Spector walked slowly up the steps of the subway station, glancing in all directions. The Jack Daniel’s hadn’t helped. He’d seen the Astronomer kill before; he’d even been in on it several times. The old man could tear him to pieces faster than he could regenerate. He shuddered and stumbled on. Gruber’s pawnshop was only a couple of blocks away.
Flatbush Avenue was quiet, almost deserted. A kid was playing on a stoop, holding a jet in one hand and a blimp in the other. He smashed the plane into the side of the blimp and yelled, “I can’t die vet, I haven’t seen The Jolson Story.”
Spector shook his head. He didn’t understand why anyone considered Jetboy a hero. The little shit had tried to stop the virus from being released over New York, but he fucked up, failed. For that he got a statue and the adoration of millions.
“Jetboy was a loser,” he yelled at the kid.
The boy stared at him, then picked up his toys and scrambled inside.
Spector reached inside his gray suit and pulled out his death’s-head mask. He slipped it on when he was across the street from the Happy Hocker.
Spector crossed the street quickly and tried the door. It was locked. Spector banged loudly on it several times and waited. No sound. He tried again. This time there were heavy hurried footfalls. He heard the lock click and the door opened a crack.
“I’m busy right now. Come back later,” Gruber said. “You’ve got coke on your lapel,” Spector said, pointing at the tailored tweed suit. He put his foot in the door. “It’s Spector. I need to buy something.”
Gruber opened the door and closed it quickly when Spector was inside. “Buying? That’s a bit unusual. Well, what do you need?”
“An automatic pistol and a flak jacket.” Spector looked around at the dimly lit clutter. The place smelled of disuse and Gruber’s cologne. “How do you ever find anything in here?”
“All the important business is transacted in back.” Gruber opened the cage and walked into the back room. He was fat and soft. Spector could have hated him just for that. He followed the little man, bringing his pain into focus.
Gruber opened a cabinet and pulled out a pistol. “Ingram Mac-11 with shoulder holster. I’d want eight hundred from a normal customer, but you can take it out in trade. You will have something soon for me, I hope.”
Spector took the Ingram and looked it over. The gun was well-oiled and had a nice heft. “Sure. No flak jacket?” ‘.Sorry.’
Spector had hoped the jacket might help if the Astronomer tried to tear out his heart. Just his luck; it was an item Gruber normally had around. “What about bullets?”
“Right here,” Gruber said, handing him an unopened box. “Why do you need a gun? I mean, being an ace and all it just seems, um, unnecessary.”
Spector noticed that Gruber was careful not to meet his eyes. He grabbed the fat man by the ears and pulled him close. Gruber tried to gouge Spector’s eyes with one hand and pulled a .22 automatic with the other. Spector took hold of Gruber’s gun hand and pointed it at the fence’s stomach. There were two shots, both into Gruber’s abdomen. Spector knocked the gun away; he knew that Gruber would be a long time dying from the gunshot wounds. Spector pulled Gruber’s head around, forcing their eyes close.
“No,” said Gruber, shutting his eyes. Spector punched Gruber in the throat, knocking him to the floor. He straddled the fat man and pinned his arms.
“Don’t kill me. Please, no.”
“You’re dead already.” Spector grabbed Gruber’s eyelids and pulled them up. Gruber screamed, but it was too late. Their eves locked.
Spector was the only person who had drawn the Black Queen and lived to tell about it. Unfortunately, the memory of his death was always there. He turned it loose on Gruber, pro jecting his agony into the man’s body, convincing him that he was dying. Gruber’s pudgy flesh believed. His eyes rolled up into his head and he gasped. Spector felt him turn to dead weight and let go.
He looked at the desktop. Gruber had written one word on a notepad. Stamps. He shrugged and turned away. Spector put on the holster and slid the Ingram into it. If he ran into the Astronomer it might help, then again it might not. He closed and locked the cage door, donned his mask, and left through the back.
Stupid! How much more of an idiot could I have been? Jack thought as he fought his way downtown through the throngs. His anger with himself still burned savagely. He scanned what he could see of Eighth Avenue ahead of him. Where was the girl with the man wearing the purple suit and the dapper fedora?
He hadn’t called Cordelia’s mother vet. Elouette would just have to wait, impatient or not. Jack had made the one phone call he thought might do some good. If Bagabond and her animals could just sight his niece… He’d take care of the rest. His tongue felt rough, sliding across teeth that were slightly more profuse, sharper, and longer than were normal. He tried to damp the anger. Time enough for that later.
Control. Obviously he had some now. At first, upon exiting the Port Authority, he’d searched at random, fighting his way first one direction through the crowds, then another. Then the human level of his mind started to calm the urgent reptile brain. Set up a grid. Don’t repeat a line of search. Try downtown. Consider Fortunato a lead. He didn’t know that the guy he supposed was a pimp was one of Fortunato’s freelance talent scouts; in fact, he didn’t know if the man even used that kind of scavenging talent; but it was worth a try. The man with Cordelia would find it easier to fall in with the flow of the crowds down toward Jokertown. Eighth was less crowded right now than the other avenues. Eventually Jack would have to worry about a good crosstown route. But for now, he went on his hunch.
It paid off.
He came up to the intersection of 38th Street. Suddenly he saw, across the street, a familiar fedora bobbing a bit as though the wearer were looking about himself confusedly. He also saw the back of a head, a quick glimpse of a fall of shining black hair. The fedora moved toward the black hair. The young woman with the black hair moved farther away. She was running.
Fedora pursued.
Jack, staring after them, started off the curb. A hand grabbed his shoulder, roughly tugging him back. A honking yellow cab nearly took off his toes and latent snout.
“Watch it, bub,”.said a husky joker standing beside him. “Cabbies don’t give a shit. Not today. Not never.”
By now, the intersection was full of traffic. The last cabs to make it through had done so. Now there were vehicles lined up in either direction. No one seemed worried about automatic $25 tickets for gridlocking.
“Never a cop when you need one,” somebody said.
Jack made it across the intersection like a good brokenfield runner. The Jets’d be proud, he thought irrelevantly. This season, they could use him. On the other side of 38th, he realized that neither the fedora nor Cordelia was in sight.
Damn it. Sooner or later, he thought, striking downtown again. He looked around for one of Bagabond’s birds, a cat, a squirrel, anything.
Never a pigeon when you need one.