Part 26 (2/2)

”No,” said Tachyon, putting down the paper. He couldn't afford to pay for it anyway.

Police barriers blocked the entrance to the Funhouse, and a padlock secured the door. CLOSED INDEFINITELY CLOSED INDEFINITELY, the sign said. He needed a drink, but the pockets of his bandleader's coat were empty. He thought of Des and Randall, and realized that he had no idea where they lived, or what their last names might be.

Trudging back to ROOMS, Tach climbed wearily up the stairs. When he stepped into the darkness, he had just enough time to notice that the room was frigidly cold; the window was open and a bitter wind was scouring out the old smells of urine, mildew, and drink. Had he done that? Confused, he stepped toward it, and someone came out from behind the door and grabbed him.

It happened so fast he scarcely had time to react. The forearm across his windpipe was an iron bar, choking off his scream, and a hand wrenched his right arm up behind his back, hard. He was choking, his arm close to breaking, and then he was being shoved toward the open window, running at it, and Tachyon could only thrash feebly in a grip much stronger than his own. The windowsill caught him square in the stomach, knocking the last of his breath right out of him and suddenly he was falling, head over heels, locked helplessly in the steel embrace of his attacker, both of them plunging toward the sidewalk below.

They jerked to a stop five feet above the cement, with a wrench that elicited a grunt from the man behind him.

Tach had closed his eyes before the instant of impact. He opened them as they began to float upward. Above the yellow halo of the streetlamp was a ring of much brighter lights, set in a hovering darkness that blotted out the winter stars.

The arm across his throat had loosened enough for Tachyon to groan. ”You,” he said hoa.r.s.ely, as they curved around the sh.e.l.l and came to rest gently on top of it. The metal was icy cold, its chill biting right through the fabric of Tachyon's pants. As the Turtle began to rise straight up into the night, Tachyon's captor released him. He drew in a shuddering breath of cold air, and rolled over to face a man in a zippered leather jacket, black dungarees, and a rubbery green frog mask. ”Who . . . ?” he gasped.

”I'm the Great and Powerful Turtle's mean-a.s.s sidekick,” the man in the frog mask said, rather cheerfully.

”DOCTOR TACHYON, I PRESUME,” boomed the sh.e.l.l's speakers, far above the alleys of Jokertown. ”I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO MEET YOU. I READ ABOUT YOU WHEN I WAS JUST A KID.”

”Turn it down,” Tach croaked weakly.

”OH. SURE. Is that better?” The volume diminished sharply. ”It's noisy in here, and behind all this armor I can't always tell how loud I sound. I'm sorry if we scared you, but we couldn't take the chance of you saying no. We need you.”

Tach stayed just where he was, s.h.i.+vering, shaken. ”What do you want?” he asked wearily.

”Help,” the Turtle declared. They were still rising; the lights of Manhattan spread out all around them, and the spires of the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building rose uptown. They were higher than either. The wind was cold and gusting; Tach clung to the sh.e.l.l for dear life.

”Leave me alone,” Tachyon said. ”I have no help to give you. I have no help to give anybody.”

”f.u.c.k, he's crying,” the man in the frog mask said.

”You don't understand,” the Turtle said. The sh.e.l.l began to drift west, its motion silent and steady. There was something awesome and eerie about the flight. ”You have to help. I've tried on my own, but I'm getting nowhere. But you, your powers, they can make the difference.”

Tachyon was lost in his own self-pity, too cold and exhausted and despairing to reply. ”I want a drink,” he said.

”f.u.c.k it,” said frog-face. ”Dumbo was right about this guy, he's nothing but a G.o.dd.a.m.ned wino.”

”He doesn't understand,” said the Turtle. ”Once we explain, he'll come around. Doctor Tachyon, we're talking about your friend Angelface.”

He needed a drink so badly it hurt. ”She was good to me,” he said, remembering the sweet perfume of her satin sheets, and her b.l.o.o.d.y footprints on the mirror tiles. ”But there's nothing I can do. I told the police everything I know.”

”Chickens.h.i.+t a.s.shole,” said frog-face.

”When I was a kid, I read about you in Jetboy Comics Jetboy Comics,” the Turtle said. ”'Thirty Minutes Over Broadway,' remember? You were supposed to be as smart as Einstein. I might be able to save your friend Angelface, but I can't without your powers.”

”I don't do that any longer. I can't can't. There was someone I hurt, someone I cared for, but I seized her mind, just for an instant, for a good reason, or at least I thought it was for a good reason, but it . . . destroyed her. I can't do it again.”

”Boo hoo,” said frog-face mockingly. ”Let's toss 'im, Turtle, he's not worth a bucket of warm p.i.s.s.” He took something out of one of the pockets of his leather jacket; Tach was astonished to see that it was a bottle of beer.

”Please,” Tachyon said, as the man popped off the cap with a bottle-opener hung round his neck. ”A sip,” Tach said. ”Just a sip.” He hated the taste of beer, but he needed something, anything. It had been days. ”Please.”

”f.u.c.k off,” frog-face said.

”Tachyon,” said the Turtle, ”you can make him.”

”No I can't,” Tach said. The man raised the bottle up to green rubber lips. ”I can't,” Tach repeated. Frog-face continued to drink. ”No.” He could hear it gurgling. ”Please, just a little.”

The man lowered the beer bottle, sloshed it thoughtfully. ”Just a swallow left,” he said.

”Please.” He reached out, hands trembling.

”Nah,” said frog-face. He began to turn the bottle upside down. ” 'Course, if you're really thirsty, you could just grab my mind, right? Make Make me give you the f.u.c.kin' bottle.” He tipped the bottle a little more. ”Go on, I dare ya, try it.” me give you the f.u.c.kin' bottle.” He tipped the bottle a little more. ”Go on, I dare ya, try it.”

Tach watched the last mouthful of beer dribble down onto the Turtle's sh.e.l.l and run off into empty air.

”f.u.c.k,” said the man in the frog mask. ”You got it bad, don't you?” He pulled another bottle from his pocket, opened it, and handed it across. Tach cradled it with both hands. The beer was cold and sour, but he had never tasted anything half so sweet. He drained it all in one long swallow.

”Got any other smart ideas?” frog-face asked the Turtle.

Ahead of them was the blackness of the Hudson River, the lights of Jersey off to the west. They were descending. Beneath them, overlooking the Hudson, was a sprawling edifice of steel and gla.s.s and marble that Tachyon suddenly recognized, though he had never set foot inside it: Jetboy's Tomb. ”Where are we going?” he asked.

”We're going to see a man about a rescue,” the Turtle said.

Jetboy's Tomb filled the entire block, on the site where the pieces of his plane had come raining down. It filled Tom's screens too, as he sat in the warm darkness of his sh.e.l.l, bathed in a phosphor glow. Motors whirred as the cameras moved in their tracks. The huge f.l.a.n.g.ed wings of the tomb curved upward, as if the building itself was about to take flight. Through tall, narrow windows, he could see glimpses of the full-size replica of the JB1 suspended from the ceiling, its scarlet flanks aglow from hidden lights. Above the doors, the hero's last words had been carved, each letter chiseled into the black Italian marble and filled in stainless steel. The metal flashed as the sh.e.l.l's white-hot spots slid across the legend:

I CAN'T DIE YET,.

I HAVEN'T SEEN THE JOLSON STORY THE JOLSON STORY.

Tom brought the sh.e.l.l down in front of the monument, to hover five feet above the broad marble plaza at the top of the stairs. Nearby, a twenty-foot-tall steel Jetboy looked out over the West Side Highway and the Hudson beyond, his fists c.o.c.ked. The metal used for the sculpture had come from the wreckage of crashed planes, Tom knew. He knew that statue's face better than he knew his father's.

The man they'd come to meet emerged from the shadows at the base of the statue, a chunky dark shape huddled in a thick overcoat, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Tom shone a light on him; a camera tracked to give him a better view. The joker was a portly man, round-shouldered and well-dressed. His coat had a fur collar and his fedora was pulled low. Instead of a nose, he had an elephant's trunk in the middle of his face. The end of it was fringed with fingers, snug in a little leather glove.

Dr. Tachyon slid off the top of the sh.e.l.l, lost his footing and landed on his a.s.s. Tom heard Joey laugh. Then Joey jumped down too, and pulled Tachyon to his feet.

The joker glanced down at the alien. ”So you convinced him to come after all. I'm surprised.”

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