Jokers Wild by George R. R. Martin

  The conversation stopped abruptly as four men walked into the office and Rosemary was pulled into a quick con­ference with the NYPD’s Organized Crime Task Force on where hot spots were likely to develop. To Bagabond, the men were cyphers, administrative types.

  With the police already spread thin, no one needed a major gang war. It was all too possible, according to Rose­mary. The other Families were likely to strike at the Gambiones, but they would move slowly, testing for the Gambiones’ strength and leadership. The Immaculate Egrets were the greatest danger, outdistancing the Colombians, the bikers, and even the Mexican Herrera family. The Egrets were not known for caution, restraint, or patience. If the Gambiones did not reestablish their power very quickly, they would be destroyed. None of the men liked the Gambiones, but they all feared the alternative.

  While Rosemary discussed the reaction of the Five Families, Bagabond sat quietly on her chair in a corner behind Rosemary’s desk. Eyes closed, allowing the conversation to weave around her, she tracked Sewer Jack. He had retreated to the tunnels where he felt safest, but every time Bagabond attempted to influence him to stop moving, he resisted. Although the alligator did not understand precisely why he searched or for what, he kept looking. Tracing the quest further into his brain, Bagabond found that the alligator had made a connection between Cordelia and a particularly tasty bit of food. Discovering that, Bagabond nearly lost contact as the humor of it overcame a portion of her concentration. Wait until she told Jack. Bringing herself back into sync with the reptile, she moved through his brain and carefully changed a few of the neurochemical connections between his legs and his brain, modifying the resistance in the neu­rons. This done, the alligator moved virtually in slow motion.

  Bagabond blinked and brought Rosemary’s office back into focus, beginning with the portrait of Fiorello La Guardia on the far wall. The men had left. Rosemary sat at her desk, reviewing a file.

  “Welcome back to the real world.” Rosemary closed the file. “So where’s Jack?”

  “Somewhere under the Bowery, as best I can tell.” She blinked. “Do you really think it is—the real world?”

  Rosemary looked out the window. “It’s the only one I have.” She looked back at Bagabond. “Did you catch much of that conversation?” At Bagabond’s shrug, she continued, “I’m supposed to contact my ‘sources’ and find out what’s happening now. After that, I want to go get those books. I’ll figure out what I’m going to do with them when I get them.” She picked up the phone and began punching buttons.

  Bagabond watched silently.

  “Max, this is Rosa Maria Gambione,” Rosemary said into the receiver. “I heard there was trouble today, Don Frederico . . .” She reached out and placed the phone on the speaker.

  “. . . long time since you last called, Maria.”

  “Yes, it has been a long time. But I am still a Gambione.”

  “Don Frederico has passed on,” Max said after a pause. “Perhaps an accident, perhaps the damned—excuse me, Ma­ria—Chinamen. I do miss your father, Maria. This never would have happened if he were still with us.”

  “My father was a good don, Max. Is there someone in line to become the new don?”

  “No, the Butcher—excuse me, Maria—thought he would live forever.”

  “What will happen with the Family?”

  Bagabond looked up sharply at Rosemary. The assistant DA’s tone held more than intellectual concern, and she looked worried. Her hands were curled, the knuckles livid.

  “There is a meeting tonight at eight at the Haiphong Lily—the younger capos find it amusing to meet there, and the food is good. The capos will decide who will be the next don. Forgive my impertinence, but I hope they choose more wisely this time.”

  “I’m sure they will, Max.”

  “Maria, if you give me your phone number, I could let you know what happens.”

  “No, no, I’m never at home and I hate answering machines.”

  “I can’t believe that a nice girl like you hasn’t found a husband yet. You can’t mourn Lombardo Lucchese forever, you know. Don’t let that tragedy ruin your life.”

  “Thank you, Max. I’m not. You know how picky I am. My father’s daughter.”

  “Yes, you are. Strong and smart like him. Please don’t be such a stranger, Rosa Maria. We all miss you.”

  Bagabond’s eyes widened as she listened to Rosemary’s conversation. Rosemary picked up a ballpoint from her deak and threw it at her.

  “Take care, Max. I’ll speak to you soon. Ciao.”

  “Ciao, Maria.”

  The phone squealed when Rosemary switched off the speaker.

  “And what’s so funny, Suzanne?”

  “ ‘Oh, Max, I’m just too busy being a district attorney to have a family.’ They really don’t know?”

  “Suzanne Melotti, God will get you for that. Of course they don’t know. Rosemary Muldoon is black Irish and doesn’t look a thing like Maria Gambione, the only twentieth-century Madonna. I haven’t seen any of them in person since my mother’s funeral years ago, and I wore a wig, veil, and no makeup for that.”; Rosemary shook her head. “Why would they make the connection? Everybody around here just figures I read the right books in school and somehow know the right people to be an expert on the Fam­ilies. They also allow me the factor of good luck.”

  “God already has.” Bagabond leaned back in her chair and tilted her head to one side. “You really are worried about the Gambiones’ welfare, aren’t you? The Gambiones are still your family.”

  “If the balance of power shifts, we’ll have a disaster.” Rosemary stood up.

  “Bullshit. Let’s go get Jack.”

  Rosemary opened her mouth to reply, but the phone beeped at her and the disembodied receptionist’s voice spoke. “Ms. Muldoon, I’ve got a problem here. Sergeant FitzGerald is calling from the Tombs. It seems that someone, um, ‘teleported,’ I think he said, an alleged criminal into the Tombs.”

  “Mother of God, why today!” Rosemary stared at the phone as if she wanted it to explode. “Patricia, isn’t Tomlinson on call this afternoon?”

  “Well, yes, Ms. Muldoon, that’s what my sheet says. But he’s still out to a late lunch and everyone else I’ve tried is either in conference or away from their desk.”

  “I’ll just bet they’re in conference.” Rosemary sighed and sat down again. “I’ll take it.”

  Bagabond didn’t believe Rosemary’s protests of unin-volvement with the Gambiones. The books had become an excuse for Rosemary to be reunited with her real family. It angered Bagabond that she had been maneuvered into aiding Rosemary in that goal. It also made her jealous of Rosemary’s past.

  Bagabond blocked out the office and tracked down Jack, still treading his reptilian path toward his prey. It took time to scan for him, even at his current slow pace. When she located him, she returned to the office to find Rosemary watching her balefully.

  “Sergeant FitzGerald, soon to be Officer FitzGerald, is hysterical. He is also incoherent. I’ve got to get down there now. Why don’t you come along and we’ll leave from there?” Bagabond nodded at her as Rosemary reached for the intercom. “Patricia, try and find Goldberg for me. Tell him to meet me at the elevator.” Rosemary grabbed her jacket off the back of the chair. “Let’s go before anything else happens. I want to make this quick.”

  “Why him?” Bagabond put her shoes back on and winced. She walked through the door Rosemary held open for her.

  “Your buddy, Goldberg? Because he’s new and he’s got to learn how to handle this sort of thing. And besides, I like spreading misery around. Come on.”

  Goldberg waited at the elevator, apparently nervously watching for Rosemary. He nodded at Bagabond as the pair walked up.

  “Suzanne, I believe you’ve met Paul Goldberg.” Rose­mary waved at Bagabond. “Paul, Suzanne Melotti, a friend and associate of mine.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you officially, Ms. Melotti.” He smiled at her. “I hope I wasn’t too abrupt
earlier.”

  “No.” Bagabond punched the Down button.

  “Um, good. Good.” Paul turned to Rosemary. “Ms. Muldoon, may I ask why I’m here?” He spread his hands and looked inquisitive.

  “Today is not a good day to give me straight lines, Paul.” Rosemary glanced at Bagabond, who was watching the floor numbers change. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Paul.

  Altobelli met Fortunato at the barricades across the south entrance to Fort Tryon Park. The barricades had been up so long, what with the kid gangs and then the damage the aces had done rooting out the Masons, they’d become permanent fixtures.

  There were cops everywhere. As one paddywagon pulled away another crawled up to take its place. They were down to the dregs now, skinny, underage kids in jeans and T-shirts, handcuffed and sweaty, some of them bleeding from the face and hands. Altobelli shook his head. He was short, graying at the temples, thin except around the middle.

  “PC’s idea,” he said. The police commissioner had been on the radio all last week, taking a hard line about Wild Card Day. “Nice, huh? Of all the fuckin’ times to pull this kind of stunt. If we’d been on the streets where we were supposed to be, instead of up here kickin’ a few kids’ asses, maybe we could have saved the Howler or that kid. Not to mention the Turtle.”

  “What?”

  “It just come over the wire,” Altobelli said. “Couldn’t fuckin’ believe it myself. Couple of punk aces took him out with some sort of scrambler or somethin’. Then they na­palmed the poor bastard. Went into the Hudson. They’re dragging for the shell. No sign yet.”

  “Jesus. The Turtle.” If they can get him, Fortunato thought, then we’re all finished. There’s no hope for any of us.

  I’m going to die, he thought.

  In a way losing all hope made it easier. Now it was just a question of grace under pressure. Saving what he could and letting the rest go.

  Sometime, he thought, before four o’clock, you’re going to get your shot. What you have to do is wait for it. Be ready. Don’t even think about saving yourself, because you’re already lost. What you have to do is kill him. Whatever it costs you, you have to kill him, or die trying.

  His hands were shaking. Not fear, not really. More like sick, helpless rage. He made them into fists. He was squeezing so tight he thought he was going to hurt himself. Before he knew he was going to do it he had turned around and put his fist through the back window of one of the squad cars. Chunks of safety glass rolled across the back seat like uncut jewels.

  “Jesus Christ, Fortunato!” Altobelli ran to the car and then looked back at Fortunato’s hand. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Christ, how am I gonna explain this window?”

  “Say one of the kids did it. I don’t care.” He flexed his fingers, went through a couple of calming mantras in his head. “Forget the window, okay, Altobelli? Tell me why you wanted me here.”

  “Gangs,” Altobelli said, turning reluctantly from the car. “Nobody went to the Cloisters after you guys trashed the place, so the kids moved back in. PC thinks to grab some headlines from the jokers by rounding up the kids. Only what happens, there’s all these tunnels under the place. And there’s bodies down in there.”

  “Show me.”

  Altobelli took him past the barricades to an EMS wagon. There were two bodies on gurneys, side by side. Fortunato pulled the first sheet down. It was one of the kids, with long black hair and a rolled-up bandanna around his head. He looked vaguely familiar. There was a wad of cotton where his throat should have been. “He was some kind of runner for the Masons,” Fortunato said. “That’s all I know.”

  Altobelli nodded him to the next body. This one had been handsome when he was alive—bright golden hair, sharp nose and chin. He’d been there at the Jokertown lockup, the night Eileen died. He’d decided Fortunato wasn’t worth killing.

  “Roman,” Fortunato said. “I think his name was Roman. He was one of them. He was in jail last I heard. Must have got out on bail or something.”

  “There were half a dozen other kids—we already carted ’em off. Parts of either two or three girls, it’s hard to say which. The ME can sort that out. Hookers, probably.” He glanced up quickly. “No offense. And something else that looked like it had been a wooden statue, except it was mostly splinters when we found it. The weird thing was, it had clothes on.”

  “Probably another ace,” Fortunato said. “Some kind of wood man or something.”

  “There’s one more,” Altobelli said. “This one’s still alive.”

  He searched through the garbage that littered the alleyway for something heavy. Spector was tired and unsteady. It was probably some kind of hangover from what that Insulin bitch had done to him.

  The Astronomer had to be using up power fast. That was the only reason Spector was still alive. The Astronomer needed him to help recharge his powers, which he’d do later with Fortunato’s girls. When they got together to off somebody, there was something about the way Spector killed people that made it easier for the Astronomer to eat their energy, or whatever the hell it was he did to get his power. The Astronomer always channeled some of the juice to him. It made Spector feel great, and not many things could anymore. He might have a chance to kill the old bastard before then if the Astronomer was weak enough. Otherwise, the Astronomer would get charged to the limit and then nobody could stop him.

  He dug into a dumpster and pulled out a broken marble paperweight. It was shaped like a rearing horse, only the head was gone. Spector knelt down and set his mangled arm against the asphalt. He positioned the paperweight over where the bones had been broken and practiced bringing it down several times, then raised his arm as high as he could. He closed his eyes and pictured the Astronomer’s head under his raised hand. Spector brought the paperweight down as hard as he could. There was a snap. He ground his teeth together to keep from screaming and did it again. Another snap. He dropped the headless horse and pulled his bones into line. After a minute or two he let go. His arm was fairly straight, but he still couldn’t rotate his wrist. The bones were knobbed and didn’t slide over each other the way they should.

  Spector shakily stood up, his arm hanging limply at his side. He hurt even worse than usual and his suit, the only one he owned, was a mess. He walked slowly down the alley toward the street, hoping that this was as bad as it would get.

  Fortunato stepped carefully over the heavy power cables the cops had strung up in the tunnels. There were arc lights every few feet. The walls were slick and cratered with tiny bubbles. Fortunato guessed that one of the Masonic aces must have drilled them with some kind of heat power.

  The main chamber was thirty feet across. There was a battered Persian rug on the floor; somebody had ground out their cigarettes on it. The furniture was cheap vinyl junk that had spent some time in the rain.

  Plainclothes cops in latex gloves were gathering up bits and pieces and putting them in ziplock bags. One of them had just picked up a disposable plastic syringe. Fortunato took the man’s wrist and bent over to sniff the needle. The cop stared at him.

  “Heroin,” Fortunato said.

  “Been a lot of it around,” the cop said. “Cheap as dirt these days.”

  Fortunato nodded, thinking about Veronica. She could be on the street right now, tying off, raising the bright blue vein inside her elbow . . .

  “Over here,” Altobelli said. “I don’t know what the fuck he is.”

  Fortunato recognized him from Water Lily’s description. He was one of the nightmares, a weird little genius who’d rebuilt the Shakti device for the Astronomer. His fear and hatred of cockroaches had turned him into one.

  “Kafka,” Fortunato said. “That’s what they call you, isn’t it?”

  “Not,” the man said, “to my face. As a rule.” He sat on a tobacco-colored couch in the corner. The parts of him that weren’t covered by a white lab coat were the same brown color as the couch—skinny legs
with spikes coming out the back, hands like tweezers, a flat, noseless face, with nothing but lumps where the eyes should have been.

  Fortunato stood in front of him. All he felt was cold. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Kafka said.

  “Why aren’t you dead like the others?”

  The faceless head swiveled toward him. “Give me time. I’m sure I will be. Some of those . . . children . . . outside were having some sport with me. By the time I got here I heard screaming. I hid in a back tunnel.”

  “Did you hear anything else?”

  “He told someone else—a woman—to meet him at a warehouse when she was done. There was something about a ship.”

  “What kind of ship?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who was he talking to?”

  “I never knew her name. I only saw her once or twice. Besides, my eyes are nearly useless. I could try to describe her smell to you.”

  Fortunato shook his head. “Is there anything else? Anything at all?”

  Kafka thought for another few seconds. “He said something about four o’clock. That was all I heard.”

  Demise had said it was all going to happen by four A.M. A yacht? Fortunato wondered. Some kind of cruise ship? Not likely. Nothing that traveled on water could take him far enough fast enough to keep Fortunato from finding him.

  Which meant a spaceship. But where in hell would the Astronomer be able to come up with a spaceship?

  “Have them cremate me, will you?” Kafka said. “I hate this body. I hate the idea of it being around after me.”

  “You ain’t dead yet,” Altobelli said. “For Christ’s sake.”

  “As good as,” Kafka said. “As good as.”

  On the way back out Fortunato said, “He’s right, you know. The Astronomer is going to come after him. You need a guard around him at all times. Like SWAT guys with M16s.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “He got the Turtle,” Fortunato said.

  “All right. You got it. Procedure in a case like this, the perp goes to the Jokertown lockup. That’s Captain Black’s turf. But I’ll keep a detail of my own guys with him. We’ve got enough shit on our faces for one day.”