Wild Cards V (42 page)

“Too much. I'll offer you forty thousand.”

“Fuck that,” Tom said. “This is a one-of-a-kind exhibit.”

“Three-of-a-kind, actually,” Dutton pointed out. “I might be able to go to fifty thousand.”

“The historical value alone is more than that. This is going to give this fucking place respectability. You'll have lines going around the block.”

“Sixty-five thousand,” Dutton said. “I'm afraid that's my final offer.”

Tom stood up, relieved but somehow disappointed as well. “Okay. Thanks for your time. You don't happen to have a number for Michael Jackson, do you?” When Dutton didn't answer, he started for the door.

“Eighty thousand,” Dutton said behind him. Tom turned. Dutton coughed apologetically. “That's it. Really. I couldn't do better if I wanted to. Not without liquidating some of my other investments, which I'm not prepared to do.”

Tom paused in the doorway. He'd almost escaped. Now he was stuck again. He didn't see any way out that wouldn't make him look like a fool. “I'll need cash.”

Dutton chuckled. “I don't imagine a check made out to the Great and Powerful Turtle would be very easy to negotiate. It will take me a few weeks to raise that much cash, but I imagine I can work it out.” The cowled man unfolded from his chair and came around the desk. “Are we agreed, then?”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “If you'll throw in the head.”

“The head?” Dutton sounded surprised, and a little amused. “Sentimental, aren't we?” He picked up Modular Man's head and stared into the blind, unfocused eyes. “It's just a machine, you know. A broken machine.”

“He was one of us,” Tom said with a passion that surprised even him. “It doesn't feel right, leaving him here.”

“Aces,” Dutton sighed. “Well, I suppose we can do up a wax replica for the Aces High diorama. It's yours, as soon as we can take delivery on the shells.”

“You get the shells when I get my money,” Tom said.

“Fair enough,” Dutton replied.

Jesus
, Tom thought,
what the fuck have I gone and done?
Then he got a grip on himself. Eighty thousand dollars was one hell of a lot of money.

Enough money to make it worth turning turtle one last time.

 

Concerto for Siren and Serotonin

V

AFTER RUNNING A SMALL
favor for Veronica, reporting his progress to Theotocopolos, and phoning Latham, Strauss for an appointment, Croyd met Veronica for dinner. As he told her of the day's doings, she shook her head when he told her about St. John Latham.

“You're crazy,” she told him. “If he's that well-connected, what do you want to fool around with him for, anyway?”

“Somebody wanted to know about something he was up to.”

She frowned. “I find a guy I like, I don't want to lose him so quick.”

“I won't get hurt.”

She sighed, put a hand on his arm. “I mean it,” she said.

“So do I. I can take care of myself.”

“What does that mean? How dangerous is it?”

“I've got a job to finish, and I think I'm almost there. I'll probably wrap it up soon without any sweat, get the rest of my money, and maybe take a little vacation before I sleep again. Thought we might go someplace real nice together—say, the Caribbean.”

“Aw, Croyd,” she said, taking his hand, “you've been thinking of me.”

“Of course I've been thinking of you. Now, I've got an appointment with Latham for Thursday. Maybe I can finish this thing by the weekend. Then we'll have some time for just the two of us.”

“You be careful, then.”

“Hell, I'm almost done. Haven't had any problems yet.”

After stopping at one of his banks for additional funds, Croyd took a taxi to the building that held the law offices of Latham, Strauss. He had made the appointment by describing a fictitious case designed to sound expensive, and he arrived fifteen minutes ahead of time. On entering the waiting room he suppressed a sudden desire for medication. Hanging out with Veronica seemed to have him thinking about it ahead of schedule.

He identified himself to the receptionist, sat and read a magazine till she told him, “Mr. Latham will see you now, Mr. Smith.”

Croyd nodded, rose, and entered the inner office.

Latham rose from his seat behind his desk, displaying an elegantly cut gray suit, and he offered his hand. He was somewhat shorter than Croyd, and his refined features remained expressionless.

“Mr. Smith,” he acknowledged. “Won't you have a seat?”

Croyd remained standing. “No.”

Latham raised an eyebrow, then seated himself. “As you would,” he said. “Why don't you tell me about your case now?”

“Because there isn't one. What I really need is some information.”

“Oh? That being?”

Instead of replying Croyd looked away, casting his gaze about the office. Then his hand moved forward, to pick up an orange and green stone paperweight from Latham's desk. He held it directly before him and squeezed. A cracking, grinding sound followed. When he opened his hand, a shower of gravel fell upon the desk.

Latham remained expressionless. “What sort of information are you seeking?”

“You have done work for the new mob,” Croyd said, “the one trying to move in on the Mafia.”

“Are you with the Justice Department?”

“No.”

“DA's office?”

“I'm not a cop,” Croyd responded, “and I'm not an attorney either. I'm just someone who needs an answer.”

“What is the question?”

“Who is the head of this new family? That's all I want to know.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps someone wishes to arrange a meeting with that person.”

“Interesting,” Latham said. “You wish to retain me to arrange such a meeting?”

“No, I only want to know who the person in charge is.”

“Quid—pro—quo,” Latham observed. “What are you offering for this?”

“I am prepared to save you,” Croyd said, “some very large bills from orthopedic surgeons and physiotherapists. You lawyers know all about such matters, don't you?”

Latham smiled a totally artificial smile. “Kill me and you're a dead man, hurt me and you're a dead man, threaten me and you're a dead man. Your little trick with the stone means nothing. There are aces with fancier powers than that on call. Now, was that a threat you just made?”

Croyd smiled back. “I will die before too long, Mr. Latham, to be born again in a completely different form. I am not going to kill you. But supposing I were to cause you to talk, to stop the pain, and supposing that later your friends were to put out a contract on the man you see before you. It wouldn't matter. He would no longer exist. I am a series of biological ephemera.”

“You are the Sleeper.”

“Yes.”

“I see. And if I give you this information, what do you think will happen to me?”

“Nothing. Who's to know?”

Latham sighed. “You place me in an extremely awkward position.”

“That was my intention”—Croyd glanced at his watch—”and I'm on a tight schedule. I should have begun beating the shit out of you about a minute and a half ago, but I'm trying to be a nice guy about this. What should we do, counselor?”

“I will cooperate with you,” Latham said, “because I don't think it will make an iota of difference in what is going on right now.”

“Why not?”

“I can give you a name, but not an address. I do not know from where they do business. We have always met in no-man's-land or spoken over the telephone. I cannot even give you a telephone number, however, for they have always gotten in touch with me. And I say that it will make no difference because I do not believe that the interests you represent are capable of doing them harm. This group is too well staffed with aces. Also, I am fully convinced that they are going to manage what we might refer to as a “corporate takeover” very soon. Should your employer wish to save lives and perhaps even settle for a bit of pocket money as something of a retirement bonus, I would be happy to try to arrange the terms for such an agreement.”

“Naw,” Croyd said, “I don't have any instructions for that kind of deal.”

“I'd be surprised if you did.” Latham glanced at his telephone. “But if you would like to relay the suggestion, be my guest.”

Croyd did not move. “I'll pass the word along, with the name you're going to give me.”

Latham nodded. “As you would. My offer to negotiate does not assure the acceptance of any particular terms, though, and I feel obliged to advise you that it may not be acceptable at all to the other side.”

“I'll tell them that, too,” Croyd said. “What's the name?”

“Also, to be completely scrupulous, I ought to tell you that if you force me to divulge the name, I have a duty to inform my client that this information has been given out, and to whom. I cannot take responsibility for any actions this might precipitate.”

“The name of my client has not been stated either.”

“As with so much else in life, we must be guided by certain suppositions.”

“Stop beating around the bush and give me the name.”

“Very well,” Latham told him. “Siu Ma.”

“Say again.”

Latham repeated the name.

“Write it down.”

He jotted the name on a pad, tore off the sheet, and handed it to Croyd.

“Oriental,” Croyd mused. “I take it this guy is head of a tong or a triad or a yakuza—one of those Asian culture clubs?”

“Not a guy.”

“A woman?”

The attorney nodded. “Can't give you a description either. She's probably short, though.”

Croyd looked fast, but he could not decide whether the residue of a smile lay upon the other's lips.

“And I'll bet she's not in the Manhattan directory either,” Croyd suggested.

“Safe bet. So I've given you what you came for. Take it home, for all the good it will do you.” He rose then, turned away from his desk, moved to a window, and stared down into traffic. “Wouldn't it be great,” he said after a time, “if there were a way for you wild card freaks to bring a class action suit against the Takisians?”

Croyd let himself out, not totally pleased with what he had let himself in for.

Croyd required a restaurant with a table within shooting distance of a pay phone. He found what he was looking for on his third try, was seated, placed his order, and hurried to make his first call. It was answered on the fourth ring.

“Vito's Italian.”

“This is Croyd Crenson. I want to talk to Theo.”

“Hold on a minute. Hey, Theo!” Then, “He's coming.”

Half a minute. A minute.

“Yeah?”

“This Theo?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell Chris Mazzucchelli that Croyd Crenson's got a name for him and needs to know where he wants to hear it.”