Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel by George R. R. Martin
“There isn’t going to be a Hindu priest,” Michael protested. His parents would freak out if the wedding wasn’t Catholic. God, he hadn’t even thought of that. But Maya just flipped her hands in his face.
“Details, details. You let me worry about that. Me and your mother—we’ll sort it out. Don’t worry about the money—we have plenty saved up. I was going to spend it on a luxury cruise, since I didn’t think the girl would ever get married, but cruises can wait.”
“Aunty—”
She stopped him, with a raised hand in front of his face. “Michael. Do you love them? Both of them?”
It was so strange—the last few weeks had been so crazy, there hadn’t been any time for fun, or romance, or even sex. And he still couldn’t really imagine the life to come, when he was married to two women, until death did them part. He was pretty sure that wasn’t a wise choice for an ambitious man who wanted to go far with his career. But when she asked the question, Michael was surprised to find that none of that mattered. Because the answer was easy, it just slipped right out, grounded in a bone-deep certainty. “Yes.”
Minal with her cooking and sexiness and the practical competence that got the four of them through their days; Kavitha with her beauty and grace, her passion for family and commitment to lofty ideals. Michael loved them both to death, so much that it was easier not to think about it. He wasn’t sure a man should love a woman, especially two women, so much.
“So ask her, kunju,” Maya said, her tone suddenly gentled. “Ask them both. Life is short, and unpredictable. You must take happiness where you can. If the past few weeks have taught me nothing else, they have taught me that.” Her eyes were bright, but her voice was steady.
“I’m sure Sandip will turn up,” Michael offered weakly. He wasn’t sure of any such thing.
Maya just pushed the ring box into his hand, shook her head in that strange South Asian gesture that meant yes—no—and it’s in the hands of the gods all at once, and turned away, her shoulders erect and unwavering.
God. Michael swore, if he had a dozen like her on the force, he’d clean up this dirty city in a month.
Just ask them. Okay. What the hell had he been waiting for?
Michael had thought about how to do it. He couldn’t ask one of them first, and then the other—that would be too strange, and might lead to problems. It had to be both at once, and the only time he had alone with them both was at night, once Isai and Maya had gone to bed. But he’d also eventually realized that he couldn’t ask them in bed—it would be too weird. Like saying “I love you” right after an orgasm—no one could take it seriously. So not in bed, but after Maya and Isai were asleep. Which meant during dishes, which they usually did at the very end of the day, after picking up the disaster of scattered toys. It wasn’t the most romantic time ever, but it was the best he could do.
Usually Michael washed, Minal dried, and Kavitha put away. It was fast and efficient, but tonight Michael left Kavitha to wash the dishes and disappeared into the front hall. The box was waiting in his jacket pocket, the rings still safe inside. He took it in a hand that was suddenly shaking—it was funny; he’d faced down more than his share of bad guys, some of them with guns, some of them twisted by their wild cards into something scarier than a gun. Yet here he was, the big bad black cop, shaking.
Michael took a deep breath, steadied his hand, and then turned and walked back down the hall, into the kitchen. He’d left the room with everything calm; he came back in to find the women bent over the sink, snapping at each other in lowered voices, clearly angry, but also careful not to wake Kavitha’s mother or the child.
“Are you serious?” Kavitha asked, her hands still furiously washing dishes. “You’re going to abandon me now? We still have no idea where Sandip is.” Her voice was sharper, more shrill, than Michael had ever heard it. He felt a pang of guilt that he wasn’t looking harder for her brother. Although he had his doubts that the kid was even still in New York. Maybe he’d managed to cross the border, go back to Toronto, to hang with his friends. Wasn’t that the sort of thing teenagers did?
Minal took a plate from her and rubbed it dry. “I’m not trying to abandon you. Gods, I know you’re a performer, but do you have to be such a drama queen? Don’t you think it would be easier, if I weren’t here? Spring semester will be over in two more days—I can take the summer off, head out of town for a month or two. It won’t be so crowded here; you won’t be tripping over each other.”
Kavitha said flatly, “You just don’t want to deal with my mother anymore.”
Minal sighed. “Look, I won’t claim it’s easy talking to her, especially when she so carefully avoids discussing our relationship. But it’s not that. She’s actually kind of sweet, in her own way. I just don’t want to make her life harder right now.”
“You think I do?” Kavitha’s hands stilled in the soapy water of the sink.
“Oh, God. That’s not what I was saying! Michael, will you tell her, please? Can you explain what I meant?” Minal turned to him, finally seeing the box in his outstretched hand. “Oh, shit.”
Kavitha turned too, her open mouth abruptly closing. He didn’t want to know what she’d been about to say. He didn’t know what he ought to say. This wasn’t how he’d pictured this going.
Well, he wasn’t going to put the box away, not now. He popped it open, so the rings were visible, and slightly awkwardly slid to one knee in front of them. “Umm … I love you. I love you both. Will you marry me?”
Minal looked at Kavitha, then back at him. “You idiot. Your timing sucks. But yes, of course. Yes.” She grinned widely, and reached a joyful hand out to Kavitha. “Sweetheart? Marry us?”
Kavitha swallowed, and took a step back, pressing up against the porcelain sink. It seemed like an endless awful time before she said, “I’m so sorry. I can’t. No.”
The Big Bleed
Part Eight
AFTER THE WORST TWENTY-FOUR hours he could remember, Jamal returned to his Bleecker Street room at eleven P.M. Tuesday night.
And found Sheeba waiting for him.
“The logical question,” he said, panting as if he’d climbed the stairs rather than ridden the elevator, “is how the hell you got in here.”
“I’m a federal agent? It gives a lot of leeway with hotel managers. And when that fails, I can fly. Remember. You should sit down.”
The suggestion was unnecessary: Jamal had already collapsed in a chair.
“Here’s where I also say, ‘whassup?’” He barely managed his street black voice. “If this is an intervention, you should have my parents and my girlfriend, too.”
“You’ve got a girlfriend?” She shook her head. “Jamal, you aren’t well. You’ve been running off and not telling anybody where—”
“—On my own time.”
She held up a hand. “No malfeasance is suggested.”
“Christ, Sheeba, you’ve been in management too long—”
She bristled. Of course, Jamal had used “Christ” improperly. “I just want to help.”
“While getting in my business.”
“That seems unavoidable, since your business is our business.”
“Well,” Jamal said, “this wasn’t really a sin of commission as much as omission. I’m tired of hiding it.”
They had done Memorial Day duty with the Rodham campaign, then up early on Tuesday for Holy Roller—again; his appearances seemed to require double Secret Service and SCARE detachments—and no release from duty until ten that night.
With the late Wednesday, Jamal had been able to visit Dr. Finn at Jokertown Clinic—the doctor had asked him to come in Thursday the week before, but there had been no time. “You appear to be suffering from muscular deterioration.”
“Do you know what or why or whether anything can be done?”
“No to all of those, at least provisionally.”
Had he felt strong enough, he would have lunged across the desk at the doctor. “Mind if I ask what the fuck y
If Finn was disturbed by Jamal’s vehemence, he didn’t show it. He merely indicated the files spread out on his desk. “Eliminating other factors, mostly. Environmental, chemical—”
“So this is something in my wiring.”
“It appears to be.” The centaur paused, as if searching for something positive to offer. “You may be the first of your type.”
“So after this kills me, it will be known as the Jamal Norwood Disease? Do I get to address the crowd at fucking Yankee Stadium, too?”
“Mr. Norwood, it is difficult and progressive, but not … dire.” He cleared his throat. “I would advise you to take a much less … active role in your work, possibly go on leave. Help us with tests and conserve your energy.”
There had been more, but Jamal could no longer remember it. It all added up to … telling the Angel everything that had happened to him.
By the end, Sheeba, bless her, was blinking back tears and reaching for Jamal’s hand. “Oh my God, Jamal. This sounds awful.”
“Try feeling it.”
“We feel it,” a man said from the bedroom doorway.
Carnifex himself entered. Jamal couldn’t decide which annoyed him more: the fact that Billy Ray was part of this … or that he hadn’t even thought to look and listen. “That was pretty sneaky.”
Ray chose not to acknowledge the rebuke. “Here’s the deal: you’re on medical leave until further notice.”
Jamal was looking at the floor, feeling nothing but relief as Ray continued: “I’m going to light a fire under our medical people and get you into Johns Hopkins. I can’t believe you’ve been dicking around with the Jokertown Clinic all this time.”
“They’re sort of the world’s specialists in folks like us.”
“They give Band-Aids and aspirin to jokers, Norwood. They may have some sympathetic docs there, but that place is as far from a world-class research facility as you are from being a first-rate agent.”
Typical Billy Ray: never pass up a chance to step on a subordinate.
He stood up. Sheeba did, too. “Jamal, is there anything you need tonight?”
“Sleep,” he told her, quite truthfully. “It will be nice not to have to hit the road tomorrow.”
Billy Ray and Sheeba had not mentioned it, but Jamal assumed that being on leave would mean loss of access. So use it while you’ve got it.
The first thing to do was follow up on a promise he’d made to Franny, to search the intel database for Joseph Frank—
Well, no. First thing was, open a beer and pour it into a glass.
Then repeat.
It didn’t make him feel stronger, but he did feel better.
Then it was back to the computer, playing cyber sleuth. Jamal was surprised to find that, in the past fourteen months, Joseph Daniel Frank had made a number of exits from the USA and entrances to the Republic of Kazakhstan.
It further developed that Mr. Frank had been involved in a disturbance—a drunken dispute with a prostitute that resulted in a beating and an arrest (in Kazakhstan, likely the same thing)—three months ago.
In the city of Talas. Talas. Not Astana, the capital.
Talas, specifically at a casino-nightclub named Maxim’s.
What was in Talas that would draw Michael Berman’s cameraman there repeatedly over the past year-plus?
What would a real cyber sleuth do here? Well, since the one given was that Joe Frank, and by extension, Michael Berman, had to be involved in something illegal, Jamal ought to search for criminal enterprises or individuals that could be tied to the city of Talas, of course.
That turned out to be a rich vein. Kazakhstan was an oil producer, with oil producer–level corruption. Drugs, whores, counterfeiting, human trafficking, all on a significant scale—especially for a city with a population under fifty thousand.
Drilling down in each category, Jamal built up a list of names and links that he saved in another file. By the time he had gone through the primary areas of criminal activity, he realized one name showed up in all four: a party known as “Baba Yaga.”
There was no file on Baba Yaga, just a name and a list of activities that filled a page. All agencies were on record as welcoming further details—
God bless those foreign crime lords. They were always coming up with cute names for themselves. Johnny Batts. The Vicar. Of course, Jamal himself was known as Stuntman and he worked with the Midnight Angel—
Whatever. The name “Baba Yaga” was familiar to Jamal from some childhood book or movie, so he called up Wikipedia for a refresher even as he pictured some slick-haired, black-eyed young thug out of Scarface.
Oh. It turned out that Baba Yaga was a witch or a hag. Didn’t sound like the kind of name a young male hood would choose … unless that young male hood had a terrific sense of humor, which was not usually part of the ensemble.
Male or female, Scarface or hag, this Baba Yaga owned an establishment named Maxim’s. Which happened to be the establishment where citizen Joseph Frank got in trouble with a hooker.
Jamal sat back. Detective Francis Xavier Black was going to find this useful. Which was a good thing, because Agent Jamal Norwood was down for the count, out of the game, on the disabled list.
Likely for the rest of his short life.
No Parking
Mon–Fri 7–9am 3–5pm Except Buses
No Loading Except Authorized Commercial Vehicles
Mon–Fri 9am–3pm Except Wednesday With Pass—1 Hour Limit
Snow Emergency Route/No Parking Odd Side During Snow Emer.
No Parking 3–5am March/November No Standing Other Times
by Ian Tregillis
WALLY GUNDERSON SIGHED WHEN he saw the conglomeration of parking signs. They were bolted to a single streetlight, like a profusion of fungus on a steel tree. His steam-shovel jaw creaked up and down as he read each line to himself, trying to decipher Jokertown’s byzantine parking regulations. He scratched his forehead. It sounded like a railroad spike dragged across an iron skillet.
No standing? What the heck did that mean?
The blare of a car horn broke his concentration. A hairy lizard leaned from a window of the delivery truck idling behind Wally’s rusted and battered ’76 Impala.
“Hey, Tin Man!” she yelled. “Move it!”
He glanced at his watch. Crud. He’d be late picking up Ghost again. The adoption committee got sore about stuff like that.
He didn’t have time to cruise around for a different spot. But Wally wasn’t very good at parallel parking—it would take just as long shimmying the car back and forth to ease into the spot. Plus, he felt pretty badly when he scraped the other cars. So he used a shortcut.
Wally hopped out of the Impala. The lizard lady lay on her horn. He waved at her. Crouching alongside his car, he reached underneath to grip the frame in one hand. He paid careful attention to his hands, knowing from experience that if he wasn’t careful he ran the risk of accidentally rusting through the chassis. Then, after wrapping his other arm over the trunk, he gave the car a solid shove.
It skidded sideways seven feet and slammed against the curb. It went straight into the gap, but Wally overshot. The Impala bounced over the curb, cracked against the parking meter, and scraped a Toyota on the rebound. The Toyota’s car alarm shrieked. The parking meter toppled to the sidewalk with a crash.
“Nuts,” said Wally. “Not again.” The delivery truck sped past him.
He surveyed the damage. The meter had been felled like a tree in high winds, complete with a little clump of concrete at the base like the root ball. The LCD window in the meter blinked nonsense patterns of static hash before fading to black, like the last gasp of a dying robot. He couldn’t open the Impala’s passenger door, which now sported a large dent. He’d have to pound it back into shape later.
From the glove compartment, he fished out a notepad, pen, and roll of duct tape. Wally scrawled a note of apology on the pad, tore off the sheet, folded some money into the note,
People were staring. Wally gave a guilty shrug, then headed at a fast walk toward the Jerusha Carter Childhood Development Institute. He glanced at his watch again. The fast walk became a jog. The pounding of his iron feet left a trail of cracks in the sidewalk.
Things would have been so much easier if he could take the subway. But sometimes it got crowded, and when that happened people got shoved up against him, and when that happened the seams and rivets of his iron skin could hurt folks. Didn’t matter how careful he was.
As he passed the Van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic, a flash of yellow caught Wally’s attention. He paused at the entrance to the Institute, his hand resting on the door. A boxy three-wheeled cart turned the corner a few blocks up. It was painted blue and white like a police car and had a yellow strobe on top. The cart puttered along the row of parked cars. It eased to a stop alongside a Volkswagen. The driver strutted out, brandishing a ticket pad. A dishwater blond ponytail poked from the brim of her hat.
Wally sighed. “Aw, rats. Not her again.”
Ghost hadn’t yet finished her counseling session when he arrived. She sat cross-legged on the floor in one of the glassed-in side rooms along the courtyard, talking to one of the Institute’s child psychologists. The doc saw Wally but kept her attention on Ghost. Wally’s foster daughter didn’t see him. He tiptoed away.
Ghost had resisted the counseling for quite a while; it had been a relief for all involved when she started engaging with the teachers and staff at the Institute. For the longest time she trusted only one adult, and that adult was Wally. He’d rescued her from the life of a child soldier in the People’s Paradise of Africa, where she had been an experiment: infected, traumatized, brainwashed, trained to kill. But she was also a little girl who liked Legos, Dr. Seuss, and peanut-butter-and-mango sandwiches.