Blackjack (30 page)

“They can read the cards every person’s holding?”

“Maybe it
is
something like that. The closest I can get to what I’m trying to say is … remember, when the Nazis marched people into the gas chambers, it wasn’t just Jews. Homosexuals, Gypsies … it would have been everyone on the planet but themselves. And even
that
wouldn’t have lasted.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. That’s the political part, not the … genetic, I guess. There’s only one way to keep blood ‘pure.’ Inbreeding. And we know what happens in these families where incest covers too many generations. There’s records going all the way back to Sawney Bean. And that’s just
written
records. It might take us a while, but, eventually, the human race was going to rot from the inside out.”

“I … I can see that. But the Nazis
didn’t
succeed.”

Cross took Tiger’s hand in his. She made no move to pull away.

“Tiger, if you want to file this under ‘Lunatic,’ that’s up to you. But what my mind keeps seeing is that smoke. The smoke from their ovens. That gray, shadowy smoke.

“What if, every time human slaughter ever occurred in the history of the world, there was
more
of that smoke? What if the smoke had … I don’t know … something of the slaughtered people in it? What if it became a thing of its own?”

“I’m not telling those junior G-men any story like that.”

“I don’t want you to.
I’m
not telling them myself. I’ll just feed them enough to send them alien-hunting.”

“This … theory of yours, you want to keep it to yourself?”

“No, girl. If I’m wrong, we all go back to our lives, whatever they were before this. But if I’m right … I don’t know how to say this, exactly. You know who I am; you know what I do. I’m not one of the good guys, and that was my choice.

“But if a hard rain’s coming—if the filth is being washed out of our race—then, whoever they are, this is one job I
want
them to pull off.”

Tiger looked deeply into Cross’s eyes for a long moment. “Me, too,” she finally said. “And when you get out, we have things to say to each other.”

“How do I find you?”

“You just keep on working out of that Red 71 dump of yours, Mr. Cross. I’ll find you.”

AS TIGER
spoke, the graffiti-style red arrow leading to the basement poolroom began to work its way downstairs, looking much like an MRI of a boa constrictor swallowing its prey. In a language no human could understand, spoken at a pitch outside of human hearing range:

“Find you …”

And, just as nobody hears those words, nobody hears:

“Stay!”

And nobody sees the quick flash of a river of aces and jacks spilling out of the bottom arrow, as if sprayed from the hose of a short, squat container of pesticide.

FOUR YEARS
later …

“
HEY, BUDDHA
, you seen Princess?” Rhino asked, his nearly five-hundred-pound body visually enlarged by the gray jumpsuit he habitually wore. The overall effect was to make the back door of the poolroom behind him seem nonexistent. “He didn’t come back to the spot last night.”

“Maybe he got lucky,” the short, pudgy man offered, glancing up from a white sheet of oilskin he had spread out on a desk made from a solid-core door positioned over a pair of sawhorses. On the cloth he had arranged various parts of an automatic pistol next to a micro-tool kit any surgeon would have envied. For illumination, three parallel tubes of the sunlight-replicator used to treat seasonal affective disorder hung overhead. “Even a full-bore maniac like him has to score once in a while. Law of averages.”

“What’s your problem with Princess anyway?” the giant demanded. “He doesn’t mean any harm—you know that.”

“He’s like a little kid, Rhino,” the pudgy man said, in a
“How many times do I have to say it?” tone. “A little kid, playing games. I’m a professional—so are you. Fact is, I can’t figure out why Cross puts up with—”

“You want to know, why don’t you ask him?” the giant responded. His voice was an incongruous high-pitched squeak, but to those who knew him, no less threatening than the grunting of a flotilla of angry alligators.

“Take it easy,” Buddha said hastily. “What’re you so worried about? This can’t be the first time Princess didn’t show.”

“Yeah, it is,” the huge man replied. “At least, he always left word.”

“Hey, he’s a grown man,” Buddha said, suddenly turning gentle as he saw the genuine anxiety on his partner’s face.

“No,” Rhino replied, shaking his head sadly, “you’re right—he’s a big kid.” The giant glanced quickly around the room. “Cross around somewhere?”

“He’s always around somewhere,” Buddha said, not a hint of interest in his voice. “Either he’s up on the roof playing with those stupid birds of his, or else he’s down at the Double-X checking out the new shipment.”

“I’ll go look,” Rhino said. “Maybe he—”

“You’re on duty, right?” Buddha told him, his voice softening again. “What if someone comes around? Me, I’m not doing nothing—just modifying the counter-balance on this piece. Let me go see if I can scare him up.”

“Thanks, Buddha,” Rhino said gratefully, a lower-register note of surprise in his usual squeak. He backed out the door and took up his post again.

Buddha quickly reassembled the pistol, slipped it into a shoulder holster, buttoned his charcoal-dyed field jacket, and exited through another door.

BUDDHA TOOK
the back staircase, then used a key to open a heavily braced steel door. The floors he passed had all been empty, as expected.

He made his way to the roof, musing that being the registered owner of several pieces of property didn’t amount to an actual cash flow … as his wife constantly reminded him.

“You need make more money!” was her endless refrain, as if her shrill voice was on some permanent loop of unbreakable tape.

“How much more damn money could you possibly spend, So Long?” was Buddha’s tired retort, memorized from constant repetition.

“You watch,” she would say.

And proceed to prove her point. Again and again.

I don’t know why I do it
, Buddha thought to himself. Meaning, why go home at all? He was no stranger to shrewish women, but So Long made them all look like geishas. He could just walk away, find another place to sleep.

I can just hear Cross now
, Buddha thought.
She knows too much
. He knew the gang leader’s solution to any such potential problem would be a lethal one.

So what do I care?

Buddha could never answer that question, despite endless attempts. Introspection wasn’t one of his skills.

BUDDHA OPENED
the door to the roof and stepped out gingerly. He scanned the terrain, his eyes sweeping over a lengthy wooden box that looked as if it had been carelessly discarded. He moved carefully, approaching the box the same way he had walked jungle trails years ago, always alert for trip wires.

A bird’s head popped up from the center of the box, its
yellow-orange eyes gleaming with malevolence. “Don’t get all excited,” Buddha said softly. “I’m not messing with you—I’m just looking for Cross.”

The bird’s eyes tracked Buddha’s every movement. It fluttered its wings briefly, as though considering flight. Buddha registered the flash of blue on the wings, confirming this was the male of the mated pair of kestrels that Cross maintained on the roof. Kestrels are small birds, less than a foot in total length, even including their long, stabilizing tail feathers, but they are fierce, relentless dive-bombers.

Much larger birds run for cover when a kestrel’s shadow darkens the sky. The hunter-killers are blessed with incredible eyesight, awesome dive-speed, and deadly accuracy—the “one shot, one kill” snipers of the avian world.

Satisfied that Cross wasn’t on the roof, Buddha carefully backed up until he was on the stairs. He gently closed the overhead hatch after him.

THE LIVE GIRLS!
sign on the Double-X flashed its blood-red neon against blacked-out window glass. Buddha opened the door, grateful for the sudden blast of air conditioning.

The doorman greeted Buddha by nodding his head a couple of inches. He knew better than to demand the cover charge—Buddha was the nominal owner of the joint. “We need a place where we can meet with people—a place we can control,” Cross had argued.

“You got a thing for pole dancers, that’s your problem,” Buddha had responded. “How come
we
gotta chip in?”

“It could be a real moneymaker,” Cross said.

“I don’t know anything about running a strip joint,” Rhino squeaked. “I’d rather do what we do. What we all do.”

“I can get someone to run it,” Cross said, thoughtfully.
“Tell you what … if it’s not making money in six months, I’ll buy out all your shares. Deal?”

Cross then turned to the rest of the crew, opening his hands at his sides to indicate he was ready to listen if anyone else had objections.

Ace pointed a finger at Cross, then at himself. He didn’t need to say more—the two men had been partners since they were kids. Children too young for prison, but old enough to be incarcerated in one of the “training schools” that made Illinois nationally infamous.