Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel by George R. R. Martin
He’s going to do it, Marcus thought. Look how cool he is. How calm.
Gesturing with his arms, Father Squid made some argument that Aleksei kept trying to punch through. Aleksei shook his head savagely. He spit and hissed and pressed to get in striking range. “The squid’s a coward,” Wartcake said.
Marcus snapped, “He’s no coward. He’s just above this shit. He’s not going to fight for those fuckers.”
This got him a few jeers and insults, but mostly they all just watched the fight. Aleksei was all testosterone-pumped, muscle-bound rage. He threw wild, powerful punches, changeups that went from high to low, swinging wide or jabbing for the torso. His fists sparked with electricity. His ugly face contorted as he concentrated.
For his part, Father Squid moved with an uncanny precision. He backed and dodged, slipped his head to the side, twisted from the torso. No matter how he tried, Aleksei couldn’t land a blow. Father Squid didn’t move any faster, but it seemed he knew what his opponent was going to do just before he did it. He swatted the joker’s punches away with sharp, karate-like motions, his body taking on stances Marcus had never imagined the old priest capable of. Once, he caught Aleksei’s fist in his gloved hand. Judging by the way the big man scowled, Father Squid must’ve squeezed it painfully. Just for a moment, though, then he flung it away.
“Squid’s getting pissed,” El Monstro said.
Don’t, Marcus said to himself. Don’t give in.
Aleksei landed a punch in Father Squid’s gut. The priest lurched over around it, and Aleksei slammed another fist into his temple. The electric force of it hurled Father Squid’s body backwards. He rose just as Aleksei bore down on him. He snapped out a hand, catching Aleksei’s arm at the wrist. He twisted around, keeping a grip on the arm while clipping the man’s legs with his body and using his momentum to trip him. The joker flew heels over head. Father Squid planted his feet and pulled. The arm popped out of its socket. It was a sickly thing to watch, the unnatural way the body and arm moved in opposite directions. Father Squid let go and backed away. He looked horrified at what he’d done. He stared with bulbous eyes as Aleksei squirmed across the stadium floor, helpless.
“Finish him,” Asmodeus said, mouth open, tongue sliding across his teeth.
Shaking his head, Father Squid stepped forward. He made soothing gestures with his hands. He reached out, and Marcus knew he was trying to position Aleksei to slip his arm back into its socket.
Yes, he thought. Show them.
He didn’t get a chance to.
Aleksei transformed. In the blink of an eye, he became an eel. Eight thick, muscular, slimy feet of one. His jaws opened and he lunged up at the priest’s face. Father Squid blocked with his forearm. The eel bit into it and thrashed, yanking the priest off his feet. The crowd went wild, roars so loud Marcus could hear them through both the television and through the actual walls themselves. He watched, unsure what to feel, his stomach tied in knots.
After a few frantic moments, Father Squid got the eel pinned beneath his thighs. He gripped the joker around the neck and banged his head on the floor. He banged it hard, over and over again.
Grimacing, Marcus shut his eyes.
Ties That Bind
Part Three
THE CONDO WAS NORMALLY quite roomy. One bedroom with a king-size bed for them, one bedroom for Isai, two large bathrooms, and a modern open-plan layout for the rest. It worked great for their family—or at least it had, until Kavitha’s family showed up on their doorstep and moved in. Two parents, two sisters, and their husbands, all bunking on air mattresses in the living room. Glorious.
“He was here in New York, Michael,” Kavitha’s mother said in British-accented English. “That was where he called us from last. The phone records are clear.”
“Yes, I know,” Michael said, trying to be patient. Sandip’s parents had hired an investigator when the kid had first gone missing, but the man had turned up nothing. So far, neither had Michael. It wasn’t technically his jurisdiction, but he’d squeezed looking for Sandip into every free minute at work. You did that for family; the other cops understood and covered for him when they could. But phone records, bank records, Internet, nothing. Michael had walked the streets, checked his contacts, but with no luck. As if the kid had dropped off the planet. “I know Sandip was here in New York; we saw him then.” Was he still here? Michael had no idea.
“So, I tell it to you again,” she snapped, regal in her silver sari and hair in a perfect bun, despite four nights sleeping on the floor. “And you will listen!”
Michael could only nod in response. He didn’t have a lot of moral ground to stand on, given his living situation, which Kavitha’s parents were handling with a fierce lack of acknowledgment. They had barely spoken to their daughter for years, ever since she’d gotten pregnant by a black guy and decided to keep the kid. But for this, for their only son, they’d finally broken the silence with a vengeance. Family was the most important thing to Kavitha, Michael knew; it had broken her heart when they’d turned so cold. But she wouldn’t betray them now, no matter how they’d treated her. It was one of the things Michael loved about her—he knew that no matter what, she would be loyal to family forever. Which loyalty now included him, Isai, and Minal. And as for her parents, Kavitha might never forgive them, but she’d still feed and house them until Sandip was safely found.
Now Michael stood in front of Kavitha’s mother, trying to swallow his own anger at the kid who had driven the whole family to distraction by disappearing. He was probably running around with some gang, pretending to be a hero. But he couldn’t say that to this tiny old woman, wrapped tightly in her shawl and shivering, clearly out of her mind with worry for her youngest child. When he found Sandip, he was going to strangle him. But he couldn’t tell her that; what Michael said out loud was only, “Don’t worry, Aunty.” She frowned at him, and he wasn’t sure if it was for the fatuous reassurance, or if she thought the “Aunty” impertinent. What was he supposed to call her? He couldn’t use her name—he was sure she’d think that was rude. This whole situation was impossible. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
If Michael was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was worried about the kid too. It was only two years ago that his own daughter had disappeared. Just for a few hours, but he’d thought his heart would stop. If Sandip would just pick up the damn phone and call.
He couldn’t spend all his time looking for the kid, not if he wanted to keep his job. Most of Michael’s days were spent on the street, talking to contacts, trying to figure out how the art smugglers were getting their pieces into New York. He’d nailed down almost every other part of the case—he knew who was doing the smuggling, where the pieces were coming from, who was buying. The one thing missing was the point of connection, the person or place that moved pieces from thief-seller to buyer. As soon as Michael found that link, he’d be able to make an arrest. Not that anyone at the station would care—everyone’s attention was focused on the missing jokers now. His punk partner was getting all the glory on what had turned out to be a much bigger case than anyone had expected. Michael glared across the desk at Franny, at just the wrong moment—the boy happened to look up, caught the glare, and then ducked his head back down, flushing.
Michael felt a surprising pang of guilt. He had been kind of hard on the kid; Franny wasn’t that much older than Sandip. Children, all of them, playing at being men. And Franny had a massive stack of papers in front of him; that couldn’t be fun.
“Hey—you want a hand with that?” Maybe it was time for a peace offering. They were supposed to be partners, and the truth was, it was Michael’s job to watch over the kid, help him out.
But Franny just spat out a brusque, “I can handle it.”
Not even a thanks in there. Fine. If Franny was determined to drown in paperwork, Michael didn’t need to extend a helping hand. He already had one kid to rescue. When he got off this shift, he’d go hit the streets again. Someone had to know where Sandip had
They’d canceled dinner with his parents last Saturday; this week, Minal had decided to invite Michael’s parents over to their place instead. She said it was time the parents met, that since Kavitha’s parents were here, they might as well take advantage. Get some good out of the situation. Neither Michael nor Kavitha were enthused about the idea, but Minal was insistent.
There wouldn’t have been room to seat everyone, but Kavitha’s sisters and their husbands had finally decamped this morning, pleading jobs and other commitments. Her middle sister was just getting to the uncomfortable stage of pregnancy, and had sounded relieved to go home and sleep in a real bed again, instead of bunking on an air mattress on the floor. Kavitha’s father was making noises about work responsibilities as well, but so far, her mother had held firm. And so here they were, waiting uncomfortably for Michael’s parents to arrive. Minal, busy in the kitchen, had banished everyone from her domain, and so they sat, awkwardly, in the living room. Thank God for Isai.
She had started part-shifting lately—just enough to sprout feathers on her head and arms, to turn her nose into a beak. Michael worried that her nose was turning more beak-like with every day, even when she wasn’t shifted—if she transformed too often, would the changes become permanent? But try to tell a five-year-old not to do something fun; it was impossible. And no one had the heart to discipline Isai right now in any case.
“Ammama! I can’t find the birdie!” She leaned against her grandmother on the sofa, book in hand. Isai’s current obsession was hidden picture puzzles, and Kavitha’s mother was remarkably good at them. She could find any hidden object with just a glance—she was equally good at finding dust. The one thing she couldn’t find was her missing son.
The phone rang, shrill and loud. Had someone turned the ringer up? The sound made Michael’s head ache. Kavitha jumped up and grabbed an extension. “Hello?” Hope in her voice—not that any of them really expected Sandip to call, but you never knew. But then she just walked away, out of the room, listening to whomever was on the other end of the line. Apparently not Sandip.
And then another ring—the doorbell. Michael’s turn to jump up, this time to open the door. His mother bustled into the room, dripping rain from her coat. He turned to help her with it, but she ignored him, heading straight for Kavitha’s mother, who had risen to greet her. His mother’s wet bulk engulfed Maya in a huge embrace. “I am so sorry,” she said, her voice thick with its Korean accent, but even thicker with sympathy. And Maya’s stiff formality broke down completely; the tiny woman was sobbing now, in his mother’s vast arms. Hugely muscled, from long hours over decades of wrestling wet clothes at her laundromat. Strong and warm, the kind of arms that could hold you up when you were drowning.
Michael’s heart was aching now, along with his head, but Minal had been right to invite his parents here. His dad was slipping off his own coat, closing the door behind him. And even though Michael couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged his father, in this moment, it seemed natural to rest a hand on the old man’s back, to feel the warmth of skin under the thin shirt, as he ushered his father into the room. Michael knew in that moment that if he were the one missing, even as a grown man, his dad wouldn’t rest until he found him again. He had to work harder to find Sandip. Maybe after dinner, he’d go out again, talk to some more people.
Kavitha came out of the hall, the phone still in her hand, to see her mother straightening up out of his mother’s embrace, tears still running down her face. Kavitha’s face was stricken, and thank God for Isai, bewildered Isai, who asked loudly, “Is it crying time?” And his father scooped her up and leaned his head against hers, saying, “No, sweetheart, baby girl. Crying time is done for now. Now it’s hugging time, okay? And as soon as your Mama Minnie tells us all that yummy-smelling food is ready, it’s gonna be eating time. Sound good?”
Isai loudly agreed. Michael took his mother’s wet coat that she was finally shrugging out of; Kavitha pulled herself together enough to explain that the studio had called to remind her that she only had one more week of rehearsal time before her show was due to start. She had to get back to work tomorrow morning, for at least a few hours. That started her father talking about business again; import/export problems, ever-higher taxes, lying and cheating employees. It was never pleasant listening to Kavitha’s father complain about his work, and Michael caught Kavitha wincing at a few of the worst comments. But it was still a relief to talk about something normal, and at least his mother was happy to join in, commiserating on the travails of the small business owner.
Somehow, the mundane details carried them through to dinnertime, when Minal’s food on the table and their faces around it seemed like a blessing. Michael had never expected to see his parents and Kavitha’s together, not really. But they got along surprisingly well—Kavitha’s mother even laughed at a few of his father’s wry jokes. If they got married, maybe this would be normal, would happen often. That might actually be nice.
He just had to find Sandip first.
Galahad in Blue
Part Six
AS HE’D EXPECTED THERE had been a long, tense, and unpleasant conversation with Deputy Inspector Maseryk about the death of a prisoner while in custody. After it was over Franny returned to his desk and went through all his notes on the joker kidnappings. Another person had been reported missing. A schoolteacher named Philip Richardson. The kidnappers were no longer taking just the lost, the discarded, and forgotten.
His now almost constant headache was back, pounding in his temples and behind his eyes. He closed his eyes, but all he could see were images from the fight club DVDs. The blood, the fists, the contorted faces of the men fighting in that arena. There had to be something he’d overlooked, a thread that might lead to the taken.
Michael came in at one point. His eyes were sunken and he looked exhausted. Franny opened his mouth to ask if his partner was all right, but Michael seemed to just look right through him, and he walked past without even a grudging hello, and headed straight to Slim Jim’s desk. Franny swallowed the words.
Adding to his misery was the fact that tonight he’d agreed to have dinner with Apsara and her parents. He’d started to head to the file room about ten times to cancel, but then he’d think about the shitstorm that would cause and he’d return to his desk unable to face one more person who was pissed at him. Apsara had wanted him to go with her to the Hyatt to collect her parents but Franny refused. He would meet them at the restaurant. That would give him another hour to work.
Norwood still hadn’t called back. The agent probably wasn’t going to follow up on the American Hero thing. Why would a fed do something to help a local? Franny’s sense of being abused deepened. He decided he was being stupid and paranoid. Jamal had gotten him the info on the Russian thugs.
He slumped in his squeaking, broken-down chair. So much American Hero—Curveball and Earth Witch and Drummer Boy, Peregrine’s son, and of course Jamal, the first season winner, and the tapes …
Various Wikis listed all the contestants who had actually made it onto the show. There were some jokers—the preponderance were aces, and why not? Hollywood liked attractive people, most jokers weren’t very attractive. He watched an online video showing some of the humiliating tryouts. Tryouts. He checked his watch. It was only four o’clock on the West Coast. He called the studio that made American Hero, and after only a minimum amount of runaround he was connected with an efficient assistant who e-mailed him the full list of everyone who had ever auditioned for the show. He ran down the list. Nearly every one of the missing had auditioned for the show.
He put in another call to the SCARE agent. “Jamal, found another link with American Hero. Most of the victims auditioned for the show. There’s got to be a connection. Please call me once you’ve talked to Berman.”
Starfields was one of Manhattan’s better restaurants, and it didn’t hurt its caché that the owner, Hastet, was a re
Franny was waiting in the lobby when the elevator doors opened to reveal the trio. Apsara’s mother was an older version of her daughter and just as beautiful. Her father was bald, with a slight paunch, but neither condition detracted from his strong, powerful features. Apsara looked adorable in her police uniform. Franny suppressed a sigh. He stepped forward to meet them, and felt gigantic. At five foot ten he towered over all three.
Introductions were made, hands were shaken, and they moved from the lobby into the restaurant proper. Franny paused for an instant before stepping in and scanned the people in the restaurant. He mentally assessed and dismissed the patrons as any kind of threat. He then took a good look at his surroundings. The ceiling was painted space-black and gold and silver stars twinkled against the dark background. Hastet herself, looking neat as a pin and dressed in traditional Takisian clothes, escorted them to a booth.
He’d read that at one time the waiters had dressed in colorful and flamboyant styles in imitation of Tachyon, but the Takisian doctor had been gone for almost two decades and that affectation had ended. Now the waiters wore black pants and white shirts with bow ties. Hastet supplied them with menus, while a waiter filled water glasses, and another shook out napkins and laid them in their laps.