Chapter Five
10:00 a.m.
By the time he got into the crooked, winding streets of the West Village, Jack had started to wonder whether he should cross over toward the East Side and Jokertown or continue down toward what was clearly the center of action in the city today, Jetboy’s Tomb.
At least he was in more familiar territory now. Spotting a familiar facade on Greenwich, he fumbled in his breast pocket and found the creased color snapshot Elouette had sent him the previous Christmas. Obviously Cordelia had blossomed, but the likeness would suffice.
The bar was called the Young Man’s Fancy. It was a sort of social were-creature. From its opening first thing in the morning, it was a solid blue-collar, working-class joint. Then, about six in the evening, it underwent a shift switch and utter sea change. All night, Young Man’s Fancy was a gay bar. Whatever its guise, the Fancy was one of the oldest businesses in the Village.
Jack took the three steps in one and swung open the door. It was dark inside, and his eyes took their time adjusting. He crossed the width of the rectangular room, hearing peanut shells crunch under his size-elevens.
The bartender looked up from polishing a tray of Bud glasses. “Help you?”
“Maybe you were looking out the window this morning,” said Jack. He held up the photograph. “You see her?”
“You a cop?”
Jack shook his head.
“Didn’t think so.” The bartender scrutinized the picture. “Mighty pretty girl. Your woman?”
Jack shook his head again. “Niece.”
“Right,” said the bartender. He scrutinized Jack more closely. “Ain’t I seen you in here about six?”
“Probably,” said Jack. “I come here. The girl in the picture—have you seen her this morning?”
The bartender squinted thoughtfully. “Nope.” He looked appraisingly at Jack. “Reckon she really is your niece, huh? Lost, strayed, or stolen?”
“Stolen.” Jack scribbled a number on a Hamms napkin. Bagabond had given him Rosemary’s direct office line. “Do me a favor, okay? You see her, whether she’s alone or with someone else, leave a message here.” He headed for the door. “Appreciate it,” he said back over his shoulder.
“Gotcha,” said the bartender. “Day or night, anything for a customer.”
She had the cabbie drop her at Freakers. The club was jumping even at 10:20 in the morning, and the doorman who handed her out of the cab looked as if he were already two or three sheets to the wind. His soft white fur was rumpled, and his red eyes were both bleary and bright at the same time. He indicated the door to the club, but Roulette merely shook her head, and headed off toward the Crystal Palace.
And nearly jumped out of her skin when the double doors crashed open, and a long line of conga-dancing jokers came undulating into the street from between the neon thighs of the six-breasted stripper that adorned and formed the club’s door. Leading the line was a beautiful-faced woman who was having no trouble with the sinuous curves of the dance, since from the neck down she had the body of a iridescent snake. Her tail, which ended in an incongruous tuft of feathers, was uplifted, and the joker immediately behind her in the line had a firm grip on the tip.
He wasn’t wearing a mask, but he was one of the few. The rest of the swaying, yelling, shouting crowd wore a variety of dominos from elaborate feathered, jeweled, and sequined cre ations to hideous visages that were worse than the deformities they hid-perhaps.
At the tail end of the line clung a few nats looking both excited and self-conscious, and a touch belligerent, as if daring the jokers who inhabited the Bowery-and provided a wealth of skin-crawling, spine-tingling entertainment for the tourists-to object.
For a moment Roulette hated the thrill seekers with their bland, normal faces and smug security. I hope it is catching, came the vicious thought. God damn you all. But the thought was really meant for Josiah. Josiah, who had sworn to love and care for her, and instead had abandoned her when she most needed him. Apparently white liberal guilt wasn’t enough to deal with a woman who had the wild card virus. Might be catching. And she could imagine her former mother-in-law seated in prissy splendor at her Newport mansion sipping tea and discussing how no matter how much you worked with one of those “black” girls it so often went to naught. Many times were simply too badly warped and scarred both mentally physically by the white man’s oppression to enter white society. Wasn’t it a shame. Sigh.
But she probably burnt the sheets and had every piece of furniture in the house re-covered after Josiah divorced me. Sanctimonious, hypocritical bitch!
Roulette realized that she had been walking blindly, shouldering past the throngs that filled the streets of Jokertown. The sound of hammers and staple guns echoed in the already sultry morning air, shouts of greeting and insult from the jokers busy setting up booths for the day-long party, the smell of cooking (good and bad) wafting over the exhaust-laden air. Overhead a small private plane droned by pulling a long banner that read JOKERS INTO ACES. RESULTS GUARANTEED. CALL 555-9448.
On another corner the Church of Jesus Christ joker had a booth already up and running, handing out literature to anyone who could be stopped. Their results were guaranteed too, but in the afterlife. Beset on all sides, thought Roulette, charlatans for the here and the hereafter. Hopeless hope. Well, my people can tell you all about that, and it never gets any easier until there’s some new and even more unpopular minority to take your place. And I can’t conceive of a more unpopular and hideous minority than the jokers ever arising, you poor bastards.
There was a barricade across Henry Street. It wasn’t legal, but Chrysalis was a major figure in Jokertown, and the area precinct had reason to be grateful to the owner of the Crystal Palace. More than one tough case had been solved because of her intervention, so the chief wasn’t about to raise a stink over a few traffic snarls once a year. Chrysalis also had control of street decorations, so Henry Street projected an image of tasteful pride rather than the garish shock value that held sway on other streets. Roulette slipped past the barricade, and started down the street. To her right, and for about half the length of the block, there was an empty lot filled with piles of rubble, a reminder of the Jokertown riot back in ‘76. Waisthigh weeds and a few hardy saplings thrust up through the brick and plaster mounds. Several of the piles had dark openings like yawning little mouths, and she wondered if the place had become a haven for animals. She couldn’t picture the fastidious Chrysalis allowing a rat warren to grow up next door to her bar. As she watched, there was a gleam from deep in the hole that soon resolved itself into a pair of bright eyes surrounded by hair. But it wasn’t the shy muzzle of an animal that peered from the burrow. It was human-sort of—
With a gasp Roulette ducked her head and hurried on, passing Arachne, whose eight slender legs caught at the line of silk extruding from her bulbous body and wove it swiftly into one of her famous spider-silk shawls. Her daughter was busy in their booth hanging out an array of delicately dyed scarves and shawls. Most nats would never have purchased one of the trembling, almost transparent scraps of fabric if they’d seen it being created, but Arachne made a good living supplying the scarves to Saks and Neiman-Marcus. Roulette owned one, a delicate peach-colored creation that looked like she had thrown a sunset over her dark shoulders. If she had known Arachne was going to be on Henry Street she would have worn it to show the woman that she at least did not mind the source, and that she honored the artistry.
There was a low rumbling that gained in speed and intensity, and ended with a crashing boom as Elmo, the Palace’s resident bouncer, rolled another metal keg of beer out the front door and into the street where it joined its brethren like a rotund cue slamming into a setup of stumpy balls. The bouncer, who looked rather like a beer keg himself, flexed his shoulders in satisfaction, and headed back for another one.
Kids darted up and down the pavement chasing a battered soccer ball while at the far end of the block an impromptu baseball game had begun. Ghetto blasters throbbed out a cacophony of conflicting music: soul, rock, country, classical. Children cried and mothers called, but this madness had a sense of serenity and security; a feeling of family. Nowhere did she sense that desperate and nerve-stretching drive to have fun that had gripped the dancing throng outside Freakers. These people, as hideous as many of them were, were at peace with themselves.
Roulette tore her eyes from the gang of playing urchins, and forced herself to scan the crowd for a distinctive, tiny, redheaded figure. Thirty minutes ago she had stopped at the jokertown clinic only to be told by Tachyon’s very cool, very elegant, very beautiful, and very disapproving chief of surgery that the good doctor was not present, but could no doubt be found making house calls at any one of a number of bars. Roulette had tried Ernie’s and Wally’s and the Funhouse with no luck, and now the Crystal Palace…
And she found him.
Seated at a small table among many other small tables that had been squeezed onto the sidewalk out front of the Palace. Brandy snifter held lightly between long, slender fingers, glass tilting softly so the amber liquid flowed gracefully about the sides. Another glass figure standing at his left shoulder, but this one filled with the bone and viscera that form a human being, long nails painted an iridescent pink, a dusting of silverblue glitter across one unseen cheek. Chrysalis herself.
Roulette had reached the moment. She hadn’t thought beyond simply finding the Takisian, but now having found him what did she do? Faint? Sprain an ankle? She knew-as did most of the world-of the alien’s fascination with beautiful women, but there were lots of beautiful women in New York, and what if he’d already found a companion for the day? And if he hadn’t, how could she insure that he picked her? Beauty she had, but not the skills that usually accompanied it. She had never mastered the art of flirting. And in that moment she felt a surge of relief. She would walk past; if he noticed… well, so be it. He was meant to meet his fate. If not… She tried not to think of the wizened little man lurking in his damp lair.
She focused her eyes on the barricade, and began to count her steps, noting how the crepe-rubber soles of her shoes seemed to spring away from the concrete, and the way her slacks whispered against her ankles, and the brush of her braided hair against—
“I think you’re a fool.” Chrysalis bit off the words in her clipped British way. “Every year you start out here, having your first brandy of the day, remain sober long enough to get through your speech, begin soaking up beer at the game, maintain your liquid diet right through Hiram’s dinner, and then to put a perfect cap on the day, you end up back here, blind drunk, guilty, and miserable. Why don’t you take my advice and-“
“And every year you give me the same advice,” Tachyon said in lilting counterpoint.
“Go to Miami,” they concluded in chorus.
Tachyon’s smile faded. “How could I leave? This dreadful news about Howler, and not a clue as to his murderer.”
“And you’re not a cop. Leave it to the professionals.” A stubborn shake of his head. “Tachy, its not necessary for you to take part in this annual celebration of the grotesque. Jokertown knows you care. We won’t hate you for being absent for one out of three hundred and sixty-five days.”
“But not this day. I have to be here.” His throat worked at gulping down another large swallow of the brandy. “It’s my penance.” His voice husky, perhaps, from the effects of the brandy.
“You’re a fool,” Chrysalis said again softly, and gave his shoulder a hard squeeze with one transparent hand. Roulette, staring in fascination at the white finger bones against the deep ruby material of Tachyon’s coat, had a dislocating image of Death capering beside the man. Slowly she brought her hand up before her face, and studied it. The way the tendons shifted beneath the cafe au lait skin, the halfmoons of pale white beneath the buffed nails, the tiny scar on the index finger where she had cut herself during a cooking lesson when she was only six. Then looked back to Chrysalis now disappearing through the door of the Palace, and thought, I should look like her, I’m Death.
Cool touch against the bruised skin of her face. An anchor. She gasped, and her eyes flew open and she looked down into the concerned pale lilac eyes of the Takisian.
“Madam, are you all right? You looked like you were about to faint.”
“Yes … no … I’m fine,” she babbled.
The strength of the arm about her waist was at odds with his delicate features. “Here, sit down.”
The metal edge of the chair caught at the back of her knees, and she sprawled, and realized how close she had been to fainting. The brandy snifter was pressed into her hands. “No.”
“It’s an accepted if somewhat old-fashioned remedy for faintness.”
Her wits were returning, and she straightened in the chair. “And I’m old-fashioned enough to consider it far too early in the day for brandy.”
She watched in astonishment as a wave of red washed across his thin face, and the red lashes lowered to hide the chagrin in those purple eyes. Tachyon hurriedly removed the glass, and set it well away from both of them as if abjuring the alcohol.
“You’re right. Chrysalis is right. It’s far too early in the day for me to be imbibing. What would you like?”
“Some fruit juice. I… I just realized I haven’t had anything but coffee today.”
“Well, that clearly won’t do, and can be easily rectified. A moment please.” He bounded from his chair and hurried into the Palace.
And Roulette rested her head on a hand, and tried to readjust her thinking. Or perhaps truly thought for the first time. The man who had ruined her life had been a hazy out line. For one thing she hadn’t expected hire to be quite so tiny, or to have a smile of such sweetness, or a quaint courtesy that seemed more appropriate to an eighteenth-century drawing room.
And Hitler loved children and small animals, she reminded herself. Her eyes settled on one of the ballplayers, a small boy whose bloated body rested on narrow webbed feet, and whose flipper arms flapped in excitement as the ball was pitched. The crime is too monstrous, and his death will ease not only my suffering.
He was back, depositing a glass of orange juice before her. He watched while she sipped, tipped back in the chair, booted feet propped on the table. He seemed comfortable with the silence which was not a thing she was accustomed to in men. Most seemed to need a constant babble from the women around them as if in reassurance of their importance. “Better?”
“M uch. “
The front legs of the chair crashed down. “Since introductions would now seem in order… I’m Dr. Tachyon.”
“Roulette Brown-Roxbury.”
“Roulette,” he repeated, giving it its French pronunciation. “Unusual name.”
She twirled the glass, leaving a circle of condensation on the table. “There’s a story behind it.” She glanced over, and found his eyes resting with unsettling interest on her face. “My mother was allergic to most birth control devices, so my parents settled for the rhythm method. Dad said it was like playing Russian roulette, and when the inevitable happened they decided to call me Roulette.”
“Charming. Names should say something, about the person, or about their background. They’re like stories that get added to with each successive generation. But I’ve said something to offend you.”
Roulette forced her features back into an expression of calm. “No, not at all.”
She returned to her contemplation of the condensation ring, and silence settled softly over them, making the cries of the children and the pounding of hammers all the louder. “Doctor . . “
“Madam .”
They both began together, and fell back into their chairs embarrassed. “Please.” She gestured toward him. “Go ahead.”
“I was wondering what brought you into Jokertown on this day. You lack the guilty curiosity or the morbid hunger that motivates most normals.”
“I’ve come to journey a bit farther in despair,” she heard herself say, and that darker part of her soul cursed her for a fool. What man would want to spend the day with a morbid and lachrymose woman?
His hand closed over hers, tightening about the fingers, and pain seemed to flow between them. “Then, let us journey together. If you would like,” he added quickly as if fearful to offend. “This day is… difficult… for me. It would be easier in your company.”
“I have no comfort to give.”
“I ask for none. Only for your company.” His fingers brushed lightly across her bruised cheek. “And perhaps, if you wish, I might comfort you.”
“Perhaps.” And in her secret place Death reveled… just a little.
People crushed into him from all directions. The sidewalks were jammed with costumed jokers and rubbernecking nats. He moved the same speed and direction as the crowd, letting it carry him along. There was no point in calling attention to himself. The Astronomer could be anywhere, and usually was.
Spector didn’t need to be at Times Square for over an hour. He didn’t want to show up early; it might make him appear overeager. The Jokertown parade was the safest place he could think of to kill time.
In the street a band started playing “Jokertown Strutters Ball.” Spector was beginning to feel claustrophobic. He picked his way toward the edge of the crowd. A three-eyed mime wearing white tights blocked his path and signaled him to stop. Spector tensed. The mime frowned in an exaggerated manner, then stepped aside and motioned him past. Spector gave him a hard elbow in the stomach. He smiled as the joker doubled over. He hated mimes.
Spector was thankful for his constant pain. It distracted him enough that he couldn’t focus on the smell of hundreds of sweating jokers. By the end of the day plenty of nats would be green from the dead-fish scent.
Spector looked at his digital watch. He’d taken it from a young broker he’d killed in the financial district the week before. It was only a little past ten-thirty. The day, like the pa rade, was crawling slowly by. He hadn’t been this afraid since the first time he’d met the Astronomer. The old man had told him they’d rule the world. That he’d be a top dog in the new order. It was all bullshit. The local aces had stepped in and ruined everything. At least the Astronomer was going to get them, too. I hope he makes it last when he’s doing Tachyon, Spector thought.
He reached the edge of the crowd and ducked into an alley. Garbage was littered about in large piles. Three steps in he heard the howl. Spector stopped and looked up. The Astronomer, smiling, was floating down toward him.
“I told you what would happen, Demise. You had your chance.” The Astronomer howled again, a throaty, inhuman bellow.
Spector turned and ran back into the crowd, pushing past people, knocking them down. He ignored their threats and curses and fought his way into the street. He dodged through the startled band members, then ran past a crepe float of the Turtle and into the mass of people on the other side. He was afraid to look back.
A policeman grabbed him by the arm. Spector kneed him in the crotch and pulled away. People all around him were screaming. He could barely breathe.
“I’m right behind you.” The Astronomer’s voice was close. Spector turned. The Astronomer was hovering by the policeman, who had raised his pistol to fire. Blue light leapt from the Astronomer’s right hand, connecting with the weapon. The gun exploded, showering the policeman and spectators with shrapnel. More screams.
Spector tripped over a trash basket and fell hard to the concrete sidewalk, skinning his hands. He stood slowly, his knees wobbling. He felt hands grip his shoulders, fingers digging powerfully into his flesh. He couldn’t pull away.
“No.” Spector’s voice sounded just like Gruber’s had earlier.
The Astronomer let go with one hand and grabbed the top of his head. “Look at me when I speak to you, Demise.” Spector felt his head being spun around. There was a stab of unbearable pain, a snap, and his mouth filled with blood. The Astronomer grinned at him. “It’s Judgment Day.”
Noise ran through the crowd behind them. The Astronomer turned away, distracted by something, dropping Spector like a sack of garbage.
His body was paralyzed; he couldn’t break the fall. Spector landed face first on the sidewalk, smashing his mouth and nose. He watched the pool of blood widen around his open mouth. It was time to die, again. At least he wouldn’t have to see or feel what was going to happen to him.
Side by side and bumper to bumper, the floats took up a block and a half of Center Street south of Canal. Fortunato could see Des, the elephant-faced joker, done up in chickenwire and flowers. There was Dr. Tod’s blimp and Jetboy’s plane behind it, complete with floral speed lines. A clear plastic balloon of Chrysalis floated overhead.
This was deep Jokertown and there weren’t so many tourists here. The tourists that came this far down didn’t bring their kids. Drivers in coveralls stood by the floats, smoking and talking to each other. The worst of the crowd seemed to all be moving the same way as Fortunato, toward something that was happening up ahead.
Half a block away he could see the lines of power in the air. Like heat waves, shimmering, distorting everything around them. It was a signature that wasn’t really a signature, a set of psychic eraser marks. He’d seen them for the first time seventeen years ago, in a dead boy’s room not far from here, where women had been brutally cut to pieces as part of a conspiracy that ended with the great, devouring monstrosity of TIAMAT orbiting the sun.
He was lightheaded and his pulse was going crazy. He realized that he was scared, really, honest-to-Christ terrified, for the first time in seventeen years.
He sent a wedge of power out in front of him and ran toward the place where the lines came together. People spun away on both sides of him, shouting at him but unable to touch him.
Demise screamed. Even over the noise of the crowd Fortunato could hear the crunch of mangled bone and cartilage and the thud of a body hitting the sidewalk.
As he broke through the wall of people, they were already turning, trying to get away. Somebody dragged away a wounded cop, his right hand burned black, his face pocked with blood. There was a ten-foot circle of sidewalk, empty except for Demise.
Demise lay on his back, the lapels of his gray suit and the open collar of his scruffy shirt exposed. His head was turned completely around, his face flat against the pavement. Blood ran out of his mouth and nose.
A man in the crowd was screaming. “There! He’s right over there! He’s getting away! Stop him, for God’s sake!” He was pointing at nothing at all. All Fortunato could see was a blur of faces, like he was trying to look too far to one side, even though he was staring straight ahead.
Jamming me, he thought. He focused his power and slowed time, until the man’s voice and the moans of shock and disgust around him dropped to a subsonic rumble. A tornado of psychic energy hungin the frozen chaos around him, Demise’s power, Fortunato’s own, the viral energy of the jokers. It was hopeless.
He let go and time came up to speed. There was nothing he could do. Demise was dead. It was not much of a loss.
Most of what he knew about Demise was second- or thirdhand, picked up from cops and bystanders after the riot at the Cloisters. He was a loser a middle-class failure who’d caught the wild card and died of it in Tachyon’s clinic. Tachyon brought him back and Demise never forgave him for it. He’d come back a projecting telepath, so they said, and what he could project was the memory of his own death, strongly enough to kill with it. For a while he’d sat at the Astronomer’s right hand, until Fortunato and the others had destroyed their base at the Cloisters and Fortunato had blasted their Shakti device into atoms.
He’d have done the same for Demise and the Astronomer if he’d been able. But now Demise seemed inconsequential. From a sense of wounded aesthetics Fortunato got on one knee and twisted Demises head the right way around. He was about to walk away when Demise said, “Thanks. I needed that.” Fortunato turned back, his skin crawling. Demise squatted on his heels, rubbing the swollen purple lumps in his neck where blood vessels had burst. Already the bruises were turning yellow, healing as Fortunato watched.
Demise smiled. His mouth was a little too long and thin, and it came up too high on one side. The smile was full of terror and the man’s hands shook so hard he held them up and laughed at them. “Didn’t know about that little trick, did you? I got my little black message I can send and I got this other thing, too. Even the Astronomer didn’t know about it. I can heal, brother.” He hacked up a gob of blood and it was a solid brown crust by the time it hit the sidewalk.
“Then he thinks you’re dead,” Fortunato said.
“Christ, I hope so. Not that he wouldn’t have gone ahead and ripped my heart out, just to be sure, if you hadn’t shown up. Son of a bitch even told me he was going to do it. If I had stayed in Brooklyn maybe I could have kept out of his way.” He coughed up another lump. “If the dog hadn’t stopped to piss he would’ve caught the rabbit.”
“Why does he want you dead?”
“Thinks I sold him out. All it was, after that shit at the Cloisters, I started thinking another line of work might be healthier.” Demise stared at him. There was a spark back there. Fortunato could see it. If not genius, at least some craft and cunning. Most people wouldn’t see it because people didn’t spend much time looking into Demise’s eyes. One way or another.
Behind the spark was something else. Fortunato had seen it before, seventeen years ago, when he brought a dead boy back to life. It was the black despair of having looked at death too closely.
“In fact,” Demise said, “I’m surprised he didn’t take you out while he was here. Unless he’s saving you for dessert.”
“Dessert?”
“This is it, man. Judgment Day, he calls it. I’m gonna die, you’re gonna die, every one of you fuckers that hit him at the Cloisters is gonna die, and it’s all coming down today. With all this other shit going down in Jokertown he doesn’t have to worry about cops or anybody else getting in his way.” Fortunato had a sudden hunch, a convergence of invisible power lines. “You know anything about some stolen books? Or a man named Kien?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I just saved your life.”
“No. No to the books, no to whatever-his-name-was.”He was telling the truth, but Fortunato still felt the connection. “A man named Loophole, or Latham?”
“Sorry. No dice.”
Fortunato started to turn away. “Hey, listen,” Demise said. “I didn’t mean to get snippy. Maybe you could hide me out for a while? Just till this time tomorrow’?”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Just the way the man was talking. ‘Parting shot’ and shit like that. I got a real strong sense that by tomorrow morning you can color me gone. So what do you say? Got someplace to stash me?”
“Don’t push your luck,” Fortunato said.
Demise shrugged. The gesture was a little stiff, but otherwise his neck looked almost normal. “I guess I better turn up something on my own, then, hadn’t I?”