Wild Cards V (10 page)

Bagabond walked down the crowded East Village street trying not to be impatient with C.C. Ryder's window-shopping. It seemed as though every ten feet the spike-haired redhead saw something she just had to have—as long as she didn't actually have to go in and talk to anyone about it. Bagabond was about to suggest going back to the songwriter's loft when she heard a bayou-accented voice behind her.

“Hey, y'all,
qué
pasa?
” The teenage hyperactive body encased in a tiger-striped leotard with gold-lamé sneakers belonged to Jack's niece Cordelia. She bounced out of the restaurant she had been about to enter and grabbed both Bagabond and C.C. Ryder by the elbows to guide them into the Riviera with her before either could muster a protest. C.C. quickly shrugged her off when they were inside, but neither woman put up a struggle when Cordelia immediately got them a table. Bagabond had learned it was useless to resist unless one wanted an excessively hurt teenager on her hands.

“So, y'all seen Rosemary's television appeal to aces yet?” Cordelia opened and shut her menu with the same movement. “Gonna join up, Bagabond?”

“Haven't been asked.” Bagabond chose to take her time with the menu. “What about you?”

Glancing up over the top of her oversize menu, Bagabond was surprised to catch the expression of revulsion on Cordelia's face. For possibly the first time she had stopped Cordelia cold in her tracks.

“I, uh, don't do that anymore.” Cordelia opened her menu again and stared at it fixedly. “I could hurt somebody, y'know. I'm
never
going to do that again. It's not right.”

“I'm not sure it's a good idea. Ace vigilantes are not what we need in this city.” C.C. looked from Cordelia to Bagabond before excusing herself.

“So, you seen Jack lately?” Cordelia followed C.C.'s progress to the rear of the restaurant intently before turning to Bagabond with wide, innocent eyes.

“Yeah. He asked if I'd seen you. Ever think of calling your uncle once in a while?” Bagabond's irritation was evident in her rough voice.

“I've been so busy, what with working for Global Fun and Games an' all—”

“And you haven't wanted to talk to him anyway, right?”

“I don't know what to say…” Cordelia blushed. “I mean, it's like I don' know him anymore. You don' understand. I was raised in the Church. I was taught that bein' a homo—what Jack is, is one of the worst sins.”

“It's not catching and he's your uncle. He's risked his life for you and you won't even give him a call. I'm glad you're so strong on right and wrong.” Bagabond looked disgusted and unconsciously flicked her wrist at the girl. “Michael's good for him. I've never seen Jack so happy.”

“Yeah, well, Michael's a son of a bitch! I saw him in a club in the Village last week. He was with someone and it wasn't Uncle Jack.” Cordelia was furious.

“Everything okay here?” C.C. seated herself and looked at each woman in turn.

“Hey, no prob.” Cordelia waved the waitress over. “You goin' to do my benefit or what?”

“You keep asking and I keep saying no.” C.C. shook her head in affectionate exasperation. “I just want to write my songs, do some recording at home. I don't need a live audience and I certainly don't
want
one.”

“C.C., de audience needs
you.
It's a benefit for wild card victims as well as AIDS. You of all people should have sympathy for the cause.”

Bagabond watched C.C.'s face tighten at the mention of the wild card virus. It had taken years of drugs, therapy, and God knew what else to bring her back to humanity. C.C.'s very real nightmare was that she would again become a living subway car formed from nothing save hate. Or something much worse. C.C. had spoken of a little of this to Bagabond.

C.C. Ryder controlled her emotions rigidly, never allowing them to exceed a certain low level. If she continued taking the downs and antidepressants prescribed for her, she couldn't write. Not being able to create her songs was even worse than the prospect of changing back. So she avoided any situation that might be more than she could handle. Not even Tachyon could tell her what might set off the series of internal changes that could result in another transformation. Bagabond did not understand how C.C. could live in that state of constant fear and still create the songs, but she did understand why she wanted to stay away from most humans. She approved.

“No.” C.C.'s voice had become as tense as her muscles, although it was equally clear that she was controlling the effect the discussion was having on her.

“It could be your big comeback—”

“Cordelia, you can't have a comeback if you were never there in the first place.” C.C. forced a smile. “I'm sure there are many more likely candidates out there.”

“Your songs have been recorded by the best: Peter Gabriel—” Cordelia barely paused in her diatribe at the arrival of their burgers. “Simple Minds, U2 … It's time for you to show them all what you can do.”

Bored by the argument and reasured that C.C. was holding her own, Bagabond reached out across the city, flashing through the tangle of feral intelligences. Darkness, bright light; hunger, fulfillment; the tense anticipation of the hunter, the cold, shivering fear of the stalked; death, birth; pain. So much pain in living each minute—why did these human fools insist on creating even more for themselves by their little games? Playing at living. She touched a squirrel with a broken back. It had been struck by a passing car near Washington Park, and she stopped its heart and brain simultaneously. In Central Park the gray son of the black and the calico dashed into a copse of oaks and sheltered by the underbrush, spun and raked the nose of the Doberman that had chased it. Bagabond felt the cat's triumph for an instant before it recognized her touch and hissed in anger. Feeling no need to force the contact, she moved on. She allowed herself another instant to ascertain that the black and the calico's most recent litter of kittens was well in the warm service tunnels beneath Forty-second Street.

As her eyes rolled back down, Bagabond realized that Cordelia's conversation with C.C. had stopped.

“Suzanne, are you okay?” C.C. ran her gaze across Bagabond's face then nodded slowly.

“She's fine, Cordelia.” C.C. brought the young woman's attention back to herself, giving Bagabond time to return. Sometimes it had become difficult to come back to the slow, jabbering world of the humans. Someday, she thought, looking at C.C. Ryder, she would not come back. C.C. was the only person she had ever met who understood that. One day she would ask what C.C. had felt as the Other. C.C. mentioned it rarely, but when she did, Bagabond had seen a haunted need still there behind her eyes.

“Um, okay. Anyway, GF&G, you know, would love to back you on your reintroduction. The Funhouse is an intimate venue. Perfect for you and your music.” Cordelia leaned toward C.C., hand extended. “And you know Xavier Desmond's one of your biggest fans.”

“Christ, girl, you're turning into a freaking
agent.
” C.C. leaned back in the fifties plastic-covered chair. “And I've already got one agent. That's bad enough.”

“Well, hey, I've got to get home. It's late. Good to see you guys.” Cordelia dropped a few bills onto the table and got up. She swung the armadillo shoulder bag off her chair. Catching Bagabond's eyes on the dead animal, she elbowed it behind her and backed toward the door, still working on C.C. “You've got a few weeks to make your final decision. The show's not until late May. Bono said he was looking forward to meeting you. So'd Little Steven.”

“Good
night
, Cordelia.” C.C. Ryder had clearly reached the end of her patience. “I'm too old for this, Suzanne.”

Wriggling underneath the padded shoulders of the business suit Rosemary had bought her, Bagabond stepped out of the elevator onto Rosemary's floor. The receptionist recognized her instantly.

“Good morning, Ms. Melotti. Let me buzz Ms. Muldoon.”

“Thank you, Donnis.” Bagabond sat down uncomfortably in one of the chairs scattered around the waiting area.

“I'm afraid you just missed Mr. Goldberg. He left a few minutes ago for his court appearances today.” The older woman behind the word processor smiled at Bagabond indulgently while she punched Rosemary's intercom number and announced her.

“For once everything's running on time. Go right on in.”

Bagabond nodded and got back up onto her high heels. With her back to the receptionist, she blinked at the pain in her feet. She hated these days when she played dress-up to talk to Rosemary. At Rosemary's closed door she knocked twice and walked in to see the assistant DA with a phone resting on one shoulder. As usual, Bagabond sat on Rosemary's big oak desk. She listened to the conversation.

“Wonderful, Lieutenant. I'm so glad that tip on the designer drug factory panned out.” Rosemary rolled her eyes at Bagabond as she signed papers and balanced the receiver.

“So it wasn't a Mafia operation after all. Any clues as to the ownership? If we could just find out who's behind this senseless crime war with the Mafia, we could go a long way toward stopping it.” Rosemary nodded to her unseen caller and almost dropped the phone. “True, but as long as they're wiping each other out, they're hurting innocent people.

“Well, you can rest assured that I'll be forwarding any other aces who volunteer over to you immediately. You're right—uncoordinated activity is dangerous for all concerned. I'm just glad to help. Right. I'll be in touch. 'Bye.” Rosemary hung up the phone.

“We took out a drug plant last night.” Rosemary leaned her chin on her hand and smiled up at Bagabond. “
I
'm pleased.”

Bagabond nodded, looking across the office toward the dark wooden door.

“And I'm curious.” Rosemary got up and checked to make sure that the door was securely closed. “Why haven't
you
volunteered?”

Bagabond noticed for the hundredth time that Rosemary had no trouble walking in her spike heels. She looked up to see Rosemary staring at her, a muscle jumping along her jaw.

“You never asked.” Bagabond was uncomfortable. She hated it. Guilt was for humans. Or pets.

“I didn't think I had to.
I
thought we were friends.”

They glared at each other like two cats in a territorial battle. Rosemary broke the impasse.

“And of course we are.” The DA sat down and leaned back in her chair. “I
should
have asked. I'm asking now. I need your help.”

Rosemary's smile reminded Bagabond of a tiger's yawn. Teeth, lots of teeth. Bagabond felt cold.

“What can I do? I talk to pigeons.” Bagabond examined Rosemary's face for duplicity.

“Well, pigeons see things. Sometimes I'm sure they see interesting things. I'd just like to hear about those things.”

“Which one of you? The DA or the Mafia don?”

Rosemary's eyes flashed up to the door and back to Bagabond. After an instant of hesitation she smiled at the woman sitting on her desk.

“You'd be amazed to discover how much their interests are intertwined.”

“Yes. I would.” Bagabond shook her head. “No, I don't think I can help.”

“Come on, Suzanne. People are getting hurt out there. We can stop that.” Rosemary reached toward her window.

“People killing other people.” Bagabond nodded. “Good. The fewer of them, the better I'll like it.”

“Being a hard case today, I see.” Rosemary relaxed back into her chair. “I've heard this one.”

“I mean it.” Bagabond looked down at her old friend.

“I know. But I do need you. I need your connections. I need your information. And it's not just humans getting hurt.” Rosemary stretched her hands out on top of the papers on her desk. They both watched the fingers shake until they were clenched into fists. “Don Picchietti and Don Covello are already dead. They just took out Don Tomasso. He was my godfather.
Please
, Bagabond. Help me.” Rosemary looked up at Bagabond, pleading her case with both her voice and her face.

“Picchietti was hit with an ice pick in his ear. Nobody around him saw anything.” Rosemary smiled at her with a twisted and unamused grin. “And for once they weren't lying.”

“You don't know what you're doing. But my help won't hurt anything either.” Bagabond tasted bitterness at her surrender and felt anger at herself, but she could not abandon her friend.

“Thank you.” Rosemary relaxed and picked up her pen, flipping it through her fingers. “Talk to Jack lately?”

“Almost never.” Bagabond slid a part of her consciousness to the rat whom she had set to watch Jack as he worked his way through the subway tunnels. She smelled him first. Then, turning the rat's head toward Jack Robicheaux, she saw him in the rat's dim, black-and-white vision.