"But you don't know how to fly a s.p.a.ceship. Do you?" she added, suddenly doubtful. The range of his powers was awesome, maybe he could.

"This ship will fly, for it's an intelligent creature with a mind, and what has a mind I can control. We are set to rendezvous at three-thirty tomorrow morning. Be there and you can come. Provided of course you've killed Tachyon, and if your little recitation pleases me. Now, what do you say to that? I couldn't be any fairer," he added in a thoughtful tone as he considered his own magnanimity.

The little smile that pursed his mouth died, and his face twisted in a hideous grimace. "Now "Now go!" go!" he screamed, and spittle foamed in tiny white specks on his lips, and spattered on her face. he screamed, and spittle foamed in tiny white specks on his lips, and spattered on her face.

She went, running back down the damp tunnel, towel pressed to her lips. Kafka was still shuffling down the tunnel, and as she pa.s.sed him, Roulette wondered how much he had overheard, if he const.i.tuted one of the "faithful," and what the Astronomer would do to him if he weren't and if he learned of Kafka's eavesdropping. For an instant their eyes met, and Roulette saw mirrored in the joker's the same fear and confusion and hopelessness and hate that she knew lay reflected in hers.

She touched him gently on the carapace. "Thankyou for the towel, Kafka."

"You're welcome," he said with an odd formality that made his bizarre condition all the more ludicrous and heart-breaking. "Roulette," he added as she walked away. "Be careful. I would like to think that one of us came out of this with some semblance of normalcy and humanity intact."

"Well, it won't be me, but thanks for the concern."

CHAPTER 4.

9:00 a.m. a.m.

Jennifer picked up the phone on her desk and dialed a number she'd used only half a dozen times in the past year, but had committed to memory. It rang three times before it was picked up and a rich, cultured voice with a Brooklyn accent still lurking in it said, "The Happy Hocker."

"h.e.l.lo, Gruber."

The voice took on a new tone, deepening and becoming unctuous with unwanted solicitousness. "My dear Wraith." He called her by the nom de guerre Jennifer had adopted. "It's been a while. How have you been?"

"Fine." Jennifer kept her answers to a minimum. She didn't like Leon Gruber, though he continually let her know his all-too-evident feelings toward her. He was a pudgy, pasty-faced c.o.kehead with a master's in fine arts from Columbia. He worked out of the p.a.w.nshop he'd inherited from his father-under, from what Jennifer had heard, rather suspicious circ.u.mstances. He was her fence. He never stopped hitting on her, despite the cold politeness with which she carried out all their transactions.

"Do you have something for me?" he asked.

He made the question sound salacious. Jennifer could almost see him licking his pouty lips.

"Postage stamps," she replied briefly.

"How much?" There was something of a sigh in his voice as he resigned himself to talking business.

"Nearly two million catalog."

There was a long silence, and when Gruber finally spoke his voice had changed again. There was something behind his words that Jennifer had never heard before, something that made him sound even more cold and calculating than usual.

"You do astonish me, my dear. Tell me, are these from a dealer's stock or a private party's collection?"

"None of your business."

"Well, we do like to keep our little secrets, don't we?"

"My secrets are my own," Jennifer said firmly, more than a little irritated. "If you're not interested in the stamps I can always find someone who is."

"Oh, I am interested. I am. I'm interested in everything about you, my dear Wraith." Jennifer grimaced at his words. She could almost imagine the scenes flickering through his c.o.ked-up brain. "You are a very, um, intriguing person. You appeared from out of nowhere and in less than a year became the city's finest thief. I feel very fortunate to be, um, a.s.sociated with you and I'm very, very interested in the stamps. I have something on for this morning, though. I'm expecting some people. Can you come by elevenish? Perhaps we can do lunch after I take a look at the merchandise."

"Perhaps." There was no sense in antagonizing him before he looked at the stamps. "Eleven. I'll be there."

"I'll be waiting, dear."

His last sentence echoed oilily in Jennifer's ear as she hung up. There was more avid antic.i.p.ation in it than was usual. She decided that she had to find a new fence. She couldn't take Gruber's leering comments much longer. Maybe he was sliding too deeply into his cocaine habit. He does so much of the stuff, Jennifer thought, one of these days his heart'll explode.

Fortunato checked his watch. He had to bring his arm up along his side and then across his chest to see it because of the crowds. It was a little after nine. When he looked up again the world was like a kaleidoscope. Shards of bright color surrounded him, shifting constantly into new patterns, unpredictable but not quite random.

When Caroline had said it was Wild Card Day it had meant nothing to him. He should have known better. Now he was trapped in the crowds with Brennan, committed. Every couple of minutes he thought again about breaking his rule about public displays. It would be nothing for him to levitate himself out of the crowd and sail back to the peace of his apartment.

Then he thought of the Astronomer, maybe just a few yards away, maybe on the verge of killing again and making himself that much stronger in the process.

Just ahead of them Hester Street met the Bowery, square in the middle of Jokertown. Police barricades blocked off the side streets, though there were so many tourists a car couldn't have gotten through if it wanted to. They mostly seemed to be dressed for a track meet, in shorts and running shoes and hideous T-shirts, except they were overweight and slung with cameras and had billed caps with moronic slogans on them.

"Look, there's one now," one of them said, pointing at Fortunato. The man's hat said EATING OUT IS FUN EATING OUT IS FUN. Fortunato thought about turning the man's stomach inside out, leaving it hanging out of his mouth by the long tube of his esophagus, spilling his blood and drool and breakfast on the sidewalk.

Easy, he told himself. Just take it easy.

In typical joker fashion the parade had already gone to h.e.l.l. The official floats were supposed to be lining up down at Ca.n.a.l, but the street was already full of unofficial entries, the most obvious of which was a twenty-foot-high latex phallus, pink and glistening, pointing up at about sixty degrees. It was mounted on a wooden platform, and three masked jokers were trying to push it through the crowds. The p.e.n.i.s was forked and there was a sign hanging between the two heads that said f.u.c.k THE NATS f.u.c.k THE NATS. A fourth joker stood on the platform, throwing what looked like used condoms into the crowd. Two knots of people were fighting their way toward the platform, one cops, the other outraged tourists.

"There he is." Brennan had to shout in Fortunato's ear to make himself heard. Fortunato turned and saw Jube sitting on top of his news kiosk, short, fat, his tusks glistening in the morning sunlight.

"Okay," Fortunato said. He used a little of his power to clear a s.p.a.ce in front of the kiosk. He cupped his hands and called up to him. "Can you come down for a minute?"

Jube shrugged and started to clamber down. Fortunato reached up and took hold of a black, rubbery ankle to steady him. At the moment of contact Fortunato felt a weird vibration go through him. Jube looked down and their eyes locked. Fortunato read his thoughts involuntarily.

"Yes," Fortunato answered him. "Now I know." Jube was not human.

"I've seen you at the Crystal Palace," Jube said. "But we've never been formally introduced." He held out a hand. "How are you at keeping secrets?"

"I mostly mind my own business," Fortunato said. "Does Tachyon know about you?"

"No. n.o.body does but you. I guess I just have to hope you don't come up with a good reason to give me away."

Jube's face went blank as Brennan walked up and said, "Chrysalis told me-"

"I saw the Astronomer." Jube's head, greasy black and covered with tufts of reddish hair, moved up and down. "About five this morning. I was picking up the Enquirer Enquirer. Every Monday, you know." Fortunato cleared his throat impatiently. "He was in the back of a limo, headed down Second Avenue."

"How did you know it was him?" Fortunato asked. Jube hesitated and Fortunato made it an order. "Tell me the truth."

"I . . . went to some of their meetings. The Egyptian Masons. I thought they had . . . something I wanted."

A sudden crash made the alien jerk back in surprise. Fortunato turned around. Just across Hester a plate-gla.s.s window had exploded out onto the street. Four Oriental kids in blue satin jackets swarmed out of the store. The last one out smashed the gla.s.s of the door with a billy club. "You remember, old man!" the kid shouted. "You don't f.u.c.k with the Egrets, man!" They charged into the crowd and disappeared.

Brennan had the leather case open and the two halves of his bow together in a second and a half. Even so he had no chance for a shot. He put the bow away again and turned back to Fortunato. Fortunato hadn't moved.

"You weren't kidding," Jube said. "You really do mind your own business."

"I don't interfere where I don't know what's going on," Fortunato said. He was thinking about 1969, when his power had first appeared. For a few months there he'd been involved with a political underground movement, trying to stop the wholesale slaughter of jokers in Vietnam. Even then, with the issues as clear as they'd been, he'd felt uneasy about it. There had been a woman involved, and when she disappeared that had been the end of it for him. And since then he'd kept to himself. "If I wanted to be a cop, I'd be a cop."

He turned back to Jube. "I think you and me need to sit down and have a long talk sometime. When there's not so much going on. For right now, just keep your eyes open. If you see the Astronomer again, or anybody that you know is working for him, call Tachyon. He can get hold of me. All right?"

The alien nodded.

"And for Christ's sake," Fortunato said, "try to cheer up."

Spector walked slowly up the steps of the subway station, glancing in all directions. The Jack Daniel's hadn't helped. He'd seen the Astronomer kill before; he'd even been in on it several times. The old man could tear him to pieces faster than he could regenerate. He shuddered and stumbled on. Gruber's p.a.w.nshop was only a couple of blocks away.

Flatbush Avenue was quiet, almost deserted. A kid was playing on a stoop, holding a jet in one hand and a blimp in the other. He smashed the plane into the side of the blimp and yelled, "I can't die yet, I haven't seen The The Jolson Jolson Story Story."

Spector shook his head. He didn't understand why anyone considered Jetboy a hero. The little s.h.i.t had tried to stop the virus from being released over New York, but he f.u.c.ked up, failed. For that he got a statue and the adoration of millions.

"Jetboy was a loser," he yelled at the kid.

The boy stared at him, then picked up his toys and scrambled inside.

Spector reached inside his gray suit and pulled out his death's-head mask. He slipped it on when he was across the street from the Happy Hocker.

Spector crossed the street quickly and tried the door. It was locked. Spector banged loudly on it several times and waited. No sound. He tried again. This time there were heavy hurried footfalls. He heard the lock click and the door opened a crack.

"I'm busy right now. Come back later," Gruber said.

"You've got c.o.ke on your lapel," Spector said, pointing at the tailored tweed suit. He put his foot in the door. "It's Spector. I need to buy something."

Gruber opened the door and closed it quickly when Spector was inside. "Buying? That's a bit unusual. Well, what do you need?"

"An automatic pistol and a flak jacket." Spector looked around at the dimly lit clutter. The place smelled of disuse and Gruber's cologne. "How do you ever find anything in here?"

"All the important business is transacted in back." Gruber opened the cage and walked into the back room. He was fat and soft. Spector could have hated him just for that. He followed the little man, bringing his pain into focus.

Gruber opened a cabinet and pulled out a pistol. "In-gram Mac-11 with shoulder holster. I'd want eight hundred from a normal customer, but you can take it out in trade. You will have something soon for me, I hope."

Spector took the Ingram and looked it over. The gun was well-oiled and had a nice heft. "Sure. No flak jacket?"

"Sorry."

Spector had hoped the jacket might help if the Astronomer tried to tear out his heart. Just his luck; it was an item Gruber normally had around. "What about bullets?"

"Right here," Gruber said, handing him an unopened box. "Why do you need a gun? I mean, being an ace and all it just seems, um, unnecessary."

Spector noticed that Gruber was careful not to meet his eyes. He grabbed the fat man by the ears and pulled him close. Gruber tried to gouge Spector's eyes with one hand and pulled a .22 automatic with the other. Spector took hold of Gruber's gun hand and pointed it at the fence's stomach. There were two shots, both into Gruber's abdomen. Spector knocked the gun away; he knew that Gruber would be a long time dying from the gunshot wounds. Spector pulled Gruber's head around, forcing their eyes close.

"No," said Gruber, shutting his eyes. Spector punched Gruber in the throat, knocking him to the floor. He straddled the fat man and pinned his arms.

"Don't kill me. Please, no."

"You're dead already." Spector grabbed Gruber's eyelids and pulled them up. Gruber screamed, but it was too late. Their eyes locked.

Spector was the only person who had drawn the Black Queen and lived to tell about it. Unfortunately, the memory of his death was always there. He turned it loose on Gruber, projecting his agony into the man's body, convincing him that he was dying. Gruber's pudgy flesh believed. His eyes rolled up into his head and he gasped. Spector felt him turn to dead weight and let go.

He looked at the desktop. Gruber had written one word on a notepad. Stamps Stamps. He shrugged and turned away.

Spector put on the holster and slid the Ingram into it. If he ran into the Astronomer it might help, then again it might not. He closed and locked the cage door, donned his mask, and left through the back.

Stupid! How much more of an idiot could I have been? Jack thought as he fought his way downtown through the throngs. His anger with himself still burned savagely. He scanned what he could see of Eighth Avenue ahead of him. Where was the girl with the man wearing the purple suit and the dapper fedora?

He hadn't called Cordelia's mother yet. Elouette would just have to wait, impatient or not. Jack had made the one phone call he thought might do some good. If Bagabond and her animals could just sight his niece . . . He'd take care of the rest. His tongue felt rough, sliding across teeth that were slightly more profuse, sharper, and longer than were normal. He tried to damp the anger. Time enough for that later.

Control. Obviously he had some now. At first, upon exiting the Port Authority, he'd searched at random, fighting his way first one direction through the crowds, then another. Then the human level of his mind started to calm the urgent reptile brain. Set up a grid. Don't repeat a line of search. Try downtown. Consider Fortunato a lead. He didn't know know that the guy he supposed was a pimp was one of Fortunato's freelance talent scouts; in fact, he didn't know if the man even that the guy he supposed was a pimp was one of Fortunato's freelance talent scouts; in fact, he didn't know if the man even used used that kind of scavenging talent; but it was worth a try. The man with Cordelia would find it easier to fall in with the flow of the crowds down toward Jokertown. Eighth was less crowded right now than the other avenues. Eventually Jack would have to worry about a good crosstown route. But for now, he went on his hunch. that kind of scavenging talent; but it was worth a try. The man with Cordelia would find it easier to fall in with the flow of the crowds down toward Jokertown. Eighth was less crowded right now than the other avenues. Eventually Jack would have to worry about a good crosstown route. But for now, he went on his hunch.

It paid off.

He came up to the intersection of 38th Street. Suddenly he saw, across the street, a familiar fedora bobbing a bit as though the wearer were looking about himself confusedly. He also saw the back of a head, a quick glimpse of a fall of shining black hair. The fedora moved toward the black hair. The young woman with the black hair moved farther away. She was running.

Fedora pursued.

Jack, staring after them, started off the curb. A hand grabbed his shoulder, roughly tugging him back. A honking yellow cab nearly took off his toes and latent snout.

"Watch it, bub," said a husky joker standing beside him. "Cabbies don't give a s.h.i.t. Not today. Not never."

By now, the intersection was full of traffic. The last cabs to make it through had done so. Now there were vehicles lined up in either direction. No one seemed worried about automatic $25 tickets for gridlocking.

"Never a cop when you need one," somebody said.

Jack made it across the intersection like a good broken-field runner. The Jets'd be proud, he thought irrelevantly. This season, they could use him. On the other side of 38th, he realized that neither the fedora nor Cordelia was in sight.

d.a.m.n it. Sooner or later, he thought, striking downtown again. He looked around for one of Bagabond's birds, a cat, a squirrel, anything.

Never a pigeon when you need one.

Having chosen her clothing from the collection of tattered and dirty mismatched coats, pants, and shirts she kept at Jack's, Bagabond jammed a Greek fisherman's cap on her stringy hair and left the cats behind as she made her way up to ground level through the tunnels that bypa.s.sed Jack's home. Agile from years of moving through the underground, she used the eyes of the rats who lived in the tunnels to show her the path. The floor-level view she gained from their perspective was enough to avoid most obstacles. She had spent days underground without using her own eyes. It was best to remove herself as much as possible from contact with the ma.s.s of people who crawled on the surface as her creatures crawled in their tunnels and burrows.

Bagabond grasped the rungs of a ladder to the world above her and climbed. Shifting the manhole cover slightly upward, she looked around and saw only a sleeping derelict in the alley. She climbed out, replaced the cover, and limped toward the crowds at the mouth of the alley. Long ago she had found the most direct route to Rosemary Muldoon's office in the district attorney's complex. Today, though, the streets were crowded with revelers. Many wore grotesque masks; some were in full costume. Bagabond felt anger at these "normal" people. The virus that had given her a means of survival had also removed her from this human world. Sometimes she regretted it, most of the time she did not. It took no effort to curse the crowd and clear a path to the Justice Center.

Somebody whistled, appreciative by the sound of it. She didn't glance around. It wouldn't be at her.

Before the security guard noticed her, Bagabond joined a crowd of people waiting for the elevator. Keeping the crowd of three-piece suits between her and the guard, she walked with lowered head and sidelong glances to the stairs. It took several minutes to walkup to the eighth floor but she hated the elevator.