George R. R. Martin - Aces High (Wild Cards, Book 2)

Book 2 of Wildcards

Edited by George R.R. Martin

ISBN: 0-553-26464-8

The radio spat static. Croyd Crenson reached out, switched it off, and threw it across the room toward the wastebasket beside the dresser. He took it as a good omen that it went in.

He stretched then, flipped back the covers, and regarded his pale nude body. Everything seemed to be in place and normally proportioned. He willed himself to levitate and nothing happened, so he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. He ran his hand through his hair, pleased to find that he possessed hair. Waking up was always an adventure.

He tried to make himself invisible, to melt the wastebasket with a thought and to cause sparks to arc between his fingertips. None of these things occurred.

He rose and made his way to the bathroom. As he drank glass after glass of water he studied himself in the mirror. Light hair and eyes this time, regular features; fairly good-looking, actually. He judged himself to be a little over six feet in height. Well-muscled, too. There ought to be something in the closet that would fit. Hed been about this height and build before.

It was a gray day beyond the window with patches of slushy-looking snow lining the sidewalk across the street. Water trickled in the gutter. Croyd halted on his way to the closet to withdraw a heavy steel rod from a crate beneath his writing table. Almost casually, he bent the rod in half and then twisted it. The strength had carried over yet again, he reflected, as the metal pretzel joined the radio in the wastebasket. He located a shirt and trousers that fit him well, and a tweed jacket only slightly tight in the shoulders. He turned his attention then to his large collection of shoes, and after a time he came up with a comfortable pair.

It was a little after eight oclock according to his Rolex, and this being winter and daylight it meant morning. His stomach rumbled. Time for breakfast and orientation. He checked his cash cache and withdrew a couple of hundred dollars. Getting low, he mused. Have to visit the bank later. Or maybe rob one. The stocks were taking a beating, too, the last time around. Later

He equipped himself with a handkerchief, a comb, his keys, and a small plastic bottle of pills. He did not like to carry identification of any sort. No need for an overcoat. Temperature extremes seldom bothered him.

He locked the door behind him, negotiated the hall and descended the stairs. He turned left when he reached the street, facing into a sharp wind, and he began walking down the Bowery. Leaving a dollar in the outstretched hand of a tall, cadaverous-looking joker with a nose like an icicle-who stood as still as a totem pole in the doorway of a closed mask shopCroyd asked the man what month it was.

December, the figure said without moving its lips. Merry Christmas.

Yeah, Croyd said.

He tried a few more simple tests as he headed for his first stop, but he could not break the empty whisky bottles in the gutter with a thought, nor set fire to any of the piles of trash. He attempted to utter ultrasounds but only produced squeaks. He hiked down to the newsstand at Hester Street where short, fat Jube Benson sat reading one of his own papers. Benson had on a yellow and orange Hawaiian shirt beneath a light-blue summer suit; bristles of red hair protruded from beneath his porkpie hat. The temperature seemed to bother him no more than it did Croyd. He raised his dark, blubbery, pocked face and displayed a pair of short, curving tusks as Croyd stopped before the stand.

Paper? he asked.

One of each, Croyd said, as usual.

Jubes eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the man before him. Then, Croyd? he asked.

Croyd nodded.

Its me, Walrus. Howre they hanging?

Cant complain, fella. Got yourself a pretty one this time.

Still test-driving it, Croyd said, gathering a stack of papers.

Jube showed more tusk.

Whats the most dangerous job in Jokertown? he asked. I give up.

Riding shotgun on the garbage truck, he said. Hear what happened to the gal who won the Miss Jokertown contest?

What?

Lost her title when they learned shed posed nude for Poultry Breeders Gazette.

Thats sick, Jube, said Croyd, quirking a smile.

I know. We got hit by a hurricane while you were asleep. Know what it did?

What?

Four million dollars worth of civic improvement.

All right, already! Croyd said. What do I owe you? Jube put down his paper, rose, and waddled to the side of the kiosk.

Nothin, he said. I want to talk to you.

Ive got to eat, Jube. When I wake up I need a lot of food in a hurry. Ill come back later, all right?

Is it okay if I join you?

Sure. But youll lose business. Jube began closing the stand.

Thats okay, he said. This is business.

Croyd waited for him to secure the stand, and they walked two blocks to Hairys Kitchen.

Lets take that booth in the back, Jube said.

Fine. No business till after my first round of food, though, okay? I cant concentrate with low blood sugar, funny hormones and lots of transaminases. Let me get something else inside first.

I understand. Take your time.

When the waiter came by, Jube said that he had already eaten and ordered only a cup of coffee which he never touched. Croyd started with a double order of steak and eggs and a pitcher of orange juice.

Ten minutes later when the pancakes arrived, Jube cleared his throat.

Yeah, Croyd said. Thats better. So whats bothering you, Jube?,

Hard to begin, said the other.

Start anywhere. Life is brighter for me now.

It isnt always healthy to get too curious about other peoples business around here .

True, Croyd agreed.

On the other hand, people love to gossip, to speculate. Croyd nodded, kept eating.

Its no secret about the way you sleep, and thats got to keep you from holding a regular job. Now, you seem more of an ace than a joker, overall. I mean, usually you look normal but youve got some special talent.

I havent got a handle on it yet, this time around.

Whatever. You dress well, you pay your bills, you like to eat at Aces High, and that aint a Timex youre wearing. Youve got to do something to stay on top-unless you inherited a bundle.

Croyd smiled.

Im afraid to look at the Wall Street journal, he said, touching the stack of papers at his side. I may have to do something I havent done in a while if it says what I think its going to say.

May I assume then that when you work your employment is sometimes somewhat less than legal?

Croyd raised his head, and when their eyes met Jube flinched. It was the first time Croyd realized that the man was nervous. He laughed.

Hell, Jube, he said. Ive known you long enough to know youre no cop. You want something done, is that it? If it involves stealing something, Im good at that. I learned from an expert. If someones being blackmailed Ill be glad to get the evidence back and scare the living shit out of the person doing it. If you want something removed, destroyed, transported, Im your man. On the other hand, if you want somebody killed I dont like to do that. But I could give you the names of a couple of people it wouldnt bother.

Jube shook his head.

I dont want anybody killed, Croyd. I do want something stolen, though.

Before you go into any details, Id better tell you that I come high.

Jube showed his tusks,

The-uh-interests I represent are prepared to make it worth your while.

Croyd finished the pancakes, drank coffee, and ate a Danish while he waited for the waffles.

Its a body, Croyd, Jube said at last. What?

A corpse.

I dont understand.

There was a guy who died over the weekend. Body was found in. a dumpster. No ID. Its a John Doe. Over at the morgue.