Part 10 (1/2)
It was times like this that made Tom glad that the Turtle was dead.
On the tube, they moved to the international desk for an update on the aces tour. Peregrine's pregnancy was already old news, and there had been no new violence like the incident in Syria, thank G.o.d. Tom watched footage of the Stacked Deck landing in j.a.pan with a certain dull resentment. He'd always wanted to travel, to see distant exotic lands, visit all the fabulous cities he'd read of as a child, but he'd never had the money. Once the store had sent him to a trade show in Chicago, but a weekend in the Conrad Hilton with three thousand electronics salesmen hadn't fulfilled any of his childhood dreams.
They should have asked the Turtle to be on the tour. Of course transporting the sh.e.l.l might have been a problem, and he couldn't get a pa.s.sport without giving them his real name, which he wasn't prepared to do, but those problems could have been handled if anyone had cared enough to bother. Maybe they really did think he was dead, though Dr. Tachyon at least ought to have known better.
So here he was, still in Bayonne wth a mouth full of high-fiber bran, while the likes of Mistral and Fatman and Peregrine were sitting under a paG.o.da somewhere, eating whatever the h.e.l.l the j.a.panese ate for breakfast. It p.i.s.sed him off. He had nothing against Peri or Mistral, but none of them had paid the dues he had.
Jesus Christ, they'd even invited that sc.u.mbag Jack Braun. But not him, oh no, that would have been too much f.u.c.king trouble; they would have had to make special arrangements, and besides, they had so many seats allocated for aces and so many for jokers and n.o.body knew quite where the Turtle fit.
Tom drank a mouthful of coffee, got up from the table, and shut off the TV f.u.c.k it all, he thought. Now that he'd decided that the Turtle was going to stay dead, maybe it was time that he buried the remains. He had a notion or two about that. If he handled it right, maybe by this time next year he could afford to take a trip around the world too.
Concerto for Siren and Serotonin
II.
Checking to see that no one was watching, Croyd dropped a pair of Black Beauties with his espresso. He cursed softly as a part of the sigh that followed. This was not working out as he had antic.i.p.ated. All of the leads he had tried during the past days had pretty much fizzled, and he was further along into the speed than he cared to be. Ordinarily this would not bother him, but for the first time he had made two separate promises concerning drugs and his actions. One being business and one being personal, he reflected, they kind of caught him coming and going. He would definitely have to keep an eye, or at least a few facets, on himself so as not to mess up on this job, and he didn't want to turn Water Lily off on their first date. Usually, though, he could feel the paranoia coming on, and he decided to let that be his indicator as to his degree of irrationality this time around.
He had run all over town, trying to trace two leads who seemed to have vanished.
He had checked out every possible front on his list, satisfying himself that they had only been randomly chosen rendezvous points. Next was James Spector.
While he hadn't recognized the name, he did know Demise. He had met him, briefly, on a number of occasions. The man had always impressed him as one of the sleazier aces. ”If it's Demise, don't look in his eyes,” he hummed as he signaled to a waiter.
”Yes, sir.”
”More espresso, and bring me a bigger cup for it, will you?”
”Yes, sir.”
”For that matter, bring me a whole pot.”
”All right.”
He hummed a little more loudly and began tapping his foot. ”Demise eyes. The eyes of Demise,” he intoned. He jumped when the waiter placed a cup before him.
”Don't sneak up on me like that!”
”Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you.” The man began to fill the cup.
”Don't stand behind me while you're pouring. Stand off to the side where I can see you.”
”Sure.”
The waiter moved off to Croyd's right. He left the carafe on the table when he departed.
As he drank cup after cup of coffee, Croyd began thinking thoughts he had not thought in a long while, concerning sleep, mortality, transfiguration. After a time he called for another carafe. It was definitely a two-carafe problem.
The evening's snowfall had ceased, but the inch or so that lay upon the sidewalks sparkled under the streetlamps, and a wind so cold it burned whipped glittering eddies along Tenth Street. Walking carefully, the tall, thin man in the heavy black overcoat glanced back once as he turned the corner, breath pluming. Ever since he'd left the package store he'd had a feeling that he was being watched. And there was a figure, a hundred yards or so back, moving along the opposite side of the street at about the same pace as himself. James Spector felt that it might be worth waiting for the man and killing him just to avoid any possible ha.s.sle farther along the way. After all, there were two fifths of Jack Daniel's and a six-pack of Schlitz in his bag, and if someone were to accost him abruptly on these icy walks- He winced at the thought of the bottles breaking, of having to retrace his path to the store.
On the other hand, waiting for the man and killing him right here, while holding the package, could also result in his slipping-even if it was only when he leaned forward to go through the man's pockets. It would be better to find a place to set things down first. He looked about.
There were some steps leading up to a doorway, farther along. He headed for them and set his parcel down on the third one, against its iron railing. He brushed off his collar and turned it up, fished a package of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one out, and lit it within cupped hands. He leaned against the rail then and waited, watching the corner. Shortly a man in gray slacks and a blue blazer came into sight, necktie whipping in the wind, dark hair disheveled. He paused and stared, then nodded and advanced. As he came nearer, Spector realized that the man was wearing mirrorshades. He felt a sudden jab of panic, seeing that the other possessed an adequate first line of defense against him. It wasn't likely to be an accident either, in the middle of the night. Therefore, this was more than some strong-arm hood on his tail. He took a long drag on his cigarette, then mounted several steps backward, slowly, gaining sufficient height for a good kick at the other's head, to knock the d.a.m.ned things off.
”Yo, Demise!” the man called. ”I need to talk to you!” Demise stared, trying to place him. But there was nothing familiar about the man, not even his voice.
The man came up and stood before him, smiling. ”I just need a minute or two of your time,” he said. ”It's important. I'm in a big hurry and I'm trying for a certain measure of subtlety. It isn't easy.”
”Do I know you?” Demise asked him.
”We've met. In other lives, so to speak. My lives, that is. Also, I believe you might once have done some accounting for my brother-in-law's company, over in Jersey. Croyd's the name. ”
”What do you want?”
”I need the name of the head of the new mob that's trying to take over operations from the kindly old Mafia, which has run this town for half a century or so.”
”You're kidding,” Demise said, taking a final drag on his cigarette, dropping it and moving his toe to grind it.
”No,” said Croyd. ”I definitely require this information so I can rest in peace.
I understand you've done some work other than bookkeeping for these guys. So tell me who runs the show and I'll be moving along.”
”I can't do that,” Demise answered.
”As I said, I'm aiming for subtlety. So I'd rather not work this the hard way-”
Demise kicked him in the face. Croyd's gla.s.ses flew over his shoulder, and Demise found himself staring into 216 glittering eye-facets. He was unable to lock gazes with the points of light.
”You're an ace,” he said, ” or a joker.”
”I'm the Sleeper,” Croyd told him as he reached out and took hold of Demise's right arm, then broke it across the railing. ”You should have let me be subtle.
It doesn't hurt as much.”
Demise shrugged even as he winced. ”Go ahead and break the other one too.”
”But I can't tell you what I don't know.”
Croyd stared at the arm hanging at Demise's side. Demise reached across and caught hold of it, twisted it into place, held it.
”You heal real fast, don't you?” Croyd said. ”In minutes, even. I remember now.”
”That's right.”