Wild Cards V (12 page)

Bagabond slid off the sofa onto her feet and stared back into Jack's green eyes.

“She's my friend. I guess she's my only friend.”

She stalked to the stairs. The cats followed her. The ginger never took her eyes off Jack as she backed across the narrow room. The black walked a few steps, then stopped and looked back at Jack before leaping up the stairway to catch up with the others.

“Well, whoever they are, you're keeping them busy.” Chris helped himself to a bite of Rosemary's grilled tuna.

“You said you weren't hungry.” Rosemary swatted away his fork.

“I lied. It's definitely not the Yakuza. They're taking hits too. Lost one of their top men here in the city. It seems our friends are not above going after anybody if they can't have their Mafia for breakfast. Your program of authorized trouble is taking its toll. They may not be out, but they're definitely down. You having any trouble with that?”

“No. Now that the capos are all following our instructions I know everything that's happening anywhere among the Families. It makes it easy.”

“I hate to say this, but you may need to arrange a hit on us. Nothing too severe, just something to ease off any suspicions.” Chris glanced around the bright kitchen. It was the only cheery space in the otherwise dark and gloomy penthouse. “Got any cookies?”

“Afraid not. Do you know something I don't?” Rosemary examined Chris's face.

“No, I just believe in prevention. I don't want anyone to see a pattern in what your aces are doing.”

“I'll be fine. Who'd connect me, assistant DA, with the Gambione Family? I'm more concerned with you.” Rosemary pushed away her plate. She was not about to mention Paul's suspicions to Chris. She already knew what he would say. “What kind of security are you carrying?”

“Beretta, of course.” Chris swung open his black leather jacket.

“That's not what I mean.”

“All right, okay. You got no sense of humor sometimes, ya know. I've got some guys I know I can trust. They're with me twenty-four hours a day. One's outside right now. Three more are downstairs. I'm covered, babe. These guys owe me; their souls are mine.”

“Tell me what's happening with our regular operations.” Rosemary was annoyed at his possessiveness of his cadre of her men but decided it was only her native paranoia.

“Don't worry about it. I've got it all taken care of. Each of the other Families has a representative who reports to me directly. Any problems I take care of them. You need to come up with a way to find out who we're up against and how to take them out.” Chris smiled happily at the ceiling. “You know, I think those boys still don't like my rattail.”

“I'm still working on it. Have you investigated the Vietnamese? The Shadow Fist gang in Jokertown is involved in this somehow. That much has become clear.” Rosemary decided not to press the issue of her normal briefing. Chris was right; she had more important things to think about.

“Well, I'm trying to get somebody to infiltrate them. You got any idea how hard it is to find an Oriental in the Mafia?” Chris sighed elaborately. “I'm trying to borrow somebody from the Yakuza.”

“Good idea. Listen, Chris, I need some time by myself tonight, okay?” Rosemary hesitated. “To make plans.”

“I can find something to keep myself busy.” Chris smirked in a way that worried Rosemary.

“Stay out of trouble. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you.”

“Me either.” Chris got up and kissed the top of Rosemary's head. “I may not be around for a few days. Don't worry about me. I'm just taking care of business.”

When Chris had gone, Rosemary went to the library. She kept trying to keep her two lives straight, but it was getting more and more difficult. She had promised herself that she would get the Mafia out of drugs and prostitution. But now that the war was going on there was no way that she could do that. They needed the money desperately. Protecting her people was causing her trouble at the office. Paul Goldberg had openly asked her if her informants couldn't get more dirt on the Mafia. And that comment about Maria Gambione. Christ. There had to be something she could do about him. Kill him, before he passed on his suspicions? But he was Suzanne's boyfriend. What could she do?

She had thought it would be easy to run things from behind Chris. Instead it seemed that he was more and more in control of what was happening in the streets. Nothing was going the way she had planned. Rosemary rested her forehead on the table between her outstretched arms.

She knew that she was not doing her job in the DA's office. But it was only a matter of time until this damned war was over and she could get back to doing what she was supposed to be doing. Then she could get rid of the drugs, prostitution, and corruption. Just as soon as they had won the war.

She woke up from the nightmare with a small cry, quickly stifled by the heavy atmosphere of the library. She had been in a religious painting she had seen as a child, the Crucifixion. But it was her broken body on the center cross, with Chris hanging on her right and her father on her left. Rosemary put her arms around herself to stop the trembling.

Bagabond woke instantly, the warning of danger as insistent as a cat's claws set in her skin. She separated the thought-streams entering her own mind and found the sending carrying the cry for help. There was still a shock when she recognized Jack Robicheaux down the alley. The strength and clarity of the sending told her that the creature observing the scene in the alley was the black. So that's where he had been for the last few days. When he vanished, she had not followed him mentally except to make sure he was alive and well.

Silently she told him to return home. He snarled at the suggestion. He and Jack had been close since they had first met. The black's curiosity about the man/big-lizard had created a bond. The black focused on the tableau at the end of the streetlight-spotted alley. Jack was trapped by a much larger man who taunted him. Despite herself, Bagabond allowed the black to transmit more and draw her into the situation.

“Hey, fucking faggot! Guess taking off down this alley wasn't so smart, huh?” The hulk looming over Jack was ugly, with close-set eyes and a sloping forehead. Bagabond suddenly recognized him. Bludgeon. She'd seen him once before in the Tombs with Rosemary. He was just as mean and just as stupid as he looked. Jack was in trouble, but Jack could handle himself.

“All I wanted to do was play wit'cha a little. An' I know you faggots jus' love rough trade.”

“You don't want to mess with me, man.” Jack was plastered against the fence cutting off the alley. “I'm a lot more trouble than I look.”

“Oh, I wanna mess wit' chou, pretty-boy. I'm gonna start wit' your face and work down, pervert. Ain't nobody gonna want you when I get through.” Bludgeon reached out for Jack, but the smaller man ducked under the paw.

“Please, I don't want to hurt you. Just leave me alone.” Jack's voice shook. Bagabond wondered why he was so afraid. “You won't like what you see.”

“You think you know that gook chop-sockey stuff, huh?” Bludgeon laughed, and even Bagabond winced at the sound like gears stripping. “It's okay. I'm part of the Family now. I got me an insurance plan.”

The black was more insistent as he sensed Bagabond's reluctance to help his other human friend. It transferred to pain in Bagabond's own mind. She sent Jack's refusal to help her and Rosemary back out to the black, but the cat would not turn away. Tiring of watching the two men spar, Bagabond called the black to return and showed him Jack's transformation to alligator. If he didn't want her help, fine. She wouldn't force it on him. He thought he didn't need her around, okay.

The black's wild anger at her stand surged back at her and she cut off contact. It wasn't her problem anymore. She lifted her hands to probe gently at the pain in her temples. The black had overridden her defenses because she had not expected his response. Christ, what was wrong with everyone? Why did everybody hate
her
now?

Curled upon a pile of rags in a steam tunnel yards below the surface, Bagabond had slept for hours. Despite her best efforts, the headache clung on. She couldn't reach the black either, although she knew he wasn't dead. She searched through her layers of clothing until she found the strapless wristwatch she used when she needed to keep track of time. Less than an hour until she was supposed to meet Paul. She'd be late. It would take half an hour to get to C.C.'s, where she had taken to keeping dresses and suits that had to be hung up. Stupid game. With a little luck C.C. would be working in the studio and never know she had been there.

The only luck she'd had all week actually happened. The red light was on over the door to C.C.'s studio, so Bagabond got in and out without distraction. Still, the always-late Paul was standing in the bar waiting at West Fourth Street where they were meeting for dinner before a movie. Dinner was pleasant, but Bagabond knew that Paul was not entirely there even as he regaled her with tales of the latest escapades and defenses he had encountered during the last week.

“So then this guy starts claiming that his what-do-you-call-it, his ancient Persian contact, told him that this other poor guy was really an ancient Greek and a personal enemy. And he starts ‘channeling' right there in the courtroom. Lots of grunts, rolling around on the floor, speaking in tongues—who knows if it's Persian. The judge breaks
two
gavels screaming for order while the schmuck's defense attorney is alternately calling for a doctor for his client and trying to build a defense based on this fit. He did get a continuance. Which means
I
have to go back in there with those idiots next week. Oy vay, as my sainted mother used to say.” Paul Goldberg grinned over the cheesecake at her. “So, how was your week?”

“The animals are all okay. No major problems.”

“What a city to be a veterinarian in. Between poodles and rottweilers, I don't know how you manage.”

“That's why I try to stick to cats, with the occasional exotic rat or raccoon.” Bagabond smiled across the table, wondering why she had ever come up with this story. Paul's mood changed abruptly.

“Listen, I need to talk to you. Can we skip the movie tonight?” Paul stared into his coffee cup as if the swirls of cream would reveal his future.

“Sounds serious.”

“It is. At least I think it is. You're the sensible sort. You'll tell me if you think I'm crazy.”

“Just don't start speaking in Persian.”

“Right.” He picked up the check. “This one's mine. Don't argue.”

They took a cab over to Paul's huge two-level apartment on the Upper East Side. He said almost nothing, just examined her hands with their short, blunt nails and joked about her lack of claws. Once up in the apartment he made coffee and put on Paul Simon. When he finally sat down, it was in a chair he pulled to face her rather than on the couch beside her.