Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel (50 page)

Stuntman laughed. It wasn’t a friendly laugh. “You know, I used to wonder if the rube thing was just an act. I’ll never wonder again.”

Detective Black shot another sharp look at Stuntman. “Please continue.”

“No, wait,” said Stuntman, struggling to get the laughter under control. “Let me make sure I get this down.” He clicked the pen again and jotted something in his notebook. “Crossword puzzles. Genius.”

“Zip it,” Detective Black snapped. He turned back to Wally. “Keep going, Mr. Gunderson.”

Wally did. When he got to the part about the botched kidnapping, the detective sighed. He said, “Big gray guy? Covered in stone? Fists like boulders?”

“Yep.”

“Ranting and raving?”

“Uh huh.”

The detective ran a hand over his face. To Stuntman, he said, “That wasn’t a kidnapper. That’s Croyd Crenson.”

Stuntman stood. He and the detective conferred in the corner, whispering. Wally caught the words “sleeper” and “Takisian.” Stuntman came back a moment later, and sat with a sigh of disgust. He glared at Wally, shaking his head. Finally, he said, “I swear to God. You make hammers look smart.”

Wally said, “Well, I don’t know about this Croyd fella, but he sure seemed suspicious to me.”

“Of course he did,” said the detective. “He’s blitzed out of his mind on speed.” He shook Wally’s hand again. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Gunderson, and please leave the police work to the police. You could get hurt.” He walked out, muttering, “Paranoid delusions, fists like sledgehammers, and now he’s blaming
me
. Wonderful…”

Stuntman closed his notebook, and threaded the pen through the spirals. “Thanks for wasting our time.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“That is a question.”

“I was just wondering if you ever get tired of always blaming other people when things don’t go the way you want. I mean, that must be a pretty lonely way to live.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I turned my short turn with celebrity into a good career.” Stuntman spoke with a hollow pride that didn’t touch his eyes. He still looked tired. “I was smart about it.”

“I dunno. You still seem like a pretty angry guy.”

“Holy shit. Did you just call me an angry black man? You, of all people?”

“No, I think you’re a mean person who is also black.” Wally remembered a conversation he’d had with Jerusha. It seemed like yesterday. They were piloting a boat down a river in Congo, and talking about their time on
American Hero,
which even then had seemed like a jillion years ago.

I didn’t say that stuff.

I know, Wally. Everybody knows it.

“You never fooled anybody,” said Wally.

Stuntman made another show of checking his watch. He yawned. “Let me know when you get near a point.”

Wally thought about that. What was his point? He hadn’t thought he had one; he was just curious, because it seemed like a crummy way to live. But then he realized maybe he did have something to say. “If you hadn’t done what you did all those years ago, my life would be a lot different. Actually, maybe lots of lives would be different. Because of you I went to Egypt, and then so did some other folks, and that’s how the Committee was formed. And then I got to know Jerusha and I met Ghost and now I’m adopting a kid and everything. I miss a lot of folks—” Wally struggled to force the words past the lump that always congealed in his throat when he thought about Jerusha. He thought about Darcy, too. “—And it hasn’t fixed everything for everybody. But, I dunno, I think maybe my life would be a lot lonelier if not for you. So, thank you.”

Stuntman stared at him as if he’d just grown another head. He stood. “We’re finished here.” He left without another word.

“You know what?” Wally called after him. “You’re still a knucklehead.”

“Gosh,” said Wally to nobody in particular in his loudest speaking voice, “those joker kidnappings sure do worry me. I hope those cage match guys don’t decide to make me fight because I’m so strong. I have a kid at home.”

He pitched his voice so that it carried over the music; past the rotating stage where a bored-looking lady covered in goldfish scales half danced, half strutted around a fireman’s pole; and even into the darkened corners where ladies danced privately for solitary drinkers.

Early afternoon at Freaker’s was one of the most depressing things he’d ever witnessed in Jokertown. Nobody here looked particularly happy.

The bartender, a man with tattoos covering both his arms and most of his neck, wrapped a dirty dishtowel around the lid of a jar of pickled pearl onions. The tattoos shifted as he heaved on the jar.

“Do you need help with that? I’m pretty strong.” Wally studied the room from the corners of his eyes, adding, “Strong enough to be a wrestler or something, probably.”

He gave Wally a Look. “Thanks, tough guy. I’ll manage.” The jar lid came loose with a wet sucking sound. Wally caught a whiff of vinegar.

“Can I have another beer please?” And then, to cover up the “please” he added, “I don’t know how many I’ve had.”

That wasn’t true. He’d nursed that first bottle for an hour and a half. But he wanted the kidnappers to think he’d be easy to grab. He didn’t like to drink alone. But it was important to blend in. All part of being a detective. Still, it was embarrassing, picking up Ghost from school with beer on his breath. Even worse when it was beer from a place where ladies took their clothes off. He was glad his mom and dad couldn’t see him now.

“Yeah,” said the bartender. “That higher math is hard.”

The bartender set another bottle in front of him. The crinkled edge of the bottle cap made a screeching sound against the pad of Wally’s thumb as he flicked it off. The cap tinkled on the bar. The bottle foamed up.

One of the dancers sidled next to him. She leaned on the bar. She had a feline face, and wore a bikini that didn’t cover very much.

“Neat trick,” she said.

“Oh, sure. I do that lots. It didn’t hurt or anything—” He looked around the room again to see if anybody was listening, which is how he noticed she had more lady parts than he assumed was normal. The rest came out in an embarrassed cough: “—Because my skin is so tough.”

The dancer purred.
“Really?”

She ran a finger down his arm; the purring got louder. “Tell me. Is your skin this hard all over?”

“Well, yeah. It’s—” And then he realized she was doing that thing where somebody appeared to be talking about one thing but was actually talking about a totally different thing. Wally blushed so furiously that it actually hurt his face. She watched him, waiting for an answer, but he focused all of his attention on his beer. He took a swig, clutching the bottle so hard that it cracked. The dancer sighed, rolled her eyes at the bartender, and walked away.

The beer ran over his fingers. He flicked them dry, earning a dirty look from the guy sitting a couple barstools down. Wally hadn’t seen him come up to the bar. Now his shirt was stippled with dark spots where flecks of foam had soaked into the fabric. Great.

“Oops. Sorry about that, fella.”

The guy glared at him with huge iridescent eyes like those of a housefly.

Wally said, “Here, I’ll buy your next one.”

The other guy shrugged. “Won’t argue with that.” He took a stool closer to Wally. Wally caught the bartender’s eye and put another bottle on his tab. The dancer lady returned not long after that.

It was a long, embarrassing afternoon, and by the end of it Wally was no closer to finding the fight club.

Somebody knocked on their door just as Ghost was nodding off for the night. Wally placed the Dr. Seuss book he’d been reading to her on the bedside table next to the sippy cup of water, tiptoed to the door, and turned off the light. Another knock came while he stood just outside Ghost’s bedroom, listening for the long slow breaths that told him she’d fallen into true sleep. Only when he was certain she’d stay asleep did he go to answer the door.

Darcy stood in the hallway. He didn’t recognize her right away because she wasn’t dressed like a police officer.

“Cripes,” he said. “I mean, howdy.”

She shrugged, more to herself than to him. She said, “Do you have a minute?”

Wally beckoned her inside. “I just put Ghost to bed,” he said in a half whisper, “but we can talk in the kitchen.”

Darcy shook her head. “I’m sort of in a hurry here.” Wally paused. She said, in a rush, “I think I’ve found the fight club kidnappers. Do you want to come and help me catch them?”

Wally straightened up so quickly he nearly ripped the doorknob off the door. “Holy smokes, yes!”

It took another half hour before they were under way, and Darcy fidgeted the entire time. First, he had to put Ghost back to sleep, and then he had to go across the hall to speak with Miss Holmes. Wally didn’t know what he would have done without her willingness to watch over Ghost. He made a mental note to buy her a cake or maybe cook a casserole for her to say thank you. He wondered if she liked eating Tater Tots. He knew a good recipe for Tater Tot casserole.

But eventually he and Darcy were under way. They took his car. She directed him west, to the very edge of Manhattan.

“How’d you find these guys?” he asked.

“I’ve been spending my off hours reviewing footage from traffic cameras.”

“Gosh. I didn’t even know that was a thing.”

“It is a thing. But it took about two hundred hours before I found a pattern.”

Holy cow. Two hundred hours? That was … Wally tried to do the math in his head, but he couldn’t do that and drive at the same time. Anyway, it was a
lot
of days.

“Wow,” he said. “That’s pretty neat.”

“It wasn’t as fun as it sounds,” she said. But she sat a little straighter, puffed up by the fact of his amazement. “You have no idea how many vans drive through this borough every day. But only one that can disappear and reappear. Turn here.”

He did, saying, “I’m real happy to lend a hand. But I thought you weren’t real keen on my acting like a detective. You had the fancy word for it. Vigil-something.”

“Vigilantism.” Darcy sighed. “Yeah. Well, once I uncovered a possible lead on the van, I realized I had two problems. I knew I needed help. But maybe you remember what my colleagues said a few days ago: ‘If you see them, call the real cops.’ If I tell anybody about this, I’ll get shoved aside, and if it turns up anything useful they’ll forget I was ever involved.” She practically vibrated with irritation. “The second problem is that this place we’re approaching is, technically, outside of my precinct’s jurisdiction. The right way to do this would be for me to notify Detective Black, but that would kill hours because he insists on doing everything by the book.” Wally remembered the detective. He seemed pretty nice, all things considered. Darcy continued, “Franny would contact the other precinct, and explain the situation, and then they’d have to come to some agreement. And maybe the captains would have to talk. They’d have to do some handshake deal to let us come in and do a bust inside their precinct, or more likely they’d insist on having their own guys do it. But you can imagine how much enthusiasm this case receives outside of Jokertown. Missing jokers? Ha.”