Chapter Nineteen
12:00 Midnight
“Damn,” Brennan muttered as he cradled the phone. “Who were you trying to call?” Jennifer asked. “Chrysalis.”
“Still?”
“Yes. And she’s still out.”
“Who’s Chrysalis, anyway.”
“She runs a bar called the Crystal Palace,” Brennan said, looking out the window. “She’s the information broker who put me on your trail. She knows just about everything worth know ing, so she’d probably know where Latham s apartment is. But she isn’t available, and Elmo’s getting annoyed by my constant calling. Damn,” he repeated, hitting his left palm with his clenched right fist.
“There isn’t much more we can do,” Jennifer said, “than cruise around the better parts of town, like we’ve been doing, looking for some dude named Demise who’s carrying a bag of books.”
Brennan grinned sourly. “I know. It seems pretty hopeless, but let’s stick to it for a while.”
Jennifer shrugged. “Sure.” He was right, of course.
It was no wonder Demise had had trouble getting a cab. He’d been shot a dozen times. The bullets had left holes in the front of his cheap gray suit, and his shirt was covered with powder burns and blood. He smelled of garbage, and his trousers had been soiled. As he opened the taxi door, a shudder ran all along the length of that scrawny body. Demise put one foot on the ground, supported himself on the rear door, pulled the other foot out after him. It was a twisted little thing, shoeless, sockless, pale under the streetlamp, soft and small like the foot of a child, growing from a ragged stump that was crusty with dried blood.
Hiram swallowed and looked away.
The cabbie was upset. “You motherfucker,” he screamed. “I pick you up looking like that, and you stiff’ me!”
Demise grinned nastily. “You want to be stiffed, you come to the right place. You’re lucky I’m in a hurry, you jerk.” Gingerly, he lowered his raw new foot to the sidewalk, winced as it touched the pavement.
“Motherfucker!” the cabbie yelled. He peeled out so fast the force of his acceleration swung the rear door closed, and it caught Demise on the hip. He went sprawling in the gutter, and screamed. Something fell out of his pocket.
Books, Hiram saw.
They were in a plastic bag. Demise scrabbled for them, hugged them to his chest, got unsteadily to his feet. Then he hobbled toward the building, half-limping, half-hopping, trying to keep his weight of his new foot. His eyes were turned inward, on his own pain. The precious books were clutched tight, both hands wrapped around the bag. He didn’t seem to wonder why the doorman was wearing a tuxedo. Hiram opened the door, almost feeling sorry for the wretch.
Jay stepped out of the bushes, finger pointed, thumb cocked. “Yo,” he said loudly.
Demise looked back.
Hiram made a fist. Suddenly the books weighed something on the order of two hundred pounds. They slipped from Spector’s fingers, crashed down on top of his foot. Hiram heard the tiny half-formed bones crack, saw the soft white skin split. Demise opened his mouth to scream.
And suddenly he was gone.
Hiram stooped, returned the book bag to its normal weight, gathered it up. He was drenched with sweat. “We could have died just then,” he said to Popinjay.
“My mother could have been a nun,” Ackroyd said. “Let’s get out of here fast.”
They caught a cab at the corner. It was the same one Demise had just gotten out of, and the cabbie was still complaining about his last fare. “Where to?” he finally asked.
Ackroyd’s smile was faint and fast. “Times Square,” he said.
“Well,” Peregrine said. “This is it. Humble but mine own.”
Fortunato closed the door and didn’t say anything. The penthouse was a single wide room, the walls and carpets all different shades of gray. Each area was on its own level, each a step or two up or down from the ones around it. The furniture was steel or glass or upholstered in gray cotton, all of it long and low and expensive. One wall was nothing but windows, looking down on Central Park. The highest point in the apartment was an elevated king-size water bed in the far corner. There was no bedspread, just rumpled gray satin sheets.
“Can I get you a drink or something?”
He shook his head. Peregrine went to the bar and poured herself a snifter of Courvoisier. “Don’t be so grim. We saved Water Lily, didn’t we?”
“Yes, you did. You were very impressive.”
“I can be when I have to be. I don’t like being pushed around.” She rested her hip on the edge of the bar and took a long pull at the cognac. Her wings fluttered a little as it burned its way down. Her sensuality was integral and unforced; her legs naturally turned to show off her long, rounded calves and lean thighs. “Which isn’t to say I don’t appreciate a certain amount of aggressiveness, in the right circumstances.”
“A while ago you accused me of making a ‘lame approach. “’
“I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I?’ Her eyes were glittering again. They didn’t look away from him or hold anything back. “I mean, how was I to know you were telling the truth?
“Besides, all I complained about was the style. I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.”
As Fortunato crossed the room she put down her glass and stood up. His left arm slid between her wings, his right around her waist. Her mouth was soft and tasted of cognac and opened immediately under his. Her tongue moved expertly across his teeth and then reached deep into his mouth. Her legs moved apart and her wings folded around him and he felt like they’d merged into a single organism. He could feel the heat of her pelvis through his pants leg and her wild card power roared through her body and into his like a nuclear explosion.
She broke the kiss, panting for air. “Jesus,” she said. He picked her up and carried her toward the bed.
“You don’t weigh anything at all.”
“Hollow bones,” she said in his ear, then ran her tongue around the edges of it. “Hollow, but strong as fiberglass.” She tightened her arms around his chest, just for a second, to prove her point, then bit him on the neck.
He found the bed by instinct. The rest of his senses were out of control. He searched Peregrine’s dress for a zipper and she said, “Forget it, I’ll buy another one, I want you to fuck me, fuck me now.” Fortunato grabbed the cups that covered her breasts and tore the dress down the middle. Her breasts spilled out, pale and perfectly rounded, the nipples broad and only a little darker than the skin around them. He took one in his teeth and she clawed at his tux shirt, popping the studs loose to bounce and clatter across the floor. She ripped off his cummerbund and pulled his trousers down to his knees. She gripped his penis in both her hands and it would have hurt if it hadn’t already been so swollen and aching that he’d thought it was going to split lengthwise like an overripe fruit.
Underneath the velvet dress she had on nothing but a garter belt and black silk stockings. Her wings pulsed in time with her breathing. Her pubic hair was thick and soft as lambswool. She lifted her feet, still in their black pumps, onto Fortunato’s shoulders and reached up to grab him around the neck. “Now,” she said. “Now.”
When he went into her it was like plugging into an electric socket. Hot, bright purple lines of energy pulsed around their bodies. He’d never felt anything like it in his life. “Jesus, what are you doing to me?” she whispered. “Don’t answer. I don’t care. Just don’t ever stop.”
After the initial moment of vertigo Spector had almost fallen, but managed to grab hold of the catwalk railing before he went over. His foot felt like it had been stuck into molten lava. He sat down and tried to figure out where they’d sent him. He was up high and could see a street packed with cars in front of him. He stood and hobbled to the end of the catwalk, using the cold railing for support. He stared out into the deserted darkness of Yankee Stadium. The little shit who did this to him was going to pay. He should have recognized Fatman at the door. Should have been more careful all around. Now the books were gone and he’d have to deal with the Astronomer on his own.
“Fucking assholes. Sent me to the goddamn Bronx.” He wiped his nose and looked for a way down. After a few minutes he found a ladder. It was a good fifty feet to the concrete walkway below. He lowered himself carefully, holding his leg away so that his injured foot didn’t touch anything. A gust of wind whipped his dirty hair into his eyes and sent pain humming through the tissue that was trying to become toes. It took him ten minutes to reach bottom.
Spector looked around for something to use as a crutch, but came up empty. There was nothing on the other side of the chain link fence but a nasty drop. He struggled around the edge of the walkway toward the stands. It was the only way he was sure would get him out.
He hauled himself over another fence. Spector figured he was under the right field bleachers. He tripped over a box filled with bags of peanuts, and went to the ground screaming.
The light hit him almost immediately. “Hold it right there, buddy.” A voice came from behind the flashlight. Spector heard a snap being undone. Safety strap on a revolver, probably. “Help. I need a doctor. Point your light at my foot.” He had to get the guard close enough to see his eyes. The watchman shifted his light to Spector’s feet. His bad foot was black and purple where the books had landed on it. “Jesus. What the hell happened to you?”
He was close, but his eyes still weren’t visible. Spector pulled the lighter out of his pocket and flicked it. The watchman’s eyes were ice blue, pretty in the light of the flame. Spector locked eyes. The man whimpered softly. Spector’s death assaulted him with swift and sure results. He fell and was still. Spector searched the guard’s body, taking his flashlight and keys. If he could get into one of the dressing rooms, he might find something to wrap his foot in. He could certainly find some kind of crutch, and maybe even a change of clothing. He limped up the ramp into the bleachers and down the steps toward the field.
“The best bets,” said Bagabond, “are the rats. I’m pulling in impressions from as many of them as possible-and there are a lot.”
“A rat’s-eye view of the Big Apple,” Jack said. “That’s something the tourist commission hasn’t done much with.” He tried to keep the words light.
Down the block there was a snake dance-jokers or normals dressed as jokers, Jack couldn’t tell. The dancers had set fire to several derelict cars parked in loading zones. Or maybe they hadn’t been derelict when the torches were set to them. It was hard to tell. At any rate, now they blazed merrily, smoke curling greasily.
Jack and Bagabond had stopped at a Terrific Pizza for takeout drinks. Both of them were parched. “Your syrup’s low,” said Jack to the counterman. He grimaced at the taste of his drink.
“Tough titty,” said the counterman. “You don’t like it, try the immigrant soda jerk down the block.”
“Let’s go,” said Bagabond, mentally urging six hundred rats from the alley in back to slip into the back of the Terrific Pizza and check out the dough and cheese storage.
Out on the sidewalk, Jack said, “Oh my God!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Come on.” Jack led her toward the snake dancers. The line had started to break up. Apparently misshapen dancers, some of whom wore even more grotesque costumes, straggled toward them.
Jack confronted one of the dancers. The man was tall and dark, skin virtually blue-black in the mercury-vapor glare and the flickering fire-scatter. He wore a parody of tribal gear, beads and feathers in profusion. His skin was covered with a sheen of sweat. The droplets running down his face, however, were beads of blood from slashes runnelled into his cheeks. The slashes were cut in regular chevrons, slanting down along the planes of his cheekbones. His eyes were infinitely deep caverns ringed by white makeup.
He wore a red Bozo the Clown nose. “Dieu!” Jack said. “Jean-Jacques? Is it you?”
The dancer stopped and stared at Jack. Bagabond came up to them and watched.
“You recognized me,” said Jean-Jacques sadly. “I am sorry, my friend. Now that I am not human, I thought no one would know who I am.”
“I recognize you.” Jack reached out tentatively, checked the motion. “Your facewhat have you done?”
“Do I not look more like a joker?”
“You’re not a joker,” said Jack. “You are my friend. You are ill, but you are my friend.”
“I am a joker,” said Jean-Jacques firmly. “I have a sentence of death laid across me.”
Jack stared at him mutely.
The black man looked back at him, then brushed the tips of his fingers across Jack’s face. The motion was fleeting and tender. Others of the dance line had gathered around them.
Jack saw they were all normals dressed in outlandish garb, some bright and desperately garish, others muted and more subtly grotesque.
“Good-bye, friend Jack. I shall miss you.” Jean-Jacques turned away and started to chant the letters, “H, T, L, V!” The others took it up: “H, T, L, VI” roared along the street.
“HTLV?” Bagabond said to Jack as the pair stood there while Jean-Jacques and the other dancers whirled frenetically away.
“The AIDS virus,” said Jack flatly.
“Oh.” Bagabond looked at him strangely. “Jean-Jacquesthat’s his name?”
Jack nodded.
“You and he?… “Friends,” said Jack. “Very good friends.” More than just friends?”
He nodded.
“We need to talk,” said Bagabond. “We’ll talk when this is over.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jack, starting to turn away.
“For what?” She took his arm again. “Come on. I mean it. We’ll talk.” She reached up and touched him as Jean-Jacques had. His face was rough with stubble. “Come on,” she said again. “We’ve still got to find Cordelia.”
Their eyes met. Each thought, things are going to be different now. But neither knew just how.
The shower was hot, but that was the way Spector liked it. The water spattered off him and ran down his thin body. He opened his mouth and let it fill up, then swished the water around and spat it out. His foot still hurt, but he was used to pain. At least it was clean now.
He turned off the shower and walked across the cold tile floor to the locker area, still favoring his foot. He whistled the beginning of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” then stopped.
The sound echoed off the walls. The locker room was less impressive than he’d expected. Plain showers and lockers; wooden benches to sit on. Not that different from high school.
He walked over to a basket filled with dirty baseball uniforms and started sorting through them, looking for something close to his size. Most of it was much too big and he hated pinstripes. Better than his shot-up suit, though. If anybody asked, he could just say he was in costume. He managed to find a uniform that didn’t fit him like a tent and got dressed.
He wandered into the equipment room, past the caged-off space that held bats and gloves and beat-up practice balls, into the trainer’s area. He picked an elastic bandage off the floor. Spector took a breath, then started wrapping his broken halffoot. He had to stop twice, it hurt so much, but after a few minutes he had it fairly well covered. He put his foot down and shifted a little weight onto it. A sharp pain ran up his leg, but he could stand that. He walked back toward the dressing area, trying to limp as little as possible.
Spector dug out a pair of tennis shoes and shoved a sock in the end of the one, then painfully slipped his mangled half-foot in. He tied the laces loosely and slipped on the other shoe. “Outside, Demise. Right now. I’m waiting.”
Spector looked up. The Astronomer’s image was floating a few feet in front of him. The projection didn’t have the normal knife-edge clarity Spector was used to. It was faint, colorless, and ghosted around the edges. The old fuck must be low on power.
“Where are you, uh, exactly?” Spector asked.
“In the parking lot. Look for the limo. I want you now.” “On my way.”
The Astronomer’s image vanished.
Spector picked up his suit and headed for the exit. He rubbed his forehead. The old mans energy was down; if he was going to do anything now was the time. He flipped off the lights in the locker room and started whistling “The Party’s Over.”