Marked Cards by George R. R. Martin
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It was Halloween, a little after three in the afternoon. The coffee shop at the George Washington was nearly deserted. Jerry remembered a time when the place was a real dive, but they'd done a few renovations, even put in color TV. It was a weird place for Battle to be staying, but that only made Jerry more certain something was up.
Tracking Battle down had been easier than he figured. He'd called George G.'s office using Peter Jennings' voice, said the network was considering doing a special on the last days of the Rox. Battle's secretary had started gushing as soon as she heard his accent. She explained that he was out of town at the moment, but gave Jerry/Jennings a phone number where he could be reached. Jerry tapped into the phone system and fed it the number, out came the George Washington Hotel on Lexington Avenue.
His motorcycle was parked outside. He'd enjoyed riding one so much, he'd bought one. It was an old Triumph, black and almost too heavy. He'd picked it up under an assumed name, of course.
Jerry's look today was somewhere between James Dean and Nicholas Cage. His dark hair was slicked back and his eyes were bright with too much caffeine. He'd made a couple of lightning fast trips to the men's room earlier, but was sure Battle hadn't gotten out past him. Jerry didn't really expect anything to go down until evening anyway, but better safe than sorry. He eased back and ordered another cheese Danish.
Battle went past when Jerry was in mid-bite. His quarry was wearing a gray overcoat and tan pants. He seemed to be alone. Jerry tossed a twenty onto the countertop and headed for the street. Battle was getting into an old silver van when Jerry hit the door. Jerry trotted down to his Triumph and kicked it to life.
The van was halfway down the block when Jerry pulled out. He accelerated around a bus. The van was about five cars ahead of him and one lane over. They stayed on Lexington through Gramercy Park and then over to Park Avenue South. Jerry maintained his distance and tried not to get directly behind the van.
He heard sirens to his right, heading his way. The light at Fourteenth Street turned amber and the van charged through the intersection. Jerry gunned it, slicing between the lanes of slowing autos. He was into the intersection when the police car flashed in front of him. Jerry braked and twisted the handlebars to the right. The tires went out from under him, and the bike skidded sideways across the rest of Fourteenth Street and onto the sidewalk. Jerry struggled to right the bike as passers-by began to form around him. The cop car was long gone.
"I'm okay," he said. It was more or less true. His right leg was a little torn up, but there were no broken bones. "Just get out of my way."
Jerry bounced his bike off the curb and onto the street, headed south. He thought he glimpsed a silver car top ahead and began weaving through the traffic, closing in. A couple of blocks later, he caught up. It was a silver van alright, but it belonged to a florist shop. A light turned red ahead. Jerry slowed the bike to a stop. He rubbed his right thigh, which was beginning to throb. It hurt almost as much as his pride.
He'd lost them.
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He'd gone back to the George Washington in the hope that Battle would show up, but that hadn't worked. Jerry's instincts were right about that. At this moment Battle was doing something that could affect wild cards everywhere, and Jerry couldn't raise a finger to stop him. Jay was right; he wasn't good enough yet.
He put on his Creighton face and went back to the office. There was a bottle of Jack Black and a Gameboy in his desk. Right now that was the only company he wanted.
She was sitting behind the desk, filing her nails, when he walked in. Ezili looked up and nodded. "I thought you'd be coming back here."
Jerry shook his head. "I'm tired, Ezili. So tired even the prospect of sex with you couldn't pep me up. If tomorrow night's okay with you, I'll be more than happy to do whatever you want."
Ezili smiled. "I didn't stay for that reason. A man called. A Mr. Swartz. He said he identified the blueprints you left him."
Jerry's brain was slow in taking the information in. He thought for a second then straightened. "What? What did he say it was?"
"The Jokertown Clinic."
Jerry bent down and kissed Ezili, a kiss of gratitude, not passion. "Thanks. You may have saved my career as a detective. If I'm still alive tomorrow, I'll try to get you another raise."
"Your energy has come back, I see. Save some for me tomorrow." She moistened her lips. "No good deed should go unpunished."
"It won't." Jerry dashed from the office, the pain in his leg forgotten. Maybe his luck was changing. He'd know soon enough.
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No amount of money was going to get a cabbie into Jokertown on Halloween night. There was no point in taking his bike either. Somebody would rip it out from under him long before he made it to the clinic. That left the subway. When Jerry got on he was a nat with a Nixon mask propped on the top of his head. As the train rumbled south the crowds began to thin. At the last stop outside Jokertown, there were only two people left in the car with him. One was a drunk, the other was a transit cop. Jerry pulled the mask down and started changing his face. He felt particularly ugly tonight, and his features were going to reflect it. He extended his mouth from just under one ear to the other and filled it with large, yellowing teeth; he thickened his brow ridge and skull. He didn't want anyone fucking with him in the streets. It was several blocks from the subway to the clinic, and he wanted to make it as quickly as possible. Once there, he'd poke around. Battle couldn't hide the way he could. Jerry should be able to spot him right away.
The lights flickered and the subway car squealed around a turn, then slowed down next to the platform. A tentacle slapped up against the glass next to Jerry's head as the car hissed to a stop. Jerry lifted his mask and gave the joker a baleful stare. She made a face and turned away. Jerry got up and slid through the door, as it opened, then made his way up to the street.
A bottle broke at his feet as he stepped into the open air. There were screams all around him, some happy, some crazy, some from pain. A group of jokers was performing something resembling a dance in the middle of the street. Another knot was clustered by a warehouse wall, spraying it with cans of paint. Most of the crowd looked young to Jerry. A generation of "hideous joker babies" grown into their teens.
Jerry started making his way toward the clinic. He smelled smoke, but couldn't see any sign of a fire. Maybe it was just fireworks. He hoped the entire neighborhood wasn't burned to the ground by morning. Public sentiment being what it currently was, no one would care much if the fire department was slow answering calls to Jokertown.
Jerry walked with his hands in his pockets. He fingered the .45 automatic with his right hand. Jerry didn't much care for guns, especially handguns, but Battle played rough. He wasn't planning on being a martyr.
He felt hands on his shoulders from behind. Jerry spun around. A joker was extending a hand to him. His skin was the color of uncooked sausage and the top of his head was oversized and misshapen. "Help me out, friend?"
Jerry fished out a five and handed it over.
The joker smiled. As his face moved, it squeaked. "I think you can do better than that." He whipped out a knife.
"Okay," Jerry said. He pulled out the gun and pointed it at the joker's face. "Give me a reason."
The joker took two careful steps backward, hands raised, then turned and ran.
He put the gun away. This is all the public ever sees. They give the rest a bad name, Jerry thought. He watched the joker disappear around the corner, then trotted toward the clinic. He was close enough now that he could make it without getting winded.
He almost needed the gun to get into the clinic. Wounded jokers were everywhere. Jerry waded through the misery into the waiting area. Finding Battle might not be as easy as he'd first figured. The clinic was a big place, and Jerry wasn't sure what it was they were after. Arson was his first guess, but that seemed too small an operation for someone with Battle's ambitions. There was no poi
Jerry bounced up and down as he made his way down the hall. He was looking for Finn. He wanted to warn them that the clinic was targeted for trouble. At the top of one of his jumps he saw a familiar blond head. Emily Moffat was walking his way, moving with tired but purposeful strides.
He grabbed her by the arm as she reached his side. "Nurse Moffat, we met the other day."
"I'm sorry, I don't recall you." She looked him over. "You don't look too bad you'll have to wait your turn."
Jerry paused for a second, not knowing how much he could really trust her. He leaned in and whispered, "I'm Jerry Strauss. I really need to talk to Dr. Finn."
She looked at him incredulously. "Who? I'm in no mood for jokes. Dr. Finn is in surgery, and I'm very busy."
"Sorry," Jerry said grabbing her by the elbow and guiding her into a room. He pulled her into one of the bedspaces and closed the curtain. "Look at me." His appearance shifted to Jerry Strauss, then back to his joker facade. "Now do you believe me?"
She looked hard at Jerry for a moment, her eyes betraying nothing. "Okay. So you're probably Mr. Strauss. What the hell is going on?"
Jerry shook his head. "I wish I knew. The clinic is a target for something tonight. Is there anything around here worth stealing?"
"Hardly. Most of our facilities and equipment are practically antique. Except for the experimental stuff, of course. I can't imagine anyone would even know what to do with most of that."
Jerry noticed he was still holding her arm and let it go. "It's at least worth checking out. I can't think of anything else. Do you have access to that area?"
"Yes, but I can't - " she paused, conflict evident in her eyes. "What the hell. If you're right, something has to be done." She pointed to his face. "How long have you been able to do that?"
"A long time. Let's go."
They took the stairs to the basement. Emily punched a code into the keypad on the door. It buzzed and the lock clicked back. She opened it and stared down the dark corridor.
"I'll have to come with you," she said.
"No," Jerry whispered. "This is potentially very dangerous. Wait at the top of the stairs. Better yet, find Troll and send him down here to back me up, but tell him to keep it quiet. If you don't see us again in half an hour, call the police."
She took two steps up the stairs, then turned. Jerry motioned her to keep going. She sighed and continued her ascent.
Jerry slipped in and closed the door behind him. The darkness was almost complete, dotted here and there with small lights from the equipment. He pulled off his shoes and slipped slowly down the hallway, sliding his hand along the cold wall. He thought he heard something and froze, taking shallow breaths. He waited a minute. Nothing. He continued on his way. His hand found a door frame. Jerry fumbled for the knob and slowly twisted it, then stepped inside. He saw a small spot of light sweep over a glassed-in wall to his left. Whoever was holding the light was in the adjacent room. The light continued to roam about the room, lighting here and there, then moving on. Jerry's eyes had adjusted to the darkness well enough for him to make out a door between the two rooms. He walked slowly toward the door, sliding his feet. If he stubbed his toe now, it could be a fatal mistake. He pressed his body up against the door and pulled the automatic from his pocket.
Make your next move a good one, he thought. Make it count.
There was no way he could get through the doorway and still retain the element of surprise. His chances of dropping Battle and whoever he had with him before they got him weren't very good. While he was groping for a solution, the door opened slightly and light came through the crack. Jerry backed away, holding his breath.
They slid into the room and stopped, playing the light over the contents of the laboratory. Jerry was only a few feet behind them. In a moment they'd turn around with the flashlight and he'd be dead meat. Jerry moved forward silently and smashed his automatic into the side of one of the intruders' heads. He felt the shock of the blow up to his elbow, and heard the man crumple to the floor. Jerry crouched and foot-swept his other opponent. The man cried out as his legs went out from under him. Jerry scrambled forward in the near darkness, placed his knee solidly in the man's back and pressed the barrel of his gun into the captive's temple.
"Hands behind you," Jerry said. The man quickly did as he was ordered. Jerry pulled a pair of cuffs from his belt and snapped them on. He picked up the flashlight and pointed it at the face he hoped would be Battle's. The man wasn't George G. or anyone else Jerry recognized. He looked thirtyish and Hispanic, Cuban maybe. Jerry directed the flashlight to the man he'd pistol-whipped. This one could have been the other guy's twin, except for the bruise that was coming up on the side of his head.
Jerry figured there was nothing to be gained talking to either of these two. He pulled a glove out of his pocket and shoved it deep into the mouth of his conscious captive. Having cuffed him first, Jerry did the same to the one who was out. Whatever other reason Battle had for using these men, it wasn't for their personal hygiene. They smelled like a garbage dump on an August afternoon.
There was a soft voice behind him. "Now, Bobby Joe."
Something closed around Jerry's wrist. His bones ground together and he stifled a scream. The gun clattered to the linoleum floor. Jerry twisted his head around and saw the giant form in the dim light. He'd seen this guy before - smelled him too. It hadn't been the Cubans. If only he'd remembered!
Booby Joe, aka the Crypt Kicker, was dead. He looked worse than the last time Jerry had seen him, under the Rox. The Crypt Kicker was dressed in jet black, with a half-hood over one side of his face. The hood draped so that Jerry could tell a sizable portion of his skull was missing underneath it. There was a crimson cross over one eye, and the dead man looked like someone had used him for flamethrower practice. Jerry's jacket began to smoke where the Crypt Kicker was holding it. He tried to whip-kick the dead giant, but his foot glanced off without getting so much as a grunt.
"Make it look like an accident if you can, Bobby Joe. Keep it quiet. I'll be down the hall." Battle patted Jerry on me cheek and smiled. "Enjoy it."
A huge hand clamped over Jerry's mouth, searing his flesh with noxious chemicals. He started to change. As afraid as he was of being inhuman, he was a lot more scared of being dead. Lon Chaney Jr.'s wolfman was a sentimental favorite, but he'd seen The Howling recently, and that lycanthrope looked considerably more lethal. Jerry elongated his mouth into a snout and filled it with sharp teeth. Claws formed at the ends of his fingers and toes. He bit down on his enemy's wrist and began worrying at the dead flesh. Bits came off in his mouth, acid-sour and putrid.
Crypt Kicker tossed him in the air. Jerry brought his legs underneath him and landed on all fours. A coat of thick hair now covered him from head to foot. He could see better, too. His blood was pounding, and Jerry wanted the kill, wanted to feel his enemy's throat in his mouth and tear the life from it. He growled and charged.
The lumbering giant brought his fists down as Jerry leapt in, catching him on the shoulder and knocking him aside. Jerry pounced up on one of the lab tables and bared his teeth. Crypt Kicker lurched forward, arms outstretched. Jerry scrambled out of the way and launched himself onto the corpse-thing's back. He tore through the clothing and into the muscles in the dead monstrosity's back and shoulders, the flesh burning his lips and mouth. The giant, moving quicker than Jerry had anticipated, pushed himself over backwards and landed on top of Jerry. He felt a rib give way under the weight.
Jerry crawled away and looked around the room. This was a losing battle. There was no way he could kill someone who was already dead. He saw a freezer in the corner and ran for it. Jerry opened the door with a clawed hand, and turned to make sure Crypt Kicker was following him. He was. Jerry dodged into the freezer and crouched in the back, among cases o
Jerry crept out into the hall and sniffed. Battle was still there, and close. He hunched down and walked down the hall, claws clicking on the cold floor. There was a different smell now. Fear. Jerry began salivating. Soon Battle would be his, screaming in terror as the blood pumped from his torn body. Soon. Jerry continued to creep forward, his broken rib searing his side. A shape appeared in a doorway at the end of the hall and there was an explosion of light with a muffled sound. Jerry felt something whine past his ear. He bounded forward, wanting nothing but the kill. No matter the cost. Light filled the hallway. Jerry squinted and kept going. Battle screamed and ducked out of the hallway into one of the rooms.
Jerry crouched down and let his vision clear, then started advancing slowly. A growl started at the back of his throat. He cut it off. No point in giving his position away.
He paused outside the room. Battle was inside. The man's heart raced, his breathing was shallow. He was terrified, but not yet ready to die. Jerry didn't care what Battle wanted. George G. wasn't leaving the clinic alive. He sprang into the room. There were twin staccato bursts of light and sound, but the bullets missed. Jerry snarled and scrambled toward Battle, who fell over backward onto a lab table, shattering glass beneath him. Jerry swatted the gun from Battle's hand, leaving claw marks on the man's wrist. The man was helpless, it was time to make him pay.
"Stop." The voice came from behind him. It was the nurse. Troll stood behind her, his huge green body tensed.
Jerry could take her next, after the man. Troll would be more difficult, but Jerry could outmaneuver him. Just like the Crypt Kicker. Jerry bent down and took his prey's throat. He could almost taste the blood pulsing underneath the skin.