Wild Cards [07] Dead Man's Hand (27 page)

"The accomplice?" he asked, his hands held out from his sides.

Brennan got up from the sofa. "I learned the value of backup in Nam," he told Maseryk. "It's something I haven't forgotten." He walked by the cop and opened the door.

"We'll be looking for you now," Maseryk told him. "Your time would be better spent finding Chrysalis's killer and stopping the rapture trade," Brennan said as he went out the door.

As the door slammed behind him, Maseryk whirled, grabbing the barrel of the gun. Wraith surrendered it with a laugh. He tried to grab her, too, but she was already smoke, drifting through the wall on an unseen, unfelt wind.

Friday July 22, 1988

6:00 A.M.

Brennan was already awake and sitting in the chair by the bed when Jennifer turned and, finding him gone, woke up. She yawned and mumbled something sleepily.

"Good morning," Brennan said, leaning over and kissing her on her forehead as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "Is it morning?"

"Just about."

"Need a shower," Jennifer said, sitting up, still halfwrapped in the twisted sheet. "Care to join me?"

"Sure." Brennan still felt tired, too, and already sticky with sweat despite the earliness of the hour. "Go ahead. I have to make a quick phone call."

"All right." She stood and shed the sheet. "If you hurry, I'll soap your favorite parts."

Brennan smiled, reached for the phone, and dialed a number given him by a cat as Jennifer walked naked to the bathroom.

The phone rang three times before it was picked up and an annoyed voice said, "Yes."

"This is Yeoman."

"Christ, do you know what time it is?"

"It's early," Brennan said, cutting through Fadeout's grumbling. "You said you'd help, and I need some information."

"All right, all right." Fadeout was obviously still annoyed, but asked grumpily, "What is it?"

"Do you know anything about a joker cop named Kant."

"Oh, him. Wyrm 's evil twin."

"What?"

"Nothing. A joke. They both look like they escaped from the reptile house. What do you want to know about him?"

"Is he honest?"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say honest. He used to be one of E X. Black's boys. He did a little extracurricular arm twisting, but nothing really serious until lately. He's taken up with some foreign whore and been seen sampling the lessthan-legal delights at some of the kinkier nightclubs. Rumor has it he's been supplying her with drugs."

"Is this woman's name Ezili Rouge?"

"Something like that," Fadeout said. "What do you know about her?"

"Not much. Black, but light-skinned. Likes drugs. Likes men. Kant's not the only one on her string."

"Do you have an address?"

"No. Look around. She's hard to miss."

"I have."

"Well," Fadeout said, "I'm sorry I can't help. Tell you what, give me her phone number when you get it. I'd like to check her out myself."

"Sure. Do you have anything else for me?"

"I turned up something on that Morkle guy through our union connections. He's a longshoreman, a heavy-equipment operator. Works the early-morning shift at the Fulton Street docks. But the big news has to do with Wyrm."

"What about him?"

"Well, no one will say anything concrete, you understand, but there are whispers that he did an important job for Kien a couple of days ago, a job that no one else would handle." And, after a few moments of silence, Fadeout said, "Hello, you still there? Hello?".

"Yes."

"Oh. Okay. If you want to discuss things with him personally, he'll be at Lin's Curio Emporium later this morning, about eleven or so."

"The Chinese art shop on Mulberry?"

"That's right. You've heard of it?"

Brennan grunted a noncommittal reply. Lin's was famous in the art world for its antiquities, and in the drug world as a notorious pickup spot where high-class clientele could get whatever they wanted in the way of illegal pharmaceuticals. "Say, what's all this about that Ezili chick, anyway?" Fadeout asked.

"I'll be in touch," Brennan said, then hung up. Wyrm. It had to be Wyrm. But this Morkle guy had been a thorn in his side since the start of the investigation. If Morkle worked the night shift at the docks, now would be the time to go after him. Wyrm would keep for a while.

The small shower stall was crowded when Brennan entered. The water was cool against his body. Suddenly he wasn't so tired when Jennifer began to massage him with soapy hands.

Tension and frustration swirled down the drain with the sweat and grime that had layered his body. First he'd run down the mysterious Doug Morkle, then Wyrm. But now it was just him and Jennifer. They kissed, their soapy bodies entangling as they made languorous love under the cool, soothing spray of the shower.

"It's fine if you carry on your garment bag," the woman behind the Delta ticket counter told Jay, "but I'm afraid that your animal will have to be checked."

"Yeah, sure," Jay said wearily. He lifted the cat carrier onto the luggage scale, too tired to argue. He'd been up half the night finding the damn thing.

The Delta agent stapled a claim check onto his ticket envelope and handed it across the counter. "Here you are," she said. "Nonsmoking window. The flight is already boarding."

"Thanks," Jay said. He watched as she fixed a luggage tag to the handle of the gray plastic box and shifted it to the moving belt behind her. Jay had carefully lined the interior with old newspaper so nobody could see through the air holes. There didn't seem any point in waving good-bye. When the cat carrier had vanished into the depths of La Guardia, Jay headed down the concourse toward his gate. Even at this hour of the morning, the airport was crowded, and he had to stand in line at security. A large sign by the X-ray machine warned that guns and bombs were no joking matter; Jay decided they wouldn't be amused if he mentioned that he had dynamite in his garment bag.

The flight, scheduled for 6:55, departed forty-five minutes late. Jay slept all the way to Atlanta.

9:00 A.M.

The Fulton Street docks and the fish-rendering plants and warehouses surrounding them were swarming with activity in which a man could hide out through doomsday.

"Did Fadeout say what this Morkle looks like?" Jennifer asked.

"Just that he's a heavy-equipment operator." Brennan looked around with a frustrated frown. "Must drive a forklift or something. We can eventually pinpoint him through Fadeout's union connections, but I'd hoped we'd be able to run him down today. I'd hoped."

"Let's give it a try."

They searched the docks for an hour before a man with a blue knit cap, a drooping mustache, and tattooed biceps as big as softballs nodded when Brennan mentioned the name.

"Morkle? Yeah, I think I know him. Strange fellow. He works down on Wharf 47."

"Would he be there now?"

The longshoreman shrugged. "Could be. I think he usually works the night shift."

"Thanks," Brennan said. "One last thing. How'll we spot him?"

"Can't miss him. He's the guy without the forklift."

"Without the forklift," Brennan repeated as the stevedore trundled his hand truck down the street. He looked at Jennifer and shrugged.

The ship unloading at Wharf 47 was larger than most. A steady stream of large wooden boxes was wending its way down the gangplank and heading to the processing stations and market stalls bordering the docks. The stevedore had been right. Doug Morkle was easy to spot.

He was five feet tall and almost as broad, with an immense chest and short, thick limbs. His face, Brennan thought, was oddly out of proportion to his body. It was long and narrow, with delicate, almost feminine features. It took Brennan several moments before he realized that the longshoreman looked like, of all people, Tachyon.

He was carrying one of the huge crates without strain, balancing it with one hand atop his head. In that posture he resembled photographs Brennan had seen of African women carrying pots of water, but pots of water didn't weigh close to half a ton. He walked steadily and easily, seemingly not at all encumbered by his massive burden.

"Doug Morkle?" Brennan asked.

The man glanced at him, kept walking.

"No. My name is Doug Morkle," he grunted, the weight of his load making it difficult to speak clearly.

"Ah, yes. Your name's not Morkle?"

"No. It's Morkle.
Morkle."

Brennan glanced at Jennifer helplessly, and she gave it a try. "Could you spell that please, Mr., uh, Morkle."

He flashed Jennifer an angry look, stopped, and quickly shifted the crate, slamming it down to the dock.

"What do you people want? My papers are in order. I have a green card." He fumbled angrily in the pocket of his coveralls. He spoke perfect English, but with a peculiar accent that Brennan had never heard before.

He shoved a piece of paper at Brennan. It had his photo and the name "Durg at'Morakh bo Zabb Vayawandsa" printed under it. He was born, it said, on Takis. The name on his union ID card, which he also handed to Brennan, had been Americanized to Doug Morkle.

"Everything is in order," he said, his anger turned to smugness.

"Yes, I see," Brennan temporized. This was utterly unexpected. Brennan remembered that Tachyon had once mentioned the Takisian who'd been marooned on Earth back during the Swarm troubles. Expert martial artist and casual killer, he was certainly capable of murdering Chrysalis. But what motive would he possibly have for killing her? "It, uh, says here on your union card that you're a heavy-equipment operator."

Morkle stared at him through slitted eyes. "Are you from the union office?"

"That's right," Brennan lied.

"My exemption has been filed," Morkle said, triumph in his voice. "There is nothing wrong with my papers. The proper box is checked."

"Uh-huh." Brennan looked again at the card, scanning it carefully. The special "ace exemption" box had indeed been checked, "Giving the bearer the right to function as a heavyequipment operator with or without the actual physical presence of such equipment as long as he/she is remunerated at commensurate rates of compensation."

"Of course," Brennan said.

"I must return to work. My shift is almost over." Morkle held out a hand the size of a shovel. "My papers please."

"Do you always work the midnight-to-eight shift?" The Takisian nodded impatiently and hoisted his burden. "Last Monday, too?"

He nodded again, his anger obviously building. "Well, thanks, Mister... Morkle."

"That's Morkle!" He pronounced it with a liquid lilt at the end of the word. "Ideal! Will you Earthers ever learn how to speak correctly?"

"Do we believe him?" Jennifer asked as they watched him stroll off with his burden.

"It looks like an iron-clad alibi."

"Another dead end?"

Brennan sighed. "I'm afraid so."

But that just made Wyrm look more and more like the prime candidate. It was time to interview him personally. First, though, Brennan decided, it would be sensible to return tc the hotel room and pick up more firepower. He wasn't about to waltz into the Curio Emporium bare-handed.

10:00 A.M.

"What the hell do
you mean
it never got put on the plane?"

"I'm sorry, sir." The Delta luggage clerk wasn't nearly as good at being sorry as Waldo Cosgrove was. "Our next flight from La Guardia is due in about twenty minutes, I'm sure your luggage will be on that one." Behind her on the wall was a- large poster covered with drawings of suitcases. "If you could indicate the type of luggage," she said, "it would help us to locate the missing bags."

"It wasn't a suitcase," Jay said. "It was a cat carrier. Gray plastic, brand new, I just bought the damn thing. You have any idea how hard it is to find a twenty-four-hour pet shop, even in Manhattan?" He sighed. "My, uh, cat's going to be pissed."

"Oh, the poor thing," the woman said. "I have five cats myself, I understand how you must feel. We'll find it, don't worry. If you give me your Atlanta address, I'll have your cat delivered."

"Great," Jay said. He thought for a moment. "I don't know where I'll be. The convention has booked all the big hotels solid, I hear. Tell you what, deliver it to the Marriott Marquis. To Hiram Worchester." He spelled it for her.

"Our pleasure," she said as she completed the, lost luggage form and handed it across the counter for signature. "What's the little fellow's name?"

"Digger," Jay said. At least he hadn't checked the garment bag. He slung it over a shoulder and went out to look for a cab.

"There's an envelope on your bow case," Jennifer said, looking at it as if it were some kind of poisonous reptile. "What?" Brennan called out from the bathroom. "Another message?"

"Apparently."

Brennan came out of the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. He joined Jennifer, who was staring at his bow case and the small, plain white envelope resting on it.

"This is getting weird," Brennan said. "Getting?"

Brennan grunted and picked up the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a message written in the now-familiar tiny hand, complete with its usual quota of spelling errors.

"`For yur own safety'" he read, "'stay away frum the Cristal Palace."'

"Why?" Jennifer asked.

Brennan shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine. Our secret informant hasn't lied so fax: It's been spooky as hell and gotten me into trouble a few times, but it's always told the truth."

"Were you planning on going to the Palace?" Jennifer asked.

"No. Right now I'm planning on heightening my appreciation of Chinese art." He folded the note and put it in his pocket, then hefted his bow case. "Let's go."

They stopped him the moment he stepped out of the revolving doors into the lobby of the Marriott Marquis. "May I see your room key, sir?" a black man in a security blazer asked him, none too politely.

Jay gave him his most apologetic smile. "Don't have one yet," he said. "I'm just checking in." He tried to walk briskly around him, the garment bag slung over his shoulder.

The guard sidestepped, planting himself squarely in Jay's path. "Hotel's full," he said. "We're not authorized to admit anyone but guests. Can I see some identification?"