The Road to Amber (39 page)

A tiny spark crackled, she halted, said, “Yike!” and reached to rub the place where the shock had occurred.

“Sorry—” Croyd began.

“Must be static electricity,” she said.

“Must be,” he agreed. “All I wanted to say was that you do know me, even though you wouldn’t recognize me in this incarnation. I’m Croyd Crenson. We’ve met in passing, here and there, and I always wanted just to sit and talk a spell, but somehow our paths never crossed long enough at the right time.”

“That’s an interesting line,” she said, running a finger across her damp brow, “naming the one ace nobody’s certain about. I bet a lot of groupies get picked up that way.”

“True,” Croyd replied, smiling, as he opened his arms wide. “But I can prove it if you’ll wait about half a minute.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

“Filling the air with neg-ions for you,” he said, “for that delightfully stimulating before-the-storm feeling. Just a hint at the great time I could show—”

“Cut it out!” She began backing away. “It sometimes triggers—”

Croyd’s hands were wet, his face was wet, his hair collapsed and leaked onto his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What the hell,” he said, “let’s make it a thunderstorm,” and lightning danced among his fingertips. He began laughing.

Other diners glanced in their direction.

“Stop,” she said. “Please.”

“Sit down for a minute and I will.”

“Okay.”

She took the seat opposite him. He dried his face and hands on his napkin.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “My fault. I should be careful with storm effects around someone they call Water Lily.”

She smiled.

“Your glasses are all wet,” she said, suddenly reaching forward and plucking them from his face. “I’ll clean—”

“Two hundred sixteen views of moist loveliness,” he stated as she stared. “The virus has, as usual, overendowed me in several respects.”

“You really see that many of me?”

He nodded. “These joker aspects sometimes crop up in my changes. Hope I haven’t turned you off.”

“They’re rather—magnificent,” she said.

“You’re very kind. Now give back the glasses.”

“A moment.”

She wiped the lenses on the corner of the tablecloth, then passed them to him.

“Thanks.” He donned them again. “Buy you a drink? Dinner? A water spaniel?”

“I’m on duty,” she said. “Thanks. Sorry. Maybe another time.”

“Well, I’m working now myself. But if you’re serious, I’ll give you a couple of phone numbers and an address. I may not be at any of them. But I get messages.”

“Give them to me,” she said, and he scribbled quickly in a notepad, tore out the page, and passed it to her. “What kind of work?” she asked.

“Subtle investigation,” he said. “It involves a gang war.”

“Really? I’ve heard people say you’re kind of honest, as well as kind of crazy.”

“They’re half-right,” he said. “So give me a call or stop by. I’ll rent scuba gear and show you a good time.”

She smiled and began to rise. “Maybe I will.”

He withdrew an envelope from his pocket, opened it, pushed aside a wad of bills, and removed a slip of paper with some writing on it. “Uh, before you go—does the name James Spector mean anything to you?”

She froze and grew pale. Croyd found himself wet once again.

“What did I say?” he asked.

“You’re not kidding? You really don’t know?”

“Nope. Not kidding.”

“You know the aces jingle.”

“Parts of it.”

“‘Golden Boy ain’t got no joy,’” she recited. “‘If it’s Demise, don’t look in his eyes…’—that’s him: James Spector is Demise’s real name.”

“I never knew that,” he said. Then, “I never heard any verses about me.”

“I don’t remember any either.”

“Come on. I always wondered.”

“‘Sleeper waking, meals taking,’” she said slowly. “‘Sleeper speeding, people bleeding.’”

“Oh.”

“If I call you and you’re that far along…”

“If I’m that far along, I don’t return calls.”

“I’ll get you a couple of dry napkins,” she offered. “Sorry about the storms.”

“Don’t be. Did anyone ever tell you you’re lovely when you exude moisture?”

She stared at him. Then, “I’ll get you a dry fish too,” she said.

Croyd raised his hand to blow her a kiss and gave himself a shock.

C
hecking 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 anticipated. 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 pouting. 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 hassle 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 ofdefense 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 damned 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 glasses 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.”

“Can you grow a new arm if I tear one off?”

“I don’t know, and I’d rather not find out. Look, I’ve heard you’re a psycho and I believe it. I’d tell you if I knew. I don’t enjoy regenerating. But all I did was a lousy contract hit. I’ve got no idea who’s on top.”

Croyd reached out with both hands, catching hold of Demise’s wrists.

“Breaking you up may not do much good,” he observed, “but there’s still room for subtlety. Ever have any electroshock therapy? Try this.”

When Demise stopped jerking, Croyd released his wrists. When he could speak again, Demise said, “I still can’t tell you. I don’t know.”

“So let’s lose a few more neurons,” Croyd suggested.

“Cool it a minute,” Demise said. “I never learned the names of any of the big guys. Never meant dick to me. Still don’t. All I know is this guy named Eye—a joker. He just has one big eye and he wears a monocle in it. He met me once, in Times Square, gave me a hit and paid me. That’s all that matters. You know how it is. You freelance yourself.”

Croyd sighed. “Eye? Seems I’ve heard of him someplace or other. Where can I get hold of the guy?”

“I understand he hangs around Club Dead Nicholas. Plays cards there awhile on Friday nights. Kept meaning to go by and kill the fucker, but I never got around to it. Cost me a foot.”

“‘Club Dead Nicholas’?” Croyd said. “I don’t believe I know that one.”

“Used to be Nicholas King’s Mortuary, near Jokertown. Serves food and booze, has music and a dance floor, gambling in a back room. Just opened recently. Kind of Halloween motif. Too morbid for my taste.”

“Okay,” Croyd said. “I hope you’re not bullshitting me, Demise.”

“That’s all I got.”

Croyd nodded slowly. “It’ll do.” He released the other and backed away. “Maybe then I can rest,” he said. “Subtle. Real subtle.” He picked up Demise’s package and put it in his arms. “Here. Don’t forget your stuff. Better watch your step too. It’s getting slippery.” He continued to back away, muttering to himself, up the street, to the corner. Then he turned again and was gone.

Sinking to a seated position on the stoop, Demise cracked open a fifth and took a long swallow.

T
he wind came and went like heavy surf, vibrating streetside windowpanes, driving icy pellets against the stone lions flanking the entranceway. These sounds were intensified as the door to the Jokertown Clinic was opened. A man entered and began stamping his feet and brushing snow from his dark blue blazer. He made no effort to close the door behind him.

Madeleine Johnson, sometimes known as the Chickenfoot Lady, doing a partial front desk deathwatch for her friend Cock Robin, with whom she had a good thing going, looked up from her crossword puzzle, stroked her wattles with her pencil, and squawked, “Close the damn door, mister!”

The man lowered the handkerchief with which he had been wiping his face and stared at her. She realized then that his eyes were faceted. His jaw muscles bunched and unbunched.

“Sorry,” he said, and he drew the door closed. Then he turned his head slowly, seeming to study everything in the room, though with those eyes it was difficult to tell for certain. Finally “I’ve got to talk to Dr. Tachyon,” he said.

“The doctor is out of town,” she stated, “and he’s going to be away for some time. What is it that you want?”

“I want to be put to sleep,” he said.

“This isn’t a veterinary clinic,” she told him, and regretted it a moment later when he moved forward, for he developed a distinct halo and began emitting sparks like a static electricity generator. She doubted this had much to do with virtue, for his teeth were bared and he clenched and unclenched his hands as if anticipating strenuous activity.