Wild Cards V (28 page)

Lying in the hallway, he counted his fingers. There were ten of them all right, but his skin was dead white. He shook off the bucket, climbed to his feet, and stumbled again. His left arm shot downward, touched the floor, and pushed against it. This impelled him to his feet and over backward. He executed an aerial somersault to his rear, landed on his feet, and toppled rearward again. His hands dropped toward the floor to catch himself, then he withdrew them without making contact and simply let himself fall. Years of experience had already given him a suspicion as to what new factor had entered his life-situation. His overcompensations were telling him something about his reflexes.

When he rose again, his movements were very slow, but they grew more and more normal as he explored. By the time he located a washroom all traces of excessive speed or slowness had vanished. When he studied himself in the mirror, he discovered that, in addition to having grown taller and thinner, it was now a pink-eyed countenance that he regarded, a shock of white hair above the high, glacial brow. He massaged his temples, licked his lips, and shrugged. He was familiar with albinism. It was not the first time he had come up short in the pigment department.

He sought his mirrorshades then recalled that Demise had kicked them off. No matter. He'd pick up another pair along with some sun block. Perhaps he'd better dye the hair too, he decided. Less conspicuous that way.

Whatever, his stomach was signaling its emptiness in a frantic fashion. No time for paperwork, for checking out properly—if, indeed, he'd been checked in properly. He was not at all certain that was the case. Best simply to avoid everyone if he didn't want to be delayed on the road to food. He could stop by and thank Finn another time.

Moving as Bentley had taught him long ago, all of his senses extended fully, he began his exit.

“Hi, Jube. One of each, as usual.”

Jube studied the tall, cadaverous figure before him, meeting diminished images of his own tusked, blubbery countenance in the mirrorshades that masked the man's eyes.

“Croyd? That you, fella?”

“Yep. Just up and around. I crashed at Tachyon's clinic this time.”

“That must be why I hadn't heard any Croyd Crenson disaster stories lately. You actually went gentle into your last good night?”

Croyd nodded, studying headlines. “You might put it that way,” he said. “Unusual circumstances. Funny feeling. Hey! What's this?” He raised a newspaper and studied it. “‘Bloodbath at Werewolf Clubhouse.' What's going on, a fucking gang war?”

“A fucking gang war,” Jube acknowledged.

“Damn! I've got to get back on the stick fast.”

“What stick?”

“Metaphorical stick,” Croyd replied. “If this is Friday, it must be Dead Nicholas.”

“You okay, boy?”

“No, but twenty or thirty thousand calories will be a step in the right direction.”

“Ought to take the edge off,” Jube agreed. “Hear who won the Miss Jokertown Beauty Pageant last week?”

“Who?” Croyd asked.

“Nobody.”

Croyd entered Club Dead Nicholas to the notes of an organ playing “Wolverine Blues.” The windows were draped in black, the tables were coffins, the waiters wore shrouds. The wall to the crematorium had been removed; it was now an open grill tended by demonic jokers. As Croyd moved into the lounge, he saw that the casket-tables were open beneath sheets of heavy glass; ghoulish figures—presumably of wax—were laid out within them in various states of unrest.

A lipless, noseless, earless joker as pale as himself approached Croyd immediately, laying a bony hand upon his arm.

“Pardon me, sir. May I see your membership card?” he asked.

Croyd handed him a fifty-dollar bill.

“Yes, of course,” said the grim waiter. “I'll bring the card to your table. Along with a complimentary drink. I take it you will be dining here?”

“Yes. And I've heard you have some good card games.”

“Back room. It's customary to get another player to introduce you.”

“Sure. Actually, I'm waiting for someone who should be stopping by this evening to play. Fellow name of Eye. Is he here yet?”

“No. Mr. Eye was eaten. Partly, that is. By an alligator. Last September. In the sewers. Sorry.”

“Ouch,” Croyd said. “I didn't see him often. But when I did he usually had a little business for me.”

The waiter studied him. “What did you say your name was?”

“Whiteout.”

“I don't want to know your business,” the man said. “But there is a fellow named Melt, who Eye used to hang around with. Maybe he can help you, maybe he can't. You want to wait and talk to him, I'll send him over when he comes in.”

“All right. I'll eat while I'm waiting.”

Sipping his comp beer, waiting for a pair of steaks, Croyd withdrew a deck of Bicycle playing cards from his side pocket, shuffled it, dealt one facedown and another faceup beside it. The ten of diamonds faced him on the clear tabletop, above the agonized grimace of the fanged lady, a wooden stake through her heart, a few drops of red beside the grimace. Croyd turned over the hole card, which proved a seven of clubs. He flipped it back over, glanced about him, turned it again. Now it was a jack of spades keeping the ten company. The flicker-frequency-switch was a trick he'd practiced for laughs the last time his reflexes had been hyped-up. It had come back almost immediately when he'd tried to recall it, leading him to speculate as to what other actions lay buried in his prefrontal gyrus. Wing-flapping reflexes? Throat contractions for ultrasonic wails? Coordination patterns for extra appendages?

He shrugged and dealt himself poker hands just good enough to beat those he gave the staked lady till his food came.

Along about his third dessert the pallid waiter approached, escorting a tall, bald individual whose flesh seemed to flow like wax down a candlestick. His features were constantly distorted as tumorlike lumps passed beneath his skin.

“You told me, sir, that you wanted to meet Melt,” the waiter said.

Croyd rose and extended his hand.

“Call me Whiteout,” he said. “Have a seat. Let me buy you a drink.”

“If you're selling something, forget it,” Melt told him.

Croyd shook his head as the waiter drifted away.

“I've heard they have good card games here, but I've got nobody to introduce me,” Croyd stated.

Melt narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, you play cards.”

Croyd smiled. “I sometimes get lucky.”

“Really? And you knew Eye?”

“Well enough to play cards with him.”

“That all?”

“You might check with Demise,” Croyd said. “We're in a similar line of work. We're both ex-accountants who moved on to bigger things. My name says it all.”

Melt glanced hastily about, then seated himself. “Let's keep that kind of noise down, okay? You looking for work now?”

“Not really, not now. I just want to play a little cards.”

Melt licked his lips as a bulge ran down his left cheek, passed over his jawline, distended his neck.

“You got a lot of green to throw around?”

“Enough.”

“Okay, I'll get you into the game,” Melt said. “I'd like to take some of it away from you.”

Croyd smiled, paid his check, and followed Melt into the back room, where the casket gaming table was closed and had a nonreflective surface. There were seven of them in the game to begin with, and three went broke before midnight. Croyd and Melt and Bug Pimp and Runner saw piles of cash grow and shrink before them till three in the
A.M.
Then Runner yawned, stretched, and turned out a small bottle of pills from an inside pocket.

“Anybody need something to keep awake?” he asked.

“I'll stick with coffee,” Melt said.

“Gimme,” said Bug Pimp.

“Never touch the stuff,” said Croyd.

A half hour later Bug Pimp folded and made noises about checking on the line of joker femmes he hustled to straights wanting jittery jollies. By four o'clock the Runner was broke and had to walk. Croyd and Melt stared at each other.

“We're both ahead,” said Melt.

“True.”

“Should we take the money and run?”

Croyd smiled.

“I feel the same way,” Melt said. “Deal.”

As sunrise tickled the stained glass window and the dusty mechanical bats followed the hologram ghosts to their rest, Melt massaged his temples, rubbed his eyes, and said, “Will you take my marker?”

“Nope,” Croyd replied.

“You shouldn't have let me play that last hand then.”

“You didn't tell me you were that broke. I thought you could write a check.”

“Well, shit. I ain't got it. What do you want to do?”

“Take something else, I guess.”

“Like what?”

“A name.”

“Whose name?” Melt asked, reaching inside his jacket and scratching his chest.

“The person who gives you your orders.”

“What orders?”

“The ones you pass on to guys like Demise.”

“You're kidding. It'd be my ass to name a name like that.”

“It'll be your ass if you don't,” Croyd said.

Melt's hand came out from behind his coat holding a .32 automatic, which he leveled at Croyd's chest. “I'm not scared of two-bit muscle. There's dumdum slugs in here. Know what they do?”

Suddenly Melt's hand was empty and blood began to ooze from around the nail of his trigger finger. Croyd slowly twisted the automatic out of shape before he tore out the clip and ejected a round.

“You're right, they're dumdums,” he acknowledged. “Look at the little flat-nosed buggers, will you? By the way, my name's not Whiteout. I'm Croyd Crenson, the Sleeper, and nobody welshes on me. Maybe you've heard I'm a little bit nuts. You give me the name and you don't find out how true that is.”

Melt licked his lips. The lumps beneath his glistening skin increased the tempo of their passage.

“I'm dead if they ever hear.”

Croyd shrugged. “I won't tell them if you won't.” He pushed a stack of bills toward Melt. “Here's your cut for getting me into the game. Give me the name, take it and walk, or I'll leave you in three of these boxes.” Croyd kicked the coffin.

“Danny Mao,” Melt whispered, “at the Twisted Dragon, over near Chinatown.”

“He gives you a hit list, pays you?”

“Right.”

“Who pulls his strings?”

“Beats the shit out of me. He's all I know.”

“When's he at the Twisted Dragon?”

“I think he hangs out there a lot, because other people in the place seem to know him. I'd get a call, I'd go over. I'd check my coat. We'd have dinner, or a few drinks. Business didn't get mentioned. But when I'd leave, there'd be a piece of paper in my pocket with a name or two or three on it, and an envelope with money in it. Same as with Eye. That's how he worked it.”

“The first time?”

“The first time we took a long walk and he explained the setup. After that, it was like I just said.”

“That's it?”

“That's all.”

“Okay, you're off the hook.”

Melt picked up his stack of bills and stuffed it into his pocket. He opened his distorted mouth as if to say something, thought better of it, thought again, said, “Let's not leave together.”

“Fine with me. G'bye.”

Melt moved toward the side door, flanked by a pair of tombstones. Croyd picked up his winnings and began thinking about breakfast.