Chapter Seven
12:00 Noon
The Dodgers were taking batting practice when Jennifer found her seat in the bleachers. The late summer sun was soothing on her bare arms and face. She closed her eyes and listened to the friendly sounds of the stadium, the call of the vendors, the conversation of the fans, the unmistakable crack of bat hitting ball.
She suddenly realized that it’d been two years since she’d been to a ball game, two years since her father had died. Her father had loved the Dodgers and he’d taken her to many games. She wasn’t that big a fan herself, but she’d always been happy to accompany him. It was a good excuse to get out into the sunshine or the cool evening air.
She remembered, in fact, the first Wild Card Day game her father had taken her to. It had been in 1969, the Dodgers against the Cardinals. The proud Dodger franchise had fallen on hard times in the mid-1960s, finishing at or near the bottom of the league for five straight years, but in 1969 the incomparable Pete Reiser, who had been in center field for the Dodgers that day in 1946 when the Wild Card virus had rained down from the sky, had come out of retirement to manage his old team. When Reiser played for the Dodgers they’d been a collection of glorious names. In 1969 they were a bunch of castoffs, never-has-beens, and untried rookies. Reiser, the center fielder nonpareil of the ‘40s and ‘50s, the man who had made the most hits, scored the most runs, and compiled the highest batting average in history, took a ragamuffin team that had finished last in 1968 and led them to first place with a miraculous combination of managerial insight and inspiration.
Tom Seaver, Brooklyn’s only bona fide star, had pitched on that day in 1969, and beat Bob Gibson, 2-0. The Dodgers’ runs had come, she remembered, on solo home runs by the elderly third baseman, Ed “The Glider” Charles. That game had clinched the division flag for the Dodgers, and they went on to beat Milwaukee in the National League’s first divisional playoffs, and then demolished the vaunted Baltimore Orioles in the World Series.
Memories of the exultation of that day, when an entire city had roared a collective shout of glee, brought a smile to her face. It had been a rare moment, and, looking back, she wished that she’d been old enough to appreciate the absolute and pure joy, untainted by any other emotion or thought. She’d rarely experienced that feeling since, and never with tens of thousands of other people.
The loud crack of a bat meeting a ball brought her back to the present, and she wiped the smile off her face. These reminiscences weren’t doing any good. Fleeing the perilous present by taking refuge in pleasant memories of the past was no way, she realized, to solve anything. Men were after her, and she had to figure out why. Well, actually she knew why. Obviously they wanted the books back. But how had they tracked her down so quickly? And why did they kill Gruber? No, that’s not right. They thought she had killed Gruber. She hadn’t. If they hadn’t, and she knew that she hadn’t, who had?
Something strange was going on and Jennifer was caught in the middle of it. She suppressed a shiver. Suddenly the sunlight wasn’t as warm. The people around her didn’t seem as innocent. Kien’s men had tracked her to the Happy Hocker. They could very well track her here. Any one of these “Dodger fans” sitting around her could be a killer.
She glanced around and froze when her worst fear seemed to be confirmed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the darkhaired man who had been watching her in the ticket line. He was sitting two rows behind her and to her right. He was pretending to be looking at his scorecard, but he was also surreptitiously studying her.
He could be the killer. At the very least he must be an agent of Kien’s. Jennifer looked firmly ahead. What to do? She could, of course, go to the police. But then she’d have to admit that she was Wraith, the daring thief who’d made the front page of even the staid New York Times. They could probably protect her from Kien’s men, but she’d end up doing hard time for the string of burglaries she’d committed.
She clenched her teeth as she saw from the corner of her eye that the man was moving toward her.
What to do? What to do? The frantic refrain ran through her mind, keeping pace with the pounding of her racing heart. Nothing, she told herself. Be calm. Do nothing. Deny everything. He can’t do anything to me with all these people around.
Darryl Strawberry, the young right fielder obtained two years ago in a trade with the lowly Cubs, was putting on a show in the batting cage. Everyone’s eyes were on him as he whacked balls into and over the bleachers in right, left, and center field. No one was looking at her and the man.
Fear knotted her insides as he set a large hand lightly on her shoulder and said, in an unexpectedly soft voice, “Wraith,” and she utterly and totally panicked at his use of her alias and ghosted, leaving him with an astonished look on his face as he stared at her pants and shoes lying in a crumpled heap before her bleacher seat, and holding her shirt in his right hand.
She heard him blurt “Wait!” and then she was gone, sinking through the structure of the bleachers like a stone ghost.
An officious security officer waved the limo to a position behind the bunting-hung stands. Riggs opened the door, and his expression gave new meaning to cat and canary. Tachyon, his color already heightened by her ministrations and the heat of the day, turned an even more fiery red, and said in an urgent undertone, “We will be leaving as soon as my speech is over.”
“Very good, Doctor. Will we then be going to Ebbets Field as planned?”
“No!” Tachyon added something explosive in his own language, and, tucking Roulette’s arm beneath his, escorted her up the back stairs and onto the stands. A large group of dignitaries were already assembled in a semicircle around the podium. She saw Hartmann looking peevish while the mayor of New York hung over the back of his chair and agitated for support for his upcoming gubernatorial race. The ace in the white jumpsuit, hood now thrown back, hovered solicitously nearby. He was staring glassily into the crowd at a nubile teenager whose breasts strained at her halter top, and Roulette noticed that his face didn’t quite come together. The eyes weren’t quite level, and the nose seemed to blossom like a twisted tuber above a too-small mouth and chin. He looked like an artist’s clay model the artist had gotten bored with before completing the bust.
Seated in the second row of chairs was a distinguishedlooking Oriental. Periodically he jotted quick notes in a leather-bound book, and Roulette noticed that the gold fountain pen left a trail of gold ink. She made a face over the affectation, considering how often money did not translate into class or taste. The man’s dark eyes lifted from the book, and stared with frightened intensity at a silver-haired man whose tailoring screamed “lawyer.” This man seemed to be looking for an opening to interrupt the unending flow from Koch and speak to Hartmann.
At the far end of the front row sat a major rock-and-roll figure whose “Joker Aid” concerts had raised several million dollars-none of which had yet reached Jokertown. Roulette gave a cynical smile. From her days at the UN she knew in just how many ways money could be channeled and skimmed. Tachyon and his clinic would be lucky if they ever saw $10,000…..
Her thoughts drew up short. The Takisian’s voice penetrated her black study. “Roulette, here.”
She glanced about confused, focused on the folding metal chair, seated herself.
“My God, Mrs. Brown-Roxbury! What are you doing here?” She stared into Senator Hartmann’s pale brown eyes. He gave an embarrassed cough. “Oh damn, that sounded rather rude, didn’t it? I’m just so surprised and delighted to see you. Mr. Love told me you had left the UN, and I was sorry to hear it.”
“The UN? What is this talk of the UN? You worked there?” broke in Tachyon. “Senator, good to see you.” The men shook hands across her.
Roulette opened her mouth, and shut it again as Hartmann took over the conversation for her. “Yes, Mrs. Brown-Roxbury was an economist with the United Nations Development Program.”
“Not that we ever managed to develop a damn thing,” she replied mechanically.
Hartmann laughed. “That’s my Roulette. You always did give ‘em hell up there.”
“Mrs.?”
“Don’t panic, I’m divorced.”
Hartmann went nattering on about the “wonderful work being done by the IMF and the World Bank” while overhead the striped awning, erected to give some relief from the sun, snapped and popped in the wind. It created an odd punctuation to his sentences.
“Yes,” pop “the electrification pro” snap “ject in Zaire is a ” pop “classic example of the fine work…. “
A discreet cough interrupted the flow. “Senator.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“St. John Latham, with Latham, Strauss.” Latham leaned in close, his pale eyes expressionless. “My client.” A hand indicated the Oriental gentleman, and Hartmann slewed around to look.
“General Kien, how the hell are you? I didn’t see you come sneaking, up here. You should have said something.’ Kien slid the notebook into his coat pocket, rose, and shook the senator’s outstretched hand. “I didn’t wish to disturb you..’
“Nonsense, I always have time for one of my staunchest supporters.”
Latham’s pale, expressionless eyes shifted to Kien, back to the senator. “That being the case, Senator…. The general has suffered a severe loss this morning. Several very valuable books of stamps were stolen from his safe, and the police are having little success in recovering them.” The lawyer eyed Tachyon, but the alien showed no inclination to move. With a shrug he continued. “In fact, they don’t seem to give a damn. I pressed them, and was told that given the other problems attendant on Wild Card Day they haven’t got time to worry about a simple burglary.”
“Outrageous. I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of pull with New York’s finest, nor would I want to tread on Mayor Koch’s territory.” A quick smile to the mayor still hovering hopefully on the outskirts of the conversation. Hartmann’s eyes slid thoughtfully across the ace. “Still…. Allow me to offer you Mr. Ray, my faithful justice Department watchdog.”
Kien tensed, and exchanged a glance with his expressionless attorney. Roulette wondered if the lawyer’s face ever displayed anything other than cold calculation.
“That would be fine-“
“Sir,” Ray interrupted. “My job is to guard you, and meaning no offense, you’re a hell of a lot more important than some stamps.”
“Thank you for your concern, Billy, but your job is whatever the hell I tell you it is, and I’m telling you to help Mr. Latham.” The senator didn’t seem so charming now. The ace shrugged and capitulated.
“Thank you, Senator,” Kien murmured softly, and he and Latham faded back through the chairs, drawing Billy Ray with them.
“Now, where were we?” The smile was pinned firmly back into place. “Oh, I remember, talking about your tremendous contributions.”
Roulette pressed her shoulder urgently against Tachyon’s, with a display of that disconcerting sensitivity he understood. “Ah, Senator, I see someone with whom I must speak. Adieu for the moment. Madam, will you walk?” He rose, offered his arm to Roulette, and they moved quickly to the other side of the stand.
A tide of humanity lapped at the edge of the stand, and stretched away in a great undulating wave, filling the square before Jetboy’s Tomb. Behind them loomed the tomb itself, huge flanged wings reaching to heaven. Through the tall narrow windows she could see the full-size replica of the JB-i suspended from the ceiling. And out front the twenty-foot-tall Jetboy stared aloofly over the heads of the crowd.
“Curious little drama we witnessed,” remarked Tachyon. “Yes. “
He leaned back, looking up at her. “And you don’t like the senator. Why?”
“Because I suspect he has an interest in the companies backing that multi-million-dollar boondoggle he was discussing with such relish.”
“It sounded like it would help the people in Zaire.”
“Hardly. It’s been designed so no power can be siphoned off to provide services to the people living along its 1,100-mile line. It’s basically a billion-dollar project to give money to that thug Mobutu, and to line the pockets of various large international corporations, and to make vast amounts of money in the form of interest for a number of large Western banks. It does fuck-all for the people of Zaire who will continue to live at a subsistence level despite one of the greatest repositories of mineral wealth on the continent.”
“Roulette, you’re wonderful.”
She spun to face him. “If you’re about to tell me how beautiful I am when I’m in a passion I’ll slug you off this stand!”
He held up his hands. “No, no, I do admire the passion, and you are very beautiful, but you care, you’re so interested… you remind me of another woman.” The rather tangled sentence trailed away, and he seemed to be looking at some picture that had nothing to do with the holiday crowds that stretched away before them.
Roulette, staring idly out, suddenly gasped as the shadow of a pterodactyl rippled over the people. She glanced up, and sure enough, a pterodactyl was winging its way toward them.
Tachyon, alerted by her indrawn breath, sighed, and made shooing motions with his hands. The prehistoric creature came on, the alien grabbed her about the waist, and pulled her back beneath the awning just as several small pterodactyl turds pattered onto the stand.
“Kid,” Tachyon shouted. “Next time I catch you I’m going to beat you.”
Koch was beckoning, so they returned to their chairs. Ten minutes later a cute-faced kid with several inexpertly covered pimples on his chin, and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, wiggled through the front row of the crowd, and waved impudently up at the Takisian.
“Hey, Tachy, here I am.”
“Well, at least you’re dressed.”
“I thought ahead. Left my clothes in the plane.” A hand shot out indicating the tomb. “Thought you were going to beat me.”
“I may yet.”
“Bet you can’t.”
Koch was tapping the mike with a forefinger, sending booming, thrumming pops echoing across the square. Roulette, glancing between boy and alien, saw the human’s eyes widen in alarm. Tachyon, with a guilty glance to Koch, darted to the edge of the stand. The Kid turned, bent, and obligingly presented his posterior to the doctor, who gave him a quick but gentle kick in the seat.
“Kid, stay out of trouble.”
“No fair. Disgusting Alien Powers Used to Abuse Little Kid,” he said in a tone indicative of a headline from the National Informer.
“Juvenile Delinquent Uses Ace Powers to Aggravate City.”
“Aggravate? Can’t I at least terrorize?”
“Maybe when you’re older.” Koch was glaring at the pair. “Now shoo. I have to be dignified now.”
“Good luck.” And with a flip of the hand he vanished back into the crowd.
“Who is he?”
“Kid Dinosaur. He’s very bright, but unfortunately at that awkward age between boy and man which means he’s something of a monster. He drives the aces mad for he’s always underfoot. It must be very trying to his parents to be raising an ace, but children are such a delight.”
“Hey, you’re on,” Roulette said, interrupting the babble. “Oh, by the Ideal, thank you.” Leaning in close he said with a wink, “And then we can leave.”
She thought he presented a rather comic figure. Tiny little man, head just topping the podium, red satin suit, and long red hair like a punk Lord Fauntleroy. She noticed that he had no notes, and wondered if an extemporaneous speech was quite wise. Then he lifted his head, and began, and comedy was replaced by dignity, and a wealth of caring.
“I always find it a little difficult to think what to sav on this day. Are we celebrating, and if so what? Or are we honoring and remembering? And if so who do we honor, and what do we remember as a guard against future mistakes? You will hear a great deal today about Jetboy, and the Turtle, and Cyclone, and a hundred other aces,” He waved at the great green shell where it hovered over the crowd. “And yes, even about me. But I don’t think that’s fair, and I’m going to talk about other people. About Shiner, who gave a home to an abandoned child, and Jubel, who can always spare a dime for some other joker down on his luck, and Des, who’s done more to get parks built and schools improved in Jokertown than any other person.”
“I speak about the jokers because I think they can offer a lesson and an example to other people. Their sufferings, mental, physical, and emotional, match anything experienced in human history, and they’ve tried a number of methods to cope with their isolation ranging from quiet fortitude as they were abused by police, and other public officials, to violence culminating in the events of 1976, and now a new approach. A sense of self-reliance, and sharing that has allowed them to build, within the confines of our so-called Jokertown, a true community.”
“I point out the various accomplishments of these remarkable people because there is a new mood in this country which I find fearsome. There is once again an attempt to delineate what is American,’ to despise and discriminate against those who exist on the periphery of this fairy-tale ‘majority.’ And it is a fairy tale. Each person is an utterly unique individual. There is no ‘consensus of opinion,’ no ‘right way’ to do things. There are only people who, no matter how hideous and twisted on the outside, are internally driven by the same hopes and dreams and aspirations that drive all of us.”
“I suppose what I really want to say on this Wild Card Day, 1986 is ‘Be kind.’ For adversity comes from many sources, not just from alien virus brought across light-years, and there may come a time when all of us, ‘nats,’ ‘aces, and jokers alike, will need that kind word, that offer of help, that sense of community that the jokers so wonderfully represent. Thank you.”
The applause was thunderous, but Tachyon looked unhappy as he walked back to her.
“Very noble, but how do you think it will play?” Roulette asked as he scooped his hat off the chair.
Her arm was once more pulled through his, and’ he urged her toward the back stairs. “Some people will compare me to Mother Theresa, and others will say I am a self-serving son of a bitch.”
“And you, what do you say?”
“That i’m neither. Just a man trying to live with honor, and to embrace whatever happiness is given me.” They were standing by the limo, and Tachyon suddenly wrapped his arms about her waist, and buried his face in her bosom. “And I’m glad you are here to be embraced.”
Furiously she cast him off, and backed away until brought up short by the back of the car. “Don’t look to me for comfort. I have none for anybody. I told you that already. And what do you need it for, anyway? You’re the saint of Jokertown. The big shot with a private limo, as much a star as any of the aces.”
“Yes, yes, and yes! But I am also consumed with guilt, devoured by a failure that gathers every year on September fifteenth to haunt me! God, how I hate this day.” His fists slammed onto the top of the car, and Riggs drifted away to stare in fascination at the cuff of his uniform coat. Tachyon’s shoulders shook for several seconds, then he dashed a hand across his eyes, and turned back to face her. “All right, you have no comfort for me. I accept that. You said you were on a pilgrimage of despair. So am I. So let us at least journey together, and if we can’t comfort we can at least share.”
“Fine.” She climbed into the car, and rested her head against the window.
And maybe I can do something. I can free you from your guilt, and by destroying you perhaps find my own peace.