shut the office door behind him.

  His lunch was waiting on his desk: three thick-cut pork chops grilled with onion and basil, a side of pasta salad, steamed broccoli with grated romano cheese, and a piece of the famous Aces High cheesecake. Hiram sat down and con­templated it.

  A newspaper lay next to his untouched lunch platter. The Daily News had already gotten out an extra, and An­thony had brought up a copy with Hiram’s tux. The picture spread across the front of the tabloid had been taken at Jetboy’s Tomb by some amateur photographer. Hiram supposed that it was a great news photo, but he could scarcely look at it.

  He found himself averting his eyes from Kid Dinosaur’s mutilated body, and looking at the faces in the background. Their emotions were plain to read: horror, hysteria,
anguish, shock. Some just seemed baffled; others stared with unwholesome fascination. In the right-hand corner was a pretty blonde who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, laughing, no doubt amused by some witticism from the boy whose arm she clung to, as yet oblivious to the horror a few feet away. How did she feel when she looked around, the laughter still fresh on her lips? How would she feel when she saw this picture, her laugh frozen there for all time?

  His lunch was growing cold, but Hiram had no appetite. Kid Dinosaur had been a constant nuisance to the proprietor of Aces High. He remembered one hot summer night when a pteranodon had swooped in through the open terrace doors and buzzed the diners. Drinks were spilled, plates were dropped, the dessert cart tipped over, and a half-dozen indignant customers left without paying their bills. Hiram had put an end to the incident by making the creature too heavy to stay aloft, and reprimanding him in no uncertain terms. From all reports, the boy had been cowed for almost a week.

  When the phone rang, Hiram grabbed it quickly. “What?” he demanded brusquely. He was in no mood for conversation.

  “Me, Hiram,” Jay Ackroyd said.

  Hiram had almost forgotten about the detective. “Where are you?” he demanded.

  “At the moment I’m at a pay phone outside the men’s room of the Crystal Palace, being eyed by a joker who looks like a cross between a douche bag and a saber-toothed tiger. I think he wants to use the phone, so I’ll get right to the point. Chrysalis knows something.”

  “Chrysalis knows a good many things,” Hiram said.

  “Real good,” Ackroyd replied. “Your friend Bludgeon isn’t independent. Him and his whole scam are part of something, something a lot bigger. Chrysalis knows who and what, but the price she quoted for the information was way out of my budget. Maybe not out of yours, though. I’m bringing her up tonight, you can talk to her yourself.”

  “You’re bringing her here?” Hiram said. “Jay, she’s a joker, not an ace.”

  “I’m an ace,” Ackroyd reminded him, “and she’s my date. Don’t worry, I made her promise to cover her tits. A shame, though. They’re nice tits, even if they are invisible. Just pretend she’s really British and you’ll get on great.”

  “Fine,” Hiram said. “And while you’ve been arranging your social calendar and studying Chrysalis’s breasts, Bludgeon put Gills in the hospital and destroyed my lob­sters.”

  “I know,” Ackroyd said.

  Hiram was astonished. “How could you possibly know?”

  “I dropped by Fulton Street before I went to see Chrys­alis, figured maybe I’d see Gills, charm him with a few magic tricks, pull a coin out of his gills, and see if he’d talk to me. I got suspicious right off when I saw a truck burning in the alley. This seven-foot-tall guy was going out as I was coming in. He looked a lot like the guy waiting for the phone, only ugly. I made a citizen’s arrest. He’s in the Tombs.”

  “God,” Hiram exclaimed. “Jay, this is the first good news I’ve heard all day. Thank you, and good work. You’ll get a month of free dinners for this.”

  “Appetizers included, I hope. The thing’s not done, though. Bludgeon’s locked up for the moment, but sooner or later someone’s going to notice him hollering in there, and then they’ll count heads and let him go, unless we can get him charged with something. Can you go downtown and do the honors?”

  Hiram felt in a terrible bind. “I . . . Jay, I want to, but I can’t possibly leave now.”

  “A crisis with the pâté de foie gras?”

  “Fortunato is going to be bringing some people by. I need to, ah, stay. Besides, I’ve never laid eyes on Bludgeon. Gills was the one they assaulted. Have him prefer charges.”

  “He’s terrified, Hiram.”

  “If we put Bludgeon away, he has nothing to be terrified of. Tell him that. He can’t let them get away with this.”

  Ackroyd sighed. “All right. I’ll go talk to him. Hell. On days like this, I wish I could pop myself around. Do you have any idea what the traffic’s like out there?”

  Spector stared across the Hudson River toward the Jersey shore. He’d grown up in Teaneck. As long as he could remember he’d hated New Yorkers. Hated them for their contemptuous comments and unending supply of Jersey jokes. They really thought they were better, just by living a few miles away. Every New Yorker he killed was a little revenge for the way he’d always been treated by them.

  The Astronomer knew he was alive by now. The old man was probably too busy to watch TV himself, but had plenty of flunkies to dish him the information. Spector could only hope that the other aces on the hit list were more important than he was. Hell, there was even a chance the Astronomer would buy it. They’d kicked his ass before. If he could manage to stay out of the way, Spector might be able to read everybody else’s obit in the Times tomorrow.

  The West Side Highway was behind him, already crawl­ing with cars. The docks were busy; working guys still had to eat. They couldn’t take the damn day off to gawk around.

  Spector looked back into Manhattan. The Windhaven Tower building was directly across the highway. The apartments in it were exclusive and pricey. The architecture was like something out of a thirties sci-fi pulp, including an open lobby all the way to the top of the building. He fol­lowed the unbroken silver line of the tower all the way up. He squinted. There was something, someone, up there.

  A man in a hang glider pushed off the edge of the roof, twenty stories up. He dived for a few seconds, then leveled off and headed out toward the river.

  “Cops are gonna put your ass in jail when they catch you, buddy.” Spector hated heights, and shuddered as he thought of falling off a building like that, wings or no. He turned back toward Jersey.

  There was something coming toward the city from across the river. It was several hundred feet up and moving fast. He recognized the familiar shell. “Turtle. So the As­tronomer hasn’t gotten you yet.”

  Spector liked the Turtle about as much as he liked the other aces who’d raided the Cloisters, which was not at all. He straightened his shoulders and rubbed his mouth, feeling suddenly vulnerable. If the Astronomer tried to take the Turtle now, he didn’t want to be anywhere close.

  The Turtle slowed down and hovered over the river. A couple of private boats were cruising around nearby bobbing a little in the light chop, but they didn’t seem to be in any kind of trouble. The Turtle began to wobble slightly; the hang glider banked and moved directly toward him. Spector wanted to run, but curiosity held him where he was. The hang glider moved straight and fast toward the Turtle. It was less than a hundred feet away. There was a sound like glass being cut and then a loud pop; the glider veered away. Spector recognized the noise and knew the Turtle was in trouble. One of the last aces the Astronomer had lured in was a Puerto Rican kid who he called Imp. He could generate an electromagnetic pulse that neutralized all electricity within fifty yards or so. The cameras and other equipment on the Turtle’s shell were so much junk now.

  Imp maneuvered his glider back over the Turtle. The wind was slowing him down, making him climb. Longshore­men were setting down their crates, looking out at the river. Moments later the shell was covered in an explosion of orange flame. Napalm. The boom echoed off the water. As the flames began to die down, Spector could see that parts of the shell were on fire. The Turtle began to wobble even more, and fell toward the river. There was a loud slap and hiss as the shell struck the water. One of the nearby boats steered toward the Turtle. The shell floated for a second, then sank fast, like there were pulleys at the bottom of the river dragging it down. There was nothing left but a little steam on the surface of the river.

  “Jesus. Who would’ve thought it could be so easy.” Spector felt his skin tighten. It was a safe bet that the As­tronomer had watched the Turtle go down, just like he had. The other aces weren’t going to be much help. The Astron­omer was knocking them off one by one. They’d only beaten him before because they’d been organized and had taken the old man by surprise. It was the other way aroun
d today. Spector heard approaching sirens. He turned and ran.

  “We saw it on TV,” Hiram told Fortunato. “First the Howler, then the Kid. It was dreadful, unbelievable.” Fortunato nodded, uncomfortable in the crowded office. Hiram’s chef was there, his bouncer, a couple of the waiters.

  Modular Man came over from where he’d been leaning by the window. “Hello,” he said to Jane. “I don’t know if you remember me. Modular Man? You can call me Mod Man for short.”

  Jane nodded to him, brushing him off. “You don’t need me here,” she said to Fortunato. “You’re trying to hide me someplace where I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “That’s not true,” Fortunato lied. “You’ve seen the As­tronomer. You know more than anybody how powerful he is. The only hope we have is strength in numbers. All of us, together, in one place.”

  “All of us? You included?”

  “I have to find the others. This is my karma, okay? My responsibility.”

  “You don’t have to do it alone, you know. It’s not a crime to let somebody help you.” Fortunato didn’t say anything. “I . . . oh, hell. Why am I wasting my breath? But one thing. If you leave me here, and somebody dies, or gets hurt, that I could have saved, I’m not going to let you forget it. Understand?”

  “I can live with that,” Fortunato said.

  Hiram followed him into the hall. “Uh, Fortunato? Can I see you a second?” Fortunato nodded and Hiram shut the door. “I got a call a few minutes ago. From a Lieutenant Altobelli, NYPD. Looking for you.”

  “What did he have?”

  “He wouldn’t say, but he said he needed you at the Cloisters, ASAP.”

  “Okay, well, that’s next then.”

  “Fortunato?”

  “What?”

  “What about Tachyon?”

  “What about him?”

  “Isn’t the Astronomer after him too?”

  “Fuck him.”