Wild Cards: Death Draws Five (38 page)

“Magazine, sir?”

The steward awoke Jerry out of his introspective haze by holding a selection of magazines before him. Business Week. Harpers. Esquire. A familiar-looking photo on the magazine a top the pile caught his eye. “Fortunato’s Incredible Return to New York,” the headlines blazed. “Famous Ace Seeks Unknown Son. Exclusive Report by Digger Downs.”

“Thanks,” Jerry said. “I’ll take this one.”

He took the brand new issue of Aces! from the pile, and settled back to read about Fortunato’s return to New York, until somewhere over Kentucky when he fell asleep and dreamed an uncomfortable dream in which he and Ray walked the streets of Branson, Missouri, searching for John Fortune, and were in turn stalked by man-sized walking zucchinis.

All Jerry could think was, Why zucchinis?

♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

In the air to Branson

Ray woke up soon somewhere over Missouri. He sat carefully unmoving for a few moments, taking stock of the parts of his body that hurt, and the parts that didn’t. Hurt came out ahead, about ten to one.

He sighed and slowly moved his seat to the upright and locked position. Regeneration had never been painless, but lately it was taking more and more out of him. It took longer and hurt harder. He wondered if some day it would take as long for him to heal from a wound as it took an ordinary man. He wondered if someday his face might not repair itself. If his kidneys and liver and heart might not return to full working order. If skin and flesh and muscle and bone might not knit together again into a raveled whole.

He glanced over at Creighton, twitching in his sleep like he was having some sort of delicious dream, slumbering like a baby, without a care or a worry. God, Ray thought, what would it be like to be a simple P.I.? Catch a few criminals, catch a few zzz’s. Compared to his life, it sounded idyllic

Creighton jerked awake a few minutes later. He glanced wildly at Ray, but seemed to calm down almost immediately when he realized where he was. For a moment it looked as if he were going to say something, but then thought better of it and remained silent. Good, Ray thought. I have enough shit of my own to worry about.

Ray sat up straight all the way down to Branson, carefully drinking his orange juice until the steward came by to collect all cups and trash. He wouldn’t have minded a good, stiff drink even if the alcohol interfered with his body’s repair work. It was, however, his iron clad policy not to mix drinking and flying. Booze coupled with unexpected turbulence was a sure recipe for disaster.

As it turned out, this flight was as smooth as a walk in the park, as was the landing. Taxi-ing to the gate was interminable, even though the Branson airport wasn’t exactly Tomlin International. Taxi-ing to the gate always annoyed Ray. He was the first to stand and rescue his carry-on from overhead storage, being careful because of course the baggage could have shifted during flight. He dragged Creighton’s bag down as well, handed it to him, and headed off the plane, Creighton half jogging to keep up.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” the P.I. asked.

Ray wasn’t sure. He was just eager to get it on, to find John Fortune and deliver him to Barnett. To finish with this nonsense and start exploring other options. He wasn’t sure just yet what they might be. Hell, he had no fucking idea. Suddenly he just wanted to finish this while his skin was relatively whole.

Was he, Ray wondered, suddenly developing a sense of caution? And if so, was that a good or bad thing?

My God, Ray thought, not introspection, too.

They stopped as they entered the terminal proper though the covered walkway. A big white banner with big block letters painted in red was strung up near their gate. “WELCOME MAGOG,” it proclaimed.

Underneath, before, and around the banner were scores of women. Women dressed in pantsuits. Women wearing sensible shoes and plain, long dresses. Women with teased hair. Women with bouffant hair. Women whose hair was like the girls’ hair at Ray’s senior prom back in Montana in the 1970’s. All had adhesive tags on their blouses that said: “Hi! My Name Is” in big letters above a white space that had names like Lurleen and Ellen Sue carefully filled in with felt-tip markers. They were all talking and embracing and standing in knots and groups and generally clogging the flow of foot traffic. Ray and Creighton stopped, stood, and stared.

“What the Hell is MAGOG?” Ray asked.

“He was like, a demon in the Bible, man,” a voice said behind them. “Or maybe a giant. I forget which.”

Ray and Creighton turned as one, stared, then looked at each other in wonderment.

“What the Hell are you doing here?” Creighton asked.

Mushroom Daddy smiled brightly. He was freshly bathed and smelled only very, very faintly of cannabis overlain by what must have been a gallon of Old Spice. He was probably wearing his best clothes, which, Ray thought, made him look like a Salvation Army reject only forty years out of date. He had on a purple silk shirt and a paisley tie and vest to match, and suede bell bottoms with vertical red and orange stripes. He made Ray’s eyes hurt.

“Well, man, I had to come to get my van, man. I called Jerry’s office and told them all about how that chick stole my van, and they told me what flight you were taking so I decided I’d better follow you guys and see about, like, getting my van back.” He looked a little hurt. “I couldn’t afford to sit up in first class, though.”

Ray closed his eyes. When he opened them there was a narrow, dangerous cast to them. “Creighton’s office told you what flight we were on?”

“That’s right, man.”

Ray shifted his gaze to the P.I. “Now, Ray—” Creighton protested.

“Hey, man,” Mushroom Daddy interrupted, “are you a P.I., too?” he asked Ray.

“No. I’m with the government,” Ray said.

Daddy pulled away. “Like, the CIA, man?”

Ray laughed. “CIA? Those pussies? They’re afraid of us, man.”

“Oh.” Daddy thought it over. “That’s okay, then.”

Ray and Creighton exchanged another glance, then shrugged.

“All right,” Creighton said. “Well, we’ll see you around... Daddy.”

Mushroom Daddy shook his head. “Uh-huh, man. I’m sticking with you guys until I get the van back.”

“I don’t think—” Creighton began, but Ray took his arm.

“Excuse us a moment,” he said to Daddy, and pulled Creighton away a few feet. “We can’t have this brain dead hippie stumbling along after us, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, and probably getting it shot off. I wouldn’t mind that so much, but he’d probably get us shot to Hell and back, too.”

“What are we going to do with him then?” Creighton asked.

Ray stood still, thinking, his lips twitching in distaste. “Bring him along for now. We can always find some pretext to dump him later. Or maybe get his ass thrown in jail for awhile.”

“That wouldn’t be fair,” Creighton said.

“Who gives a shit about being fair?” Ray asked. “I’m talking about survival.”

Creighton looked him in the eye, then glanced away. “All right. I see your point. Anyway, maybe he’ll be useful. Somehow.”

“Yeah,” Ray said. “Like tits on a bull.”

An indeterminately aged woman whose frosted blonde hair was piled atop her head like a plate of onion rings glared at him like he’d farted in church or something. Creighton went off to talk to Daddy as Ray found himself under the woman’s suspicious scrutiny. He tipped an imaginary hat to her and walked away. She harrumphed to herself as he joined Creighton and Daddy, thereby confirming her worst suspicions.

I know, Ray thought, where she’s headed. Along with all the rest of the kooks.

He sighed to himself, realizing that it was his destination, too.

♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

New York: Jokertown Clinic

“The Aces! hot line had thirty-seven calls concerning you last night,” Digger Downs told Fortunato excitedly. “Most reported that you’d come back from the dead, rising out of a manhole in front of the Jokertown Clinic to defend it against a crazed ace who was attacking it for unknown reasons. Most said that you were dressed in a white robe, had a glowing halo, and ascended back into Heaven after crushing this unknown ace with a single blow.”

“Did you bring the clothes?” Fortunato asked. His monk robes had long since gone into the hospital’s incinerator.

“Sure.” Digger paused and handed him a couple of shopping bags. “There were a hundred and seventeen calls this morning,” he went on. “You’ve been spotted all over the city, as far east as Massapequa on Long Island, north to the Catskills, and west to Binghamton.”

Fortunato stripped off his hospital robe unselfconsciously and dressed in the underwear, jeans, socks, and pullover short-sleeved shirt that Digger had bought him. “What have I been doing in all those places?” he asked the reporter.

Digger flopped on Fortunato’s unmade hospital bed and gusted a deep sigh, shaking his head. “You think of it, you did it. You stopped a mugging in Brooklyn. You made a car swerve in Monticello and miss a kitten that had wandered into the road. Your face was seen etched in the dirt of an elementary school window in the Bronx.”

Fortunato glanced at him. “What?”

Digger shrugged. “Like I said, you’ve been a busy guy.”

Fortunato sat down and put on the running shoes Digger had bought. It was the first time in ages he hadn’t worn simple woven-straw sandals. He stood and walked about in a small circle, testing them. They looked garish and bulky, but felt good on his feet.

“I did none of these things,” he said. “Well—I did kill that ace, but I didn’t mean to. Not really.” His eyes narrowed and he spoke half to himself. “There were a couple of questions I’d wanted to ask him.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Digger said. “Mean to, I mean. What we have here is a genuine phenomenon. People want to believe in something, and it looks like you may be it. You’re big news, Fortunato, and you’re only going to get bigger. Maybe the next big thing. Listen, let me interview you on Aces! Corner on Entertainment Tonight. That’ll only be the first step. Within the week, you’ll be on Larry King Live. I guarantee it.”

Fortunato shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t have time for this now. Maybe later, when things have settled down.”

Digger looked disappointed, but after a moment of reflection, nodded. “You’re right. We should let the mystery deepen. The tension build. Let the rumors swirl for awhile. Maybe a few hints in the written media, then, wham! I see a special, maybe on the E! Network.”

“Will that pay for the damage done to the Clinic?” Finn asked, suddenly appearing in the doorway of Fortunato’s room.

Fortunato turned to him. “I’m sorry about that, doctor. I really am. Perhaps I can make it up to you some day, but right now I’m checking out. I have to get going.”

Finn grabbed his arm as he went by. “I should examine you first.”

Fortunato stopped. There was a time when he would have pulled away angrily if someone laid their hands on him like that. But that time had passed. “I’m fine, doctor. You know I am.”

“Well, maybe,” Finn said. “But the police have been asking about you. I’ve been telling them that you’re hurt, under sedation—”

“All the more reason I have to go, before I get tied up in red tape.” He put his own hand on the doctor’s arm, but his touch was friendly. “I know you’ve done a lot for me, Finn. I appreciate that. I’ll do what I can to make it up to you. But right now I have to go after my son. He’s not out of danger yet.”

“Well...” Finn let his hand fall away from Fortunato’s arm. “All right. Where are you headed?”

“Branson, Missouri,” Fortunato said with a look of contemplation. He turned to Digger Downs. “Coming?” he asked.

Digger jumped up from the bed. “Sure. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Good, Fortunato thought. Because I still don’t have any money. He realized that before long he’d have to figure out a way to make some if he was going to remain in the world. He couldn’t depend on the good will of Aces! forever.

Digger joined him at the doorway and preceded Fortunato into the hallway. Fortunato paused for a moment and turned back to Finn.

“How’s Peregrine doing?” he asked.

Finn shrugged. “About as well as can be expected. Maybe even a little better. But she’s still got a long convalescence ahead of her.”

“There is something you can do for me.”

“Say goodbye for you?” Finn asked.

“How’d you know?” Fortunato said after the silence had stretched uncomfortably between them.

Finn shrugged again. “I read Tachyon’s dossier on you, remember?”

Fortunato nodded. “Yeah. I guess that the space wimp did have my number.”

He turned and left the hospital room. Finn watched him go in silence.

♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

Branson, Missouri

Sascha Starfin was waiting for them near the baggage carousel. Jerry saw him immediately once he and Ray and Mushroom Daddy had fought their way past the crowds of women wearing MAGOG buttons.

“Sascha!”

The ace turned his head towards them as Jerry shouted and waved. Sascha’s height was accentuated by his thinness and his long neck. His hair, receding at the temples, was stylishly gelled so that a roguish curl fell over his broad forehead. His teeth were white and straight, his mouth expressive. It was his most expressive feature. He had no eyes, only an unbroken expanse of skin across the sockets that should have housed them.