Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel by George R. R. Martin
“Can we kill that old bitch?”
“It will probably come to that.”
She was suddenly happier than Jamal had ever seen her.
The first sensation Jamal felt upon stepping through Tesseract’s “door” from Berman’s apartment into the gladiator compound inside Maxim’s was dizzying vertigo.
Had Mollie bothered to consider the fact that the spatial orientation in New York, Eastern Time Zone, was radically different from that of Talas, Kazakhstan, Asian Crazy Time? Was it even possible? Or was this his illness at work, not only robbing him of his bounceback, but of any mental or physical resilience?
No matter. Jamal took in the huge digital television screen mounted above a wet bar, showing chaos in the arena itself. A camera operator was struggling to locate the action (for whom? Jamal wondered) as what looked like Snake Boy’s torso slithered through a crowd of glitterati, knocking them sideways while zapping them with his poisoned tongue.
Nice.
Adding to Jamal’s disorientation were the smell of the gladiator’s quarters—heavy on cologne, perfume, and cigarette smoke—and the sound—hideous bass-heavy rap. Lounging on couches or bellied up to the bar were maybe a dozen jokers and twice that number of attractive “hostesses.” And, holding a drink, his arm around a tall nat woman with un-nat breasts, Dmitri … fat, sleepy-eyed, sloppy, menacing.
Then Franny and Mollie walked in—looking as though they were holding hands like high school sweethearts, though most high school sweethearts weren’t joined by handcuffs.
And, to quote Big Bill Norwood, a great deal of Hades came unmoored.
The jokers all sprang to their feet—those that had feet. Their eyes went wide—those that had eyes—with surprise or amusement. “What the hell is this?” growled an eight-foot-tall man-mountain joker Jamal knew as El Monstro.
Only Dmitri seemed to appreciate the situation. Shoving his goddess to one side, he smirked and turned his menacing attention to the intruders.
“Franny!” Jamal shouted and pointed. “Cap him!”
But Franny hesitated. And in that moment, Jamal felt as sad and sick and weak and afraid as he’d ever felt in his life. Worse than the day he’d broken his leg on the football field. He thought of Julia crushed, his parents dead, his own life ended. He wanted to crawl into a hole anywhere but here—Dmitri at work. Knowing what to expect in no way lessened the effect.
But that foreknowledge gave Jamal a few precious seconds of lucidity, and enough energy to raise the Glock. He snapped off three rounds that caught a surprised Dmitri in the back, shoulder, and, as he turned, in the face.
Down he went in a spray of blood and cranial matter.
“Oh my God!” Mollie was almost hysterical, and Jamal couldn’t blame her. Franny stared. “Sorry, cop training.” Blinking hard, he forced a smile. “I wanted to tell him to throw down his gun…”
Jamal stared at dead Dmitri. It seemed that someone else had pulled that trigger. There was no time to reflect, however. More goons with guns would be here soon. “Hey, people,” he shouted. “We are here to take you back to New York!”
The unfortunately-but-appropriately-named Wartface was giddy about being rescued. “About fucking time! Can I hit anyone before we go? I’ve got a list!”
“Sorry.” Jamal turned to Tesseract. “Do it!”
Without a word, Mollie opened a “door” to Fort Freak. They should be safe there, and it would allow the cops to remove them from the missing-persons list … once they calmed down. “There’s the exit. Move!”
There was a mad rush. First the hookers, then the jokers flopping, crawling, hopping after them. They piled through the door, and Jamal imagined the chaos at the other end of the journey.
Two goons appeared from a side door, guns blazing in spite of the presence of at least two joker-gladiators. Jamal ducked: he knew these idiots were just spraying rounds. He squeezed off three rounds that were aimed no better, but served to force the goons to take cover.
As he reloaded, Jamal had a sudden surge of energy. Maybe he was some kind of adrenaline junkie, happy only when moving, chasing, shooting. It certainly fit the persona of Stuntman the ace from SCARE and Hollywood. Maybe he was seeing the endgame. All they had to do was grab the rest of the jokers—
Franny and Mollie were forced to duck as a lucky shot from one of the goons passed between them, shattering a mirror on the wall. Franny had finally lost his inhibitions, unleashing a spray of covering fire that silenced both goons.
Mollie was crying, whether out of fear or anger or the residual effects of the Dmitri mindfuck, Jamal couldn’t know. He wondered what these Tesseract shifts did to the girl—God knew that bounceback drained him, even when he was healthy.
El Monstro had been lingering off to one side (his height made it impossible for him to truly take cover). Now the eight-foot-tall joker abruptly headed for the arena door. Jamal grabbed him. “Hey, big guy, where are you going?” He nodded toward the “door.” “New York is that way.”
“I’m not going. I like it here!” El Monstro insisted.
For a moment Jamal was furious—this was just the latest entry in a long litany of stupidity he had endured since learning about Wheels and the missing jokers. He was out of time, out of patience. He was not going to let this big goon stop him from completing this mission, no more than he had let Rustbelt stop him from winning American Hero! He trained his Glock at El Monstro’s vast mid-section. “Look,” Jamal said, “I don’t know what they’ve done to your head here, but you’re going through that door.”
With no apparent windup, no warning, El Monstro simply swung one of his giant arms and metal fists toward him. It was slow, but still too fast for Jamal Norwood to dodge.
The massive fist slammed into the right side of his face.
It was worse than his first deliberate jump from a tall building, in Halloween Night XIII. He had time for the sickening realization that there was going to be no bounceback, that Stuntman was falling fading dying.
Galahad in Blue
Part Ten
EVERYTHING SEEMED TO SLOW down.
Franny’s vision narrowed to a tunnel that showed him only Jamal’s face, blood flying from his mouth, his right eye dangling loose, the deep indentation in the side of his skull. The agent seemed to collapse in stages, until he lay on the floor like a broken toy, casually discarded. Mollie was screaming in his ear, trying to hide behind him, yanking at the handcuffs that joined them.
Franny yelled. It wasn’t even words, just an incoherent sound of rage and grief and denial. He brought up his gun.
And suddenly the dragging weight on his left arm was gone. He whirled in time to see Mollie, a paper clip clutched between her fingers, step backwards through an opening that afforded him a brief glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, flipping him the bird. Then the doorway snapped shut.
Of course the door to Fort Freak was also gone.
Trapped. Panic clogged his throat.
The whine of a bullet past his head brought him back to the precariousness of his situation. Franny dove behind a sofa. He heard El Monstro yelling to the remaining guards, “I’ll get him.”
Despite his ringing ears from all the gunfire Franny could hear and even feel El Monstro’s footfalls as he closed on him. He leaped up and vaulted over the back of the sofa. He snapped off a few shots at the last remaining guard on the catwalk overhead, who ducked into cover.
El Monstro was closing. It wasn’t that he was particularly fast, but he was so big that each stride covered a lot of ground. The buffet table was on Franny’s left. Franny’s eyes flicked across the offerings—deli meats, bread, cheese, a mound of caviar, a soup tureen set on a hot plate. The handle of a ladle invited someone to try a bowl.
Franny snatched out the ladle brimming with hot soup. The smell of paprika hit his nose. About half spilled as he whirled, but there was enough left in the big ladle for Franny to flick into El Monstro’s face. The big joker howled, and clawed at his face and eyes. Guess
Until this day he had never actually fired his gun outside the range. Most cops went through their entire careers and never fired their piece much less killed someone. Now Franny had killed a man. A man he’d supposedly come to rescue.
It wasn’t like in the movies. It wasn’t even like watching Jamal shoot Dmitri. His knees suddenly felt like they’d been replaced with rubber bands, and he found himself sitting on the floor. A bullet creased the air where his head had been only seconds before.
There was no time for shock or regret. If he was getting out of here alive he needed to take care of that asshole on the catwalk, and find his way to the outside. After that—well, he’d think about after that once he got that far.
Access to the catwalk wasn’t immediately obvious. There was another burst of gunfire from above that sent Franny scrambling for cover, but someone on the high ground always has the advantage, and Franny found himself knocked sideways from the force of the bullet that slammed into his left shoulder.
The shock wore off all too quickly, and the pain hit. It was worse then anything he’d ever experienced. When he broke an arm playing hockey, slashed his leg on a submerged tree while swimming in a lake that summer at camp nothing could match this searing agony. Franny screamed and fell to his knees.
Despite the torment some part of his brain kept working. He needs to think you’re dead. Franny collapsed on the floor, the pistol hidden beneath him. With luck the goon would leave, or come down to make sure Franny was dead.
At which point Franny would kill him. Or try to kill him. Only, God, he didn’t want to kill anybody else. Ever.
Blood was trickling from the wound. Franny could feel his shirt becoming wet and sticky. He listened to his heartbeats like a slow deep drum in his ears. The pain flared and ebbed also in time to that primal clock. Franny gazed into the staring eyes of El Monstro prone on the floor near him. He wanted to look away, but didn’t dare move. He wanted to close his eyes, but didn’t dare risk it.
Overhead Franny heard an agitated conversation in what he guessed was Russian. Two sets of footsteps. A door closing. Franny counted another thirty heartbeats and then cautiously climbed to his feet. Nothing. Pressing a hand to his shoulder he staggered to Jamal, knelt and, pressing his fingers against the SCARE agent’s throat, felt for a pulse. There was none. He hadn’t expected to find one. Not with the side of the agent’s skull crushed in in that horrifying way.
“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May the soul of this faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace, Amen.” Franny lifted his head, crossed himself, pulled the cross from his collar, kissed it, and tucked it away. “I’ll get you home to Big Bill and your mom and Julia. I promise,” he said softly. It was stupid. It wasn’t like Jamal could hear. But it did give him a purpose, and jolted him into motion.
Franny moved to the buffet table, shook out a napkin, folded another into a pad, and made a makeshift bandage. Got it tied using one hand and his teeth. Next task: Find a way out. He searched through bedrooms that smelled of sweat and jizz and perfume.
Eventually he found a door that looked like it might lead to stairs that would lead to the catwalk. It was locked. He went back and found the body of one of the goons either Jamal or he had shot. The man had taken a header off the catwalk, and his legs and neck were bent at odd angles. The Uzi was undamaged. Franny carried it back to the door. Bracing the gun against his hip, he held down the trigger. Bullets whanged and bounced, but eventually the lock gave up.
Up the stairs. There were a couple of doors off the catwalk. Franny picked one at random. It put him in a long hallway pieced by doors. At first he edged up to them, then took five-second looks inside, the Uzi at the ready. They were all empty and they all appeared to be offices. Computers that would have been old in 1990 sat on desks.
At the end of the hall was another closed door. Franny leaned against it. Partly to listen, partly because he needed to lean on something. Through the thick wood he faintly heard shouts, screams, and gunfire.
He really didn’t want to face any more gunfire, but he couldn’t wait for Baba Yaga and her goons to regain control. He had to add to the chaos and use it to escape. He sucked in several deep breaths, then pushed open the door.
He was in the casino proper. The usual dings and rings of gambling machines were muted. Many of the slots had been knocked over. Extremely well-dressed people were running in all directions. Women’s discarded shoes littered the carpeted floor. Franny even spotted a forlorn toupee dangling off a chair like a dead squirrel. The room reeked of cordite and cigarette smoke.
Across the large, chandelier-hung room he spotted IBT writhing toward elaborate double doors. His tongue shot out like a lashing whip, leaving behind convulsing people. A young woman ran at his side, gripping his hand while with the other she held a pistol that she used with murderous skill.
“Marcus!” Franny yelled, but over the screams and gunshots and the crashes as people tore open cash boxes behind the cashier’s stands he wasn’t heard.
That looked like the way out so Franny followed in the snake-man’s wake. He passed through a lobby with a coat check area, and a bench where a large man with a suspicious bulge under his shoulder was slumped. The mark of IBT’s tongue was on his face. The doors were standing wide open.
Franny stepped out as a battalion of police cars swarmed up, lights blazing and sirens blaring. A loudspeaker blared out instructions in a language he didn’t understand. But he was a cop. He could guess. He threw down the Uzi, and put his hands up, bit back a cry of pain as it hurt his wounded shoulder. “I’m a cop! American. Police officer!!” He reached slowly into his pocket to pull out his badge.
Somebody shot him.
The bullet ripped into his side. Franny fell. He heard people yelling. He vaguely felt hands rifling his pockets. The face of a young man holding aloft a saline bag, the swaying roof of an ambulance.
Darkness.
Galahad in Blue
Part Eleven
Epilogue
GETTING SHOT HURT.
Getting shot twice … well, that should have hurt twice as much, but it seemed like more. Ten times as much, at least.
The treatment after the fact hadn’t been much better. The Kazakh police had handcuffed him roughly, despite the blood leaking from him. Since he had a bullet in his shoulder, and another in his side, he had lost all macho cred by screaming. That penetrated the language barrier and they had taken him to the hospital, where the personnel had seemed overwhelmed by the number of gunshot and poisoning victims as well as some old joker hunched in a wheelchair, a creature as hideous as he was pathetic.
Franny hadn’t been sure what to expect from a Kazakh hospital, but it wasn’t all that different from an American facility. He had been taken quickly into surgery, and awakened in a private room. He had a feeling this wasn’t the norm, but the presence of two large, very unsympathetic Kazakh policemen at the door made his status crystal clear.
He kept demanding to see the American ambassador and kept being ignored. He’d then tried using the fraternity of law enforcement to generate some sympathy from his guards. That hadn’t worked either. Maybe because none of them could understand a word he was saying.
He decided to get dressed even though his bloodstained shirt was gone; he didn’t feel terribly effective clad in an open-back hospital gown. But when he opened the door, he found himself looking down the barrel of his guards’ submachine guns. Franny had a brief moment of thinking the perps in New York would sure as fuck be impressed if he had one of those instead of his service pistol.
One guard snapped out something in what sounded like Russian. Or maybe Kazakh. He had no fucking clue. Franny indicated his bare if bandaged torso. “Hey, how about a shirt? T-shirt? Anything?”
The guards lo
Franny returned to the bed, sat down, tried to think. It was a hopeless effort. His thoughts kept returning over and over to those chaotic moments when Jamal had been killed. His throat felt tight, and he swallowed hard for a couple of seconds. He had liked the cynical SCARE agent. I got Stuntman killed.
He was now totally alone. When he failed to check in Maseryk would probably figure out where he’d gone. Maybe eventually someone from the NYPD or the State Department or SCARE or somebody would ride to the rescue.
“I got most of the jokers home,” Franny said aloud to the room.
The room wasn’t impressed.
The door opened, and his guards entered accompanied by a man with a secretive face and slicked-back brown hair that made Franny think of an otter. His suit was expensive. He wore a Rolex, and the wire from a radio earpiece ran down into his collar.
The guards grabbed Franny’s arms, and frog-marched him out of the room. It hurt his shoulder and his side and he yelled. “Hey! What are you doing? Where are we going?” He was being hustled down the hall. “I demand to see the American ambassador! I’m a police officer, you can’t—”
The man in the suit slapped him hard across the face. Franny chewed on the bright coppery taste of blood and shut up.
“Baba Yaga wishes to see you,” the man said in a voice that had one of those unidentifiable but superior European accents.
A flock of moths seemed to have taken up residence in Franny’s gut. He could feel a subtle trembling in his legs. Okay, he was going to die. He didn’t have to face it whimpering like a girl. He stiffened his spine, glared at the otter, and said, “I’m under guard, but she gets to send fucking errand boys? She’s a fucking criminal. Why aren’t these guys—” He jerked a thumb at the two cops. “—on her door?”