Wild Cards: Death Draws Five (39 page)

“Jerry, glad you made it.” He turned to Ray. “Mr. Ray. Good to see you, as well.” His eyeless face turned unerringly to Mushroom Daddy.

“Wow,” Daddy said. “Spooky, man. How’d you know I was here?”

Sascha flashed another smile. “I’m telepathic, for one thing. For another, I can smell you. I didn’t know there was a cannabis-scented variety of Old Spice.”

Ray broke in before Mushroom Daddy could reply. “Did you book rooms in the hotel I mentioned?”

Sascha nodded, though he looked dubious. “Yes. The Manger, at the Peaceable Kingdom. Isn’t that a little way out of town?”

Ray shook his head. “We’re not here to see Boxcar Willie. Believe me, we’ll be close to the action.”

“The Manger?” Jerry said doubtfully. “What kind of hotel is that?”

Ray smiled. “It’s the kind where ‘There’s Always A Room For You, Even If You’re Not The Savior.’”

“Wait a minute,” Jerry said. “The Peaceable Kingdom. Isn’t that Barnett’s religious theme park?”

“Yep,” Ray said, “we’ll discuss it later. I’ve got to check some things out.”

He hustled away through the automatic doors and into afternoon beyond, where he jumped into the first taxi in line. Sascha puckered his lips in a thoughtful moue. “Ray left precipitously, didn’t he?” the eyeless ace said. “That man has secrets.”

They followed Ray outside into the warm summer afternoon on the fringe of the Ozark Mountains. Jerry shrugged as they went up to the cab currently at the head of the line.

“He’s a spook. He probably has more secrets than a madame in a high-class cathouse. But, you’re right. He’s been helpful so far, but really, how far can you trust these government types? Keep an eye on him.”

Sascha grinned, and made an okay sign with thumb and forefinger as Jerry opened the cab door.

“Where to, gents?” the cabby asked as the three slid into the air-conditioned comfort of his back seat.

“Peaceable Kingdom, the Manger,” Jerry said in a resigned voice.

The cabby cleared his throat as he eyed them, especially Mushroom Daddy, in the rear view mirror. “I see that you gentlemen have, uh, sophisticated tastes. If you’re interested in any of the real thrilling sights, stuff the tourists generally don’t get to see, I’m your man. Real joker acts. Some real wild ones, if you know what I mean. Aces, too, sometimes, with powers that’ll blow your mind. Totally unregulated gaming,” he said, glancing in the mirror at Sascha whose wild card nature was rather obvious.

“I didn’t know there was any of that in town,” Jerry said.

“Oh, sure,” the cabby said, nearly side-swiping a white stretch limo as he snuck through a red light at the last second, shooting the limo’s driver the finger and Jerry a shark-like smile. “Not in town, of course. The town is strictly for the squares. Lennon Sisters. Pat Boone. Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. That yodeling guy. You know, Un a Paloma Blanco.”

“Boxcar Willie?” Daddy asked.

“Slim Pickens?” Sascha asked.

The cabby shook his head. “Nah. That’s not him. Anyway, the real action is outside of town. The road houses. The exotic attractions. Like the river boats out on the lake.”

“River boats on a lake?” Jerry asked.

The cabby shrugged. “Close enough for the tourists. Some places have free access to all kinds of games, even to wild carders, which I hope you don’t mind me saying kind of stand out in this place.”

“I don’t mind,” Daddy said.

“Good,” the cabby nodded. “Roulette. Craps. Slots. You just got know where to look. And know how to not get caught cheating.”

“We’ll keep that in mind.” Jerry looked out the cab window as they passed through the town. All roads from the airport, it seemed, led through Branson. That was the point of them, after all.

Compared to Vegas, Jerry thought, Branson was kind of... mediocre. There was traffic, but more pick-ups and Winnebagos than limousines. They were lights, but fewer of them, and dimmer. There were hotels and theaters, but smaller, definitely less glittery. They were stolid brick buildings, not phantasmargorical palaces of exotic sin. The names on the marquees were more pleasingly familiar than exotic. There was, Jerry noted, a dearth of topless reviews but plenty of gospel choirs. One constant, though, was common to both tourist Meccas. There were plenty of buffets.

Branson wasn’t as big as Vegas, either. A trip down the strip took less than twenty minutes, and suddenly they were out in the open country of a small peninsula jutting out into Table Rock Lake. From a distance, the Peaceable Kingdom looked pretty much like any other theme park, its skyline dominated by a high Ferris wheel, a twisting roller coaster, and some whirling, whipping, and falling down really fast rides which Jerry never really saw the point of.

The cabby pulled up in front of The Manger, which, yes, did have something of a faux Middle Eastern look about it. “Remember what I told you,” he said as they decamped with their luggage. He zoomed back into the unrelenting traffic.

“Your bag, sir?” someone said. Jerry turned to see a joker in a bellhop uniform—if you could call faux Arabic robes and headgear a uniform—reaching for his suitcase. His third arm, coming right out of the center of his chest, grabbed the bag. Handy, Jerry thought, for a bellboy. The bellboy turned to Sascha and Daddy.

“I’ve already checked in,” Sascha said.

“I’m cool, man,” Daddy said to the bellboy.

“No luggage?” Jerry asked.

“Like, why should I bring clothes, man?” Daddy laughed at the self-evident absurdity of the idea. “If I need more I can always get some.”

If? Jerry thought. Good God, he’s not staying in my room.

They went through the large revolving door and the air conditioning hit Jerry in the face like a blast of frigid wind howling down from the North Pole. The lobby was dark, cold, and crowded. The decor was hotel-lobby modern, with a twist. There was faux marble, thick carpeting, palms and other plants commonly found in that ecological niche, and comfy chairs scattered around. The twist was in the decor.

The ersatz Middle Eastern theme was continued with walls made of pseudo adobe bricks (at least Jerry hoped that they were pseudo; it rained far too often in southern Missouri for adobe to be a viable building material) and wooden beams coming out of the walls acting as false support columns. Jerry half-expected piles of straw (or maybe fake straw) strewn around the simulated flagstone flooring. The hotel staff all wore burnooses, like they were extras from The Ten Commandments. Religious art and iconography was scattered all over the walls, all with a cute, if not kitschy turn.

It was all too much to take in. To avoid having to deal with it all, Jerry went around the knots of chatting guests, many of them women wearing MAGOG welcoming tags, and marched up to the check-in counter, followed by Sascha.

“What are all these middle-aged, Midwestern types doing here?” he asked in a quiet voice as they waited behind the red velvet rope for a clerk to check him in

“This is the Mecca of Midwest tourism,” Sascha said, equally quietly as the white-haired woman ahead of them turned to stare suspiciously, caught a look at Sascha’s face then immediately turned away. “But it’s also MAGOG’s national convention, and, luckily for us, The Manger is one of the convention hotels.”

MAGOG—Mothers Against Gods Or Goddesses—was one of those grassroots organizations that had sprung up over night after some social tragedy or another, in this case a school shooting by some doped-up losers who claimed to be pagans. Jerry wasn’t sure if MAGOG had actually ever accomplished anything over the years of its existence, but they sure knew how to generate noise and publicity.

One of the check-in clerks caught Jerry’s eye and gestured him up to the counter. Sascha and Mushroom Daddy followed. It went pretty much like all big-hotel check-ins, with some fumbling around with the name the reservation had actually been made under. The clerk gave him a key, and Jerry gestured over his shoulder to Mushroom Daddy.

“Better give him one, too,” he said, instantly knowing that somehow, someway, they would regret this.

Kentucky: Somewhere on the Road

The Angel and John Fortune were somewhere on a mountain road half way through Kentucky, singing along to a song on the Canned Heat tape playing in the eight-track.

The Angel wasn’t familiar with much in the way of popular music from the past couple of decades. Her mother had frowned on most of it and wouldn’t let her play it on the radio, and they never had much money for records, though her mother had a couple that she listened to obsessively, especially if she’d been drinking. Most of the people at the churches they attended over the years considered pop music the Devil’s music, and the Angel had been pretty willing to accept their opinion.

But some of the tapes that Daddy had in his van were actually pretty good. The Canned Heat one they were listening to was fun, and oddly appropriate to their current situation. She and John Fortune had listened to “On the Road Again” over and over until they knew the lyrics by heart, at least those they could understand. They just made up their own words for the ones they couldn’t, and sang along with the driving beat. She suddenly realized, almost guiltily, that they were having fun. She tried to stop.

“My dear mother left me when I was quite young,” they sang as the Angel negotiated a sweeping downhill curve. “She said, ‘Lord have mercy upon my wicked son.’”

Appropriate. How appropriate. She could hear her life in this old song. They could have been singing about her. She glanced at John Fortune. He was smiling, enjoying the adventure that his young life had turned into. He has a good heart, the Angel thought, as well as steady courage and compassion. Yet, the passing hours that they had spent together, had shown her that he seemed more of a boy than the Savior of the world. Is it possible, she wondered, that he hasn’t yet realized who he is?

“I ain’t got no woman to call my special friend,” John Fortune sang. He smiled at her, and the Angel felt a sudden warmth on her upper right thigh. She glanced down to see his hand resting there. She could feel the heat it radiated through the leather of her jumpsuit. She looked back up at him.

“You know, Angel,” he said, “you’re really beautiful.”

She could feel herself blushing, but worse, she could feel the curse of her body betraying her again. He was only a boy—even worse, her Savior. How sinful was she if she could tempt her Savior into carnal thought? She shook her head. “I’m just a soldier in the army of My Lord,” she said, looking grimly out the windshield.

John Fortune turned as much as his seat belt allowed, to face her. “I know you’re older than me,” he said, his expression pleading, “but not by all that much. What’s a couple of years?”

“Seven,” she said, concentrating on the winding road before them.

“Seven!” John Fortune said, as if she’d just proved his point. “That’s nothing! Why, my mom’s almost that much older than my dad. And I’m mature for my age. Everyone says so. Besides, we have so much in common—”

The Angel shook her head. “John—”

“We’re aces,” he pointed out reasonably. “Both of us. And, uh, we’re good aces, too. We use our powers to help people—”

“John—”

“Unless...” John Fortune suddenly looked downcast. He frowned at her, then sighed. “You must think I’m pretty stupid to think a hottie like you doesn’t have a boyfriend already.”

The Angel glanced at him, her heart in her throat at the sound of his voice. “No, John, no. I don’t think you’re stupid at all. And... you’re right, actually. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The recuperative powers of the young put a smile on his face again. “Well, great, then. Can we go out sometime? I promise you’ll have a good time.”

The Angel’s answer was interrupted as the van’s engine suddenly coughed, sputtered, and died right there on the highway. She glanced at John Fortune, and sighed. This was too much to deal with now. Too much.

“We’ll see,” she said, “but first we have to take care of this, this breakdown, whatever it is. Then we have to get to Branson, where you’ll be safe.”

John Fortune nodded confidently. “Sure. First things first. I’m willing to wait. For you. What do you think is wrong with the van?”

They were still on the long downward glide. The Angel took her foot off the brake and let gravity do all the work.

“I have no idea,” she said. “But I hope there’s a town at the bottom of this mountain with a service station in it.”

“Sure there is,” John Fortune said. He leaned forward and punched the Canned Heat tape out of the eight-track. “Let’s listen to this one again.”

He put “Surrealistic Pillow” in the tape machine and “Somebody to Love” blared forth.

“I like this,” John Fortune said. “You know, the chick singing sounds like that one who did that old song. You know?”

The Angel shook her head.

“‘They Built This City On Rock And Roll.’ Think it’s her?” John Fortune asked.

The Angel shook her head again.

“I have no idea,” she said, guiding the van down the mountain like a toboggan down a snowless hillside.

♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

Peaceable Kingdom: The Angels’ Bower

Though Ray hadn’t exactly lied to Creighton, he had let him and Ackroyd both make unwarranted assumptions that he didn’t want to explain at this time. With Sascha on the scene, he decided he’d better split before the eyeless ace picked something awkward out of his mind. He had to report to Barnett anyway, and see exactly what the Hell was going on with Angel and the kid.