Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel by George R. R. Martin
Leaning in to the door, he said, “You can’t stay in there forever.”
Nothing.
“You think you’re the only one that feels like an animal?” Marcus snapped. “I got news for you. All of us feel that way! Some like it. I don’t. But … I’m getting tired of fighting it. You know? It’s hard. It’s easier to give in.” He paused, clenched his fist again and touched his knuckles to the wood. “What about all that stuff you said to me? How it wasn’t my fault. How it was this place that drove me crazy. If that’s true about me it’s true about you, too.”
There was a noise behind the door, a snuffling and murmur that he couldn’t make out. It sounded like some sort of prayer.
Annoyed, Marcus said, “Whatever, Father. I’m getting on with it. Just so you know, I’m fighting tonight. Didn’t even have to, but I want to. Yeah, I do. They took Olena from me. You probably think that’s for the best, but you’ve never been in love.”
The praying cut off abruptly.
“We got something. It’s real. It’s not like you think it is. She’s the only truly good thing in this place, and they took her from me. If I don’t do anything, Asmodeus is going to…” He couldn’t get the words out. “I’m not gonna let that happen. That’s why I’m fighting tonight—for her. What else do I have to fight for now?”
Out of words, Marcus felt the urgency drain away. He sighed and pushed himself away from the door. “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. I’m going. Guess I’ll see ya when I see ya.”
He turned and made it only a few steps away before he heard the door open. Father Squid peered through the crack, his face haggard, streaked with tears. “Marcus … You’re wrong about me. I did know love once. I would’ve done anything to keep her safe, or to punish the one that…” He cut off. He blinked and inhaled a long breath and said, “Come in, son. I’ll tell you about it. I’ll tell you about my Lizzie. And you can tell me about your Olena.” He drew back, leaving the door open for the young man to enter.
“Stupid move, kid,” Asmodeus said. “Stupidest thing you’ve done yet.”
The joker was slick on his feet. He moved as if sliding across ice, deceptive, graceful. In his skintight jeans and white T-shirt, he could’ve been a dancer in West Side Story. Only he wasn’t singing.
Marcus pursued him. He slithered with a purposeful fluidity all his own. He wanted to pound him, to feel his fists thudding against his face. Backing Asmodeus up to the ring wall, he snapped his tail around to one side, to keep him from fleeing to the left, and then he curved in from the right. He released his tongue. It shot from his mouth sopping wet with venom.
Asmodeus blocked it with the palm of his hand. The impact thwacked wetly, spraying his face and knocking his arm back. He spun away, shaking the sting out of it. Good luck with that, Marcus thought. His venom would work just the same. Skin contact. That’s all it needed. Marcus kept his sinuous curve around the joker, waiting for him to weaken. He wanted to see his face register the venom, and then he would come on swinging, beat the crap out of him, and then end it.
Asmodeus looked at Marcus. There was no awareness of his impending doom on his face. He grinned and wiped the moisture from his forehead. “Your venom’s crap,” he said. “It’s nothing to me but the stink of your breath. I’ve got a bit of reptile in me as well. I produce my own venom. Comes out in my semen.” His grin widened. “The ladies love it. Olena more than most. Says my spunk lights a fire inside her.”
Marcus lunged, swinging his fists with everything he had. Asmodeus tried to leap over his tail, but Marcus swiped his feet out from under him. As he fell, Marcus landed punches on the back of his head. It was sloppy, ugly fighting, but he kept at it, battering the joker until he was on his knees. Marcus grabbed him by the hair. He raised his head up, ready to drive him face-first into the floor.
Asmodeus began to convulse. Surprised, Marcus let him go. Maybe the venom was working now. On all fours, dry heaves racked the joker, making him look like a cat coughing up a hairball. As much as Marcus wanted to kill him, he wanted everyone to see how pathetic he was. He wanted Olena to see his humiliation.
Asmodeus, in one terrible cough, expelled something from his mouth. It hit the floor with a clank. He picked up the object, sprang to his feet, and slashed at Marcus’s chest. A knife. The blade opened a slit from shoulder to shoulder. It wasn’t deep. He punched at Asmodeus. The joker ducked under it and landed a jab on Marcus’s chin. As he spun away, his knife sliced a gash to the bone on Marcus’s forehead. It gushed blood.
Laughing, Asmodeus danced away. He gestured toward the audience, raising the knife and waving it about. “Here’s my talent, kid,” he shouted. “Give me enough time and I could cough up a samurai sword. That would be overkill in this situation.”
The two engaged again. Asmodeus slashed and dodged, landing kicks every now and then. Marcus didn’t want to risk his tongue, so he worked in close, pounding at him. He knew he was getting cut, but he didn’t feel it. He could barely see, but it didn’t matter. His own voice inside his head screamed at him to kill. It shouted and cursed and banged on his brain. The noise was incredible.
Asmodeus sank the blade into Marcus’s tail. The pain of it threw him sideways. He couldn’t see anything but blood, no matter how he tried to wipe his eyes free. In a moment of sheer panic, he realized he might lose. Ignoring the man’s blade, Marcus grabbed blindly for him. He pulled him into an embrace, bashing his bloody head into Asmodeus’s face. He pushed him down and wound his tail round and around him. Asmodeus thrashed and yelled, but Marcus got his arms pinned. His coils slid around him. He let go of him with his arms and just coiled and coiled, squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.…
When Marcus awoke, he thought, I killed a man. That can never be undone. Was he changed by it? He wasn’t sure yet. He hadn’t meant to kill him. Not really. He wasn’t sure what he felt. In the arena everything was different. Outside the arena … well, it was getting harder to tell the difference. Even Father Squid had admitted as much. Thinking of the priest, a flush of shame warmed his face.
Olena sat on the edge of the bed. She was fully clothed, leaning forward with her head clutched in her hands. She must’ve sensed that he was awake. She didn’t turn, but she said, “Baba Yaga makes a promise to you.”
Reaching out, Marcus touched her back.
Olena snapped, “No! You can’t touch me.”
“Why?” Marcus sat up.
“Because of Asmodeus.”
“I took care of him. He doesn’t matter anymore.”
“He does matter. Baba Yaga is mad. You weren’t supposed to kill him.”
“He had a knife! He was going to kill me. Everyone saw that. I was…” Marcus tried to believe his own words, but it was hard to get them out. “… defending myself.”
“But you didn’t have permission. She didn’t say you could kill him. That made her mad. Oh, she was mad. You don’t even know.”
“So what? What do I care if she’s mad at me? She’s an old—”
Olena shot to her feet and turned to face him. “Stupid! She’s not just mad at you. She’s mad at me. She thinks I made you do it. I didn’t. I didn’t say to kill him!”
“Okay,” Marcus said, trying to soothe her. “I’ll tell her that. I’ll say it’s not your fault.”
“You don’t understand nothing. She was going to kill you, Marcus! I begged for your life. You don’t know how I begged. She didn’t listen to me, but the crowd—to them she listens. The crowd went crazy. They loved watching you kill. They want more. They’ll pay so much. So much. Enough that Baba Yaga thinks again. She thinks of something better than killing you. I tell you how it is. She made a promise to you, and told me to tell it. That’s why I’m here. To tell you.” Looking through a tangle of black hair, Olena looked miserable. And beautiful. Beautiful like nothing Marcus had ever seen before. “She said you have one more fight. She said…”
When she hesitated, Marcus slipped his body forward and grasped her arms, gently.
She pulled away from him. She struggled to get the rest of the sentence out. “… it must be a fight to the death. ‘You and the other troublemaker,’ she said. ‘Why not put them against each other?’ She will make big money from it. High rollers coming in from Moscow. Billionaires from China. Vietnam. They want to watch a big death match. Is the only way for you to live. Is the only way for me to live. But, Marcus, if you fight, and win, she’ll let us both go. That’s what she said.”
Marcus didn’t hesitate in answering. The words just came straight from his heart to his mouth. And that was it. He was committed.
The Big Bleed
Part Seven
“DIVERSIFIED CONTENT.”
Going by her voice alone, the assistant was a young woman, no older than early twenties, filled with attitude. Or so it seemed to Jamal Norwood when he called Berman’s office.
Jamal identified himself. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Berman.”
“And you are?” There it was again! As if Jamal had interrupted her at curing cancer or, more likely, repairing her nail polish.
“Jamal Norwood, also known as Stuntman. Mr. Berman knows me.”
The assistant sighed, as if the effort of doing her very basic job was some kind of imposition. “Hold on.”
The waiting music turned out to be hundred-strings versions of past Berman television theme songs. Which suggested to Jamal that Diversified was more than just a vanity card, Berman, and an assistant—that it might be a real production company.
The former producer of American Hero had his office in the Brill Building on Forty-ninth and Broadway, just north of Times Square. The eleven-story structure had been home to various songwriters, Broadway impresarios, and jumped-up television producers for the past seventy years. Jamal’s SCARE research turned up a fifth-floor office number belonging to a Diversified Content, a name that was a perfect fit for Berman’s smarmy self-conceit.
A bit of shoe leather reconnaissance would have told Jamal whether or not it was a real operation—DC was listed as a company that had “under twenty” employees, which could mean nineteen, or one. One employee would be easy to deal with. A dozen or more and Jamal’s off-the-books operation would be outed.
He had considered an ambush interview at Berman’s Upper East Side condo, especially since getting that home address had been a greater challenge. (The condo was owned by another of the producer’s endless supply of personal service entities.)
But ambushes were tough to accomplish when you were in a hurry and your window of available time was narrow. Yes, you could stake out the man’s condo and catch him on his way to work, if you had that time—which Jamal didn’t.
The other option was to hit him coming home—but that could just as easily have been ten P.M. after a business dinner as seven.
He didn’t want to spend three or four hours lurking without payoff.
A quick cost-benefit analysis convinced Jamal to simply phone the man at Diversified. And here he was, on the speaker. “Jamal Fucking Norwood!”
Jamal wondered who else was in the office with him. “Do I have a new middle name?”
“That’s been your middle name since 2007,” he said, laughing. “To me.”
“Oh, good, I was afraid this was going to be contentious,” Jamal said.
“You knew it was dangerous when you called me,” Berman said. “What’s on your mind? Is this about your new gig? Gonna say good-bye to being a G-man?”
“What new gig?”
“I hear you’re top of Cinemax’s want list for I Witness.”
Jamal was momentarily stunned to silence. It wasn’t impossible that Berman would know about the script—scripts floated around Hollywood like dandelion puffballs. But even Jamal didn’t know that the project had been set up at Cinemax … which made it slightly more attractive as an alternative to SCARE. Assuming Jamal was ever strong enough to be Stuntman again. “No,” he said, hoping his voice projected more confidence than he felt, “I’m still working for the national interest.”
“Schmuck. What’s on your mind?”
“I need to ask you some questions. About an investigation.”
Suddenly Berman was off speakerphone. “Did I miss your transfer to the IRS?”
“Would it speed things up if I said this was an audit?”
“Not a chance. You’d have to get in line for that.” Jamal heard thumping on a desktop—Berman obviously turning the phone or re-arranging some item. “If it’s not my money, it’s what?”
“There are some DVDs floating around that are going to cause someone to go to jail. And they all tie back to American Hero.”
Jamal had the satisfaction of shutting Berman up for an entire ten seconds. “Well, then, it obviously behooves me to share what I know with law enforcement. When do you want to talk?”
“Let’s start with right now.”
“Let’s revise that to two hours from now, my place.”
“Okay.” Berman rattled off an address that matched what Jamal had discovered.
Then, without a good-bye or even a parting shot, Berman was off the phone.
Which was good. Jamal needed to lie down for an hour. Of course, what he really needed was a shower to remove the taint of a conversation with Michael Berman.
The moment Jamal emerged from the cab at Berman’s building, he was forced to make a further adjustment in his evaluation of the man’s current success.
Berman’s condo was in a building at 675 Madison Avenue, near Sixty-second a block east of Central Park. The building looked like an expensive hotel, the effect enhanced by its ground-floor tenant, a high-end English lingerie store. Jamal could easily picture Berman stopping on his way into or out of the building, window-shopping the models … possibly telephoning their agents while he smudged the window with his nose.
Jamal found the entrance, which was discreetly tucked to one side, and a doorman who granted him access to the elevators.
On this May evening, Michael Berman, creator and executive producer of American Hero, former CBS vice president of reality programming, current asshole for life, was still on the south side of forty—which, to Jamal Norwood, seemed impossible. He was one of those creatures that grew like mushrooms in Hollywood. More clever than smart, greedy to the point of idiocy, entirely lacking in moral standards, over-sexed, operating on the principle that what was theirs was theirs, what was yours was negotiable, possessing only a single useful skill … the ability to give an audience the things it wants.
Things that are bad for it. Empty calories. Heroin.
He opened the ornate door, and showed that the years had not been kind. True, he was wearing his Berman casual uniform of pressed jeans and tailored white dress shirt unbuttoned a button too far. But he had gained weight: his paunch strained the lower third of the shirt. And he had lost what little hair he had possessed in American Hero days. Then Berman had rarely been seen without a baseball cap.
“Boy,” he said by way of greeting, “and I thought I looked like shit.” Jamal knew that he had gained weight, too—thank you, hotel and restaurant food. And while there was no hair loss, he was moving slowly and looking sickly.
But then, strangely, Berman offered Jamal a hug.
“Checking for weapons?” Jamal said.
“Come on, man, we’re foxhole buddies.”
“From opposing armies.”
Berman pointed an index finger at Jamal—his way of saying, good one. He indicated that Jamal should take a seat in the beautifully furnished living room, all white floors and rug, glass and white furnishings. “Something to drink or eat?”
“No thanks. On duty.”
“That’s it, remind me that I’m in a world of trouble.”
“Since when do you need a reminder?”
Another finger, as Berman yelled, too loudly for the space, “Mollie, darling!”
Not unexpectedly, Berman wasn’t alone.
“This is Mollie Steunenberg. Mollie, Jamal Norw
Mollie offered her hand. She was a plump little redhead, maybe a year past twenty, wearing heels that were higher than absolutely necessary and a greenish summery dress that was so short as to be unappealing to anyone this side of a recent parolee. Someone had probably told Mollie that redheads should wear green. Not that green, young lady.
“Hey,” she said, tiredly, nicely completing Jamal’s mental portrait of Berman’s bored assistant.
Berman flopped onto the couch. Jamal carefully lowered himself to the nearest chair. It felt good to sit.
“So, nasty DVDs,” Berman said. “And you think I had something to do with them.”
“The only thing every scene has in common is you.”
Berman rocked his head from side to side, like a metronome. It was as obvious a tell as an eye blink from a nervous poker player. With Berman, it meant: I’m actually going to be honest. “Look around me, Jamal, and ask yourself this: what possible value would there be in my involvement in naughty outtakes from my shows? You don’t get rich off stuff like that. And I’m rich.”
Shit, Jamal realized, what if Berman wasn’t the source? “If not you, then—”
Berman turned to the redhead. “Darling, who was I just complaining about five minutes before Agent Norwood called me?”
“You want the short list?”
“Don’t fuck with daddy, baby.” He was getting impatient.
“Joe Frank,” she said.
“Joe Frank!” Berman said, turning to Jamal and gesturing, as if to say, problem solved.
“Okay, who’s Joe Frank?”
“Mollie, tell Agent Norwood who Joe Frank is!” Berman smiled. “Because I can’t fucking bear to talk about the cocksucker.”