Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel by George R. R. Martin
Mrs. Chiangmai looked at him over the top of a menu and said in her softly accented voice, “Detective Black.”
“Frank, please.”
She inclined her head with the grace of a dancer. “Frank. Apsara has been telling us of some of her cases. They sound quite hair-raising. How dangerous is this for my daughter?”
Apsara cast him a pleading glance. He wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted so he made a guess. “The truth, Mrs. Chiangmai, is that we almost never draw our guns, much less fire them. I’m not saying it can’t be rough, but it’s not normally life-threatening.” The next glance was grateful. He’d guessed correctly.
“And what’s your job like now that you’ve been promoted?” Mr. Chiangmai asked. “Apsara tells us you are one of the youngest people ever to make detective.”
Because of politics, he thought, but he kept his remark as neutral as possible. “Less active. I mostly interview people now.”
“Do you like it?” Apsara asked.
He thought about it. He knew he was supposed to, but he had made a discovery. “I liked walking a beat. Seeing my people. Hearing about their days. But this is the career path if you want to make captain.”
“And you do,” Mrs. Chiangmai said.
“My father was a captain. In fact, captain of the precinct where I work.”
“A lot to live up to,” Mr. Chiangmai said.
Uncomfortable, Franny looked away. The conversation swirled around him. Apsara spinning tales. He recognized them as recent cases handled by both detectives and uniformed officers in the 5th Precinct. With luck her parents would not know enough about protocol to tell she was fibbing, or not pause to wonder how she had taken part in so many arrests.
He lost interest in the conversation thread. Found himself thinking about Abigail. He’d promised her he’d help and he was no closer to a solution for the Croyd problem. Back when Abigail had first gotten involved with Croyd Franny had abused his position to look up the file on the man. A file that extended back into the 1950s.
Some of the old-timers in Jokertown claimed that Croyd had actually been around on Wild Card Day back in ’46. The length and age of the file suggested it might be true. The crimes listed were mostly B&Es and larcenies. Then as the years had passed and Croyd had become a fixture in Jokertown a degree of sympathetic understanding for the man’s plight had taken root in the minds of the officers of Fort Freak. Croyd’s ace meant he really couldn’t hold a job, and none of the crimes he committed were so very bad. Or so the argument went. But if Croyd acted on his threat and killed Mick and Rick there would be no turning a blind eye. Croyd would go to jail.
Franny again scanned the restaurant. Croyd could probably remember when the waitstaff were all dressed up like faux Tachyons. Hell, he probably remembered Tachyon himself. Remembered when Aces High, on the top floor of the Empire State Building, was the pinnacle of wild card chic. When the Astronomer and Fortunato had battled in the skies over Manhattan, the day Franny’s father had died.
He’s also very suggestible. Dr. Finn’s words came back, and with it an idea. A crazy idea, but it was the first one Franny had that didn’t involve him trying to subdue, handcuff, and keep Croyd locked up until the ace fell asleep.
“Uh huh,” Franny said agreeably when the cadence of Apsara’s voice indicated she’d asked him a question. From the puzzled look on her parents’ faces it hadn’t been the right response. “Would you excuse me a moment?”
Franny slipped out of the booth and went to the men’s room. He washed his hands, splashed water on his face, and stood staring into the mirror. Would Abby think he was crazy or just stupid if he mentioned his idea for dealing with Croyd? He realized he did not want to sit through a meal while Apsara hosed her parents. They seemed nice, and he didn’t want to be a part of it. He also wanted to go call Abby and put his plan in motion right now. And he had the perfect out. Duty called.
He returned to the table. “I just got a call about a case I’m working on,” he explained. “I’m afraid I need to leave.”
“We certainly understand when duty calls,” Mr. Chiangmai said expansively. When the older man spoke the words aloud it almost embarrassed Franny into staying, but only almost.
It was also clear from Apsara’s ice-dagger stare that she didn’t.
“So, what do you think?” Franny asked Abigail after he had outlined his plan. Since Franny had bolted before eating they were seated in a booth at a burger joint. A french fry liberally coated with ketchup hung forgotten in Abby’s hand.
“I think it’s either completely mad, or madly genius.”
“I’ll need your help to pull it off.”
“The theater’s dark tonight, nobody around, and I don’t think the director will mind if I borrow a few things from the costume department.” She cocked her head in that way she had that reminded him of the cardinals that visited the bird-feeding station at his mother’s house in Saratoga. “But rather than ask maybe we’ll just assume it’s okay.”
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission?” Franny suggested.
“I like that. I think it shall become my motto.”
They polished off their burgers. Abby reached for her purse. Franny held out a hand. “Let me get this.”
She glared up at him from beneath her bangs. “This is not a date.”
“Absolutely not,” he hurriedly agreed. “But you’re a starving artist, and I got a promotion.”
“Well, all right then.” He thought she looked relieved.
Three hours later, in the stairwell of a Chinatown apartment building Abby helped him into the costume they had “borrowed” from the Jokertown Rep. It had been used in a performance of Cyrano, and however chic it might have been in 1680 Franny knew he looked like an idiot.
Abby tugged the shirt ruffles from beneath the wide cuffs of the long paisley coat so they hung over his hands. The knee-high boots were too big, causing him to shuffle, which was probably appropriate given the shoulder-length gray wig Abby had provided. The coat and matching pantaloons were both too small, which had him breathing in shallow gulps. The drooping feather in the musketeer’s hat fell into his eyes, and he blew it away in irritation. Abby had her knuckles stuffed in her mouth trying to hold back giggles.
“Okay, ready?” Abby asked.
“No. If anybody sees me in this getup I’ll … I’ll…” Words failed him.
“Nonsense, you look … you look…” Giggles overcame her again.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said sourly.
They left the stairwell and went down the hall. Standing outside the apartment door they could hear both a television and a radio playing inside.
“Maybe he’s asleep, and that’s why both are on,” he whispered.
Abigail shook her head. “Probably not, he tries to stay stimulated when he doesn’t want to sleep,” she whispered back. “Okay, good luck. He shouldn’t see me here, or he’ll know something is up.”
“You’ll rescue me if this goes pear-shaped, right?” Franny asked plaintively as she hurried back toward the door leading to the stairwell.
She flashed him a smile and a thumbs-up. Franny gave himself a shake, faced the door, tried to take a deep breath, and palmed the pass key he’d obtained from the building super by flashing his badge. He tried not to think about how many laws he was breaking. He slid the key into the lock, opened the door, and swept into the room.
His first impression was that smells could have weight and heft. The room reeked of pizza, fried chicken, beer, and man sweat. A hulking figure, hollow-eyed, skin like bumpy rock, and dressed in baggy sweatpants and a T-shirt jumped out of a recliner and curled his fingers into fists. The individual digits vanished and the hands became solid, skin-colored sledgehammers.
“Greetings!” Franny said. He swept off the feathered hat. “I am a Takisian anthropologist, and I have been sent on behalf of the Star League to seek your help in determining if Earth is ready to join our glorious hegemony.” Croyd gap
A frown knotted Croyd’s brow. “What does that mean?”
“Criminal and not criminal,” Franny explained.
“Did Tachy send you?” Croyd asked.
“Uh … yes … yes, he did.” Franny prayed that Croyd wouldn’t ask for any details regarding the alien doctor.
Croyd turned away. “I can’t. I gotta deal with these bastards who are kidnapping jokers.” He paced the room, his footfalls heavy on the linoleum floor. “They’re coming for me. But I’d be happy to do it after I kill these guys.”
“Not necessary.” Franny removed a small pocket recorder. “This device will not only record your interactions with the citizens of this world, but it will protect you from any kind of assault.”
Sweat trickled through Franny’s sideburns beneath the ridiculous wig. Given Franny’s shitty luck Croyd would get mugged while carrying around the recorder. Then he would come find Franny and pound him into the ground like a tent peg. One the other hand Croyd looked like an Easter Island statue right now. No mugger in his right mind would assault that. But in Jokertown right mind was a sliding scale.
Croyd rubbed a now semi-normal-shaped hand across his face. The rasp like rock on rock could be heard even over the radio and television.
“Well, that’s fine for me, but they’ll take somebody else. Nope, I gotta kill them.”
“No! You don’t. They’re not involved.” Croyd turned back to face him, the eyes buried deep under that protruding brow line were suspicious.
“And how the hell would you know? I’m supposed to be the expert on this community. At least according to you.”
“We’ve been monitoring Jokertown from space. They haven’t taken anybody.”
“If you can watch from space then why the hell do you need me?”
“We can’t…” His brain felt like it was frantically picking up and then rejecting ideas. “Can’t … hear what they say.”
Amazingly Croyd bought it. He grunted. “Okay. So, what’s in it for me?”
Frantically Franny considered. “First human … delegate to the League.” He hoped it didn’t sound as lame to Croyd as it did to him.
“I’d get to go into space?”
“Yes, on a spaceship.” Franny winced.
Fortunately exhaustion and the level of drugs in his system made Croyd less discerning than the rock he resembled. “Cool,” he said. He took the small recorder. “And this will really keep me safe?”
“Absolutely. Guaranteed. Just turn it on and walk around.”
“Okay.”
“And please, don’t kill anyone while you’re working for me. It would make it a lot harder for me to present you as a League delegate. Well, I must go.”
Franny hurried to the door. “Hey,” Croyd called. “How’d you get in?”
“Alien technology,” Franny said, and fled. He knew he needed to get clear fast so he opted for the elevator rather than shuffling to the stairwell.
Thankfully there was nobody in the entryway. Franny dropped the key through the mail slot on the manager’s door, left the building, and pulled out his cell phone to call Abby, and tell her where to meet him. He heard footsteps approaching, and he withdrew to the stairs leading down to the basement apartments.
“Hey, you!” came the never to be mistaken, high-pitched voice of his former partner Bill Chen. “Step out here where I can see you. What are you doing?” The powerful beam from a cop’s flashlight blinded Franny.
Yes, Franny decided, he had the worst luck of any living human. Bill lived in Chinatown, and of course fate would put Franny in his path right as Bill was coming off duty. “Relax, Bill, it’s me,” Franny said, stepping out of the shadows, and pulling off the hat and wig.
A grin split the big face as Bill took in his appearance. “Halloween’s not for months.”
“Costume party.”
“You know what you need? Some bling.” And Bill unlimbered his nightstick, whistled, and pointed the stick at Franny. Franny tried to dodge, but the too-big boots tripped him up. An instant later he was surrounded by a pink glow shot through with stars and glitter.
“Tinkerbill! You dick!”
Abby turned up at that moment. Bill looked from her to Franny and back again. Gave a snort of laughter.
“You kids have a nice night,” Bill said and sauntered away.
Those About to Die …
Part Five
MARCUS HAD A PRETTY good burn on. He was working his biceps, slow curls with the dumbbells. He looked down at the taut bulges of muscle, trying to focus, trying not to think about Father Squid, or Olena, or the fights, or Dmitri’s mind trips. He wasn’t having much success, but it was better to be doing something than lying on his cot. He didn’t notice that Asmodeus had entered the workout room until he spoke.
“It’s not all about muscle,” Asmodeus said. He strolled toward Marcus, his slim, lanky body at ease. “I don’t work out. Don’t need to. Five bouts, me on top every time. Bet you wonder how I do it, don’t ya?”
“Fuck you.”
A tick of annoyance flashed across the joker’s smug visage, gone just as quickly. “I thought Olena was taking care of that for you. But then again she’s not yours anymore, is she?”
Marcus glared at him, hating the fact that his mouth even formed her name, hating the way he grinned and let the tip of his tongue show. He knew what was going to happen before he did it, but he couldn’t help himself. He surged at Asmodeus, propelled by the long muscles of his tail. His weight-heavy fists swung up from his sides. He nearly smashed one of the dumbbells into the joker’s spotty face.
“Dmitri!” Asmodeus called.
The name was enough to freeze him. The ace strolled into the room, looking bored as ever. He leaned against the wall. His dead eyes fixed on Marcus, though without a spark of genuine interest.
“Yeah, they sent me with Dmitri,” Asmodeus said. He pulled up a stool and leaned back against it. “I’m not here to shoot the shit. Baba Yaga didn’t much like the way you handled your last fight. She wants me to school you.”
Resuming his curls, Marcus muttered, “I won, didn’t I?”
No one could dispute that. The fight hadn’t lasted more than a few minutes. The joker facing him looked like one of the ogres in that old animated version of The Hobbit. He had come at him with his massive mouth open, teeth like curved daggers. Marcus swiped his feet from under him with his tail. He pounced on his back while he was down and pounded his face into the floor. He could still hear the joker’s teeth snapping on the floor and saw them spinning away, dragging thin tendrils of blood. He’d bashed his face to pulp and hadn’t seen the guy since. Marcus wanted to feel more sorry about it than he did. It was wrong hurting someone like that. He knew that, but he didn’t quite feel it. Part of him found beauty in the broken teeth, the thin lines of bloody spittle they left behind.
“Yeah, you fucked him up real good, but Baba Yaga wants us to fight. Not to kill each other. And you could’ve made more of a show of it. That’s what I do. I string them along a bit before closing the deal. It was that shit with the audience that pissed her off, though.”
It hadn’t been enough to destroy the ogre. Marcus had been too enraged. He turned from beating on the guy to raging at the audience. He smashed into the glass. He bounced off of it and came back pounding and shouting. He thrust himself straight up and ripped and yanked at the webbing above the glass. He almost believed he could get through it. If he just tore hard enough, found a weakness. If he could’ve gotten through, he’d have ripped the spectators apart. He’d have torn at them, bit them, crushed them. Only when Dmitri entered his skull and dragged him into his own personal hell did he stop. It had been far worse than the first time.
When he came out of it, alone in his room—Ol
“You do something like that again and Dmitri’s gonna spend a long time in your head,” Asmodeus said. “Bet. Just get your act together. Use your anger; don’t let it use you. Master that, and you’ll do all right. There, that’s my charity work done.” He stood. “I gotta go rest. Got a fight tonight. When it’s over…” He grinned. “… I’m heading to Poltava. Nothing like Ukranian pussy, is there?” He strolled away.
Marcus watched him go, feeling like each step he took away slammed another nail into his heart. Just as he reached the threshold, Marcus called out to him. “Hey! Who are you fighting?”
The joker spun on his heel, amusement—and challenge—in his eyes. “Why do you want to know?”
Marcus’s knuckles were sore from the knocking. Strange how he could pound flesh without a problem, but something as simple as knocking on a door made him wince. It wasn’t just the physical sensation that hurt.
“Father, it’s me! I’m not leaving until you open up.”
No response.
Behind him, life in the compound went on. Jokers lounging, tossing insults at each other, posturing. Girls. Drink. Amusements. In some ways it was all the same as when he’d first beheld the place. Things were changing, though, slowly, gradually, almost unnoticeably. The more they fought, the more the gladiators found the violence of the ring staying with them.
For Marcus, it was like a smell that clung to him. Sometimes he didn’t notice; sometimes he caught the scent and his muscles tensed and his face went hard and any and everything seemed like an insult. He’d bashed Wartcake in the face with his tray at the buffet table and would’ve done more, had he not felt Dmitri’s creeping touch coming over him. Afterward, he couldn’t even remember what had angered him. More and more, the trigger didn’t matter. Just the urge toward violence did.
Making it worse was that he didn’t have Father Squid to turn to. The night of his fight the priest came back stunned, shaken to the core, shame-faced and silent. He’d stayed in his locked room ever since. Marcus had tried getting him out several times. He’d been refusing to eat or interact. Not even Dmitri’s mind tricks seemed to affect him. He was beyond it all. Marcus had heard him praying. Once, he heard a repetitive thwack! thwack! thwack! He didn’t want to imagine what that meant.