Stephen Leigh - Card Sharks

The jokers were the ones left, and after a day of entertaining the tourists, they mostly kicked back at the Menagerie, L.A.'s single joker bar. It was on the pier, next to the merry-go-round, and the few nats in the place were the fuzzy sweater set. That made me nervous more than anything else. The only things I liked Greek were the letters on my fraternity pin.

Flattop introduced Josh and me around, and I smiled and tried my best not to stare. The two I remember in particular were Richie, who the wild card had turned into a sort of human aquarium, and Panda Bear, who spoke bad pidgin like she was auditioning for a Charlie Chan movie. Her accent was Mexican underneath, not that I'd point it out to a lady, especially one with fangs and claws.

Josh and Flattop seemed to enjoy the beer, and I got by with soda water like I usually did. The conversation mostly went around Blythe — Flattop had told his friends about the project and they were all excited, especially with the prospect of being extras — and Hedda's latest column, where she'd called the Menagerie a "cess pit of freakishness" and said the city fathers should clear it and "all the other rubbish" off the public pier.

This went over like you'd expect it would, but you had to give it to Hedda, she was at least consistent — she'd never voiced approval for the Exotics For Democracy, even when they'd been making the cover of LIFE . And as she always pointed out, she'd disapproved of Hitler long before the war.

Sometimes I wondered whether I would have been as well disposed to wild cards if I hadn't been one. Somehow I don't think so.

Everyone swapped Hedda jokes and threw darts at her picture in the corner and there was a big laugh when Josh put on Panda's hat and got up on the table to imitate Hopper doing her "This is my town!" speech from her television show.

I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. Something had been itching me all the time I'd been in the Menagerie. How should I put this? I needed solid ground under my feet. My ace made me sensitive to the electromagnetic spectrum, and I could sense where things were: people, electrical wiring, metal, the ground. It wasn't anything really clear, not like sight or hearing. More of a prickling in the back of my neck and the hair on my arms. I was used to feeling the ground beneath me, both as a barrier and a sap to my power. It was gone, along with the clutter of metal struts and power lines, and I'd gone hypersensitive. The free ions were soaking into me like heroin into an addict.

And for the past hour, I'd felt something moving underneath me, under the pier. It moved too regularly for it to be coincidence, and it left metal behind, where there hadn't been any before.

Call me drunk or paranoid, it was probably some guys out crabbing, but I'd been twitchy around the studio with absolutely nothing happening that wasn't supposed to, and I couldn't figure out why crabbers would be hanging traps six feet above the waterline.

I dodged the few candy wrappers scudding around in the sea breeze and found a ladder leading down the side of the pier. I hesitated, wondering if I shouldn't just mind my own business, but then Flattop and Josh showed up.

"You okay, Nick?" Josh asked. "Anything bothering you?"

I had a sudden urge to tell him everything — and I mean everything — but I took a deep breath of the wind coming in off the ocean and the impulse passed. "I dunno," I said. "Just twitchy, I guess. I heard something funny under the pier."

"Probably sea lions," Flattop said. "They sleep on the crossbeams."

I knew it wasn't sea lions suspending crab traps above the water line. "Anyone care to play detective?" I didn't wait for an answer, just swung around onto the ladder and led the way down.

Josh was a little tipsy, and so was Flattop, but I was so hyped and paranoid that I didn't question the wisdom of taking a couple of drunks on a jaunt through the underpilings of a pier. As it turned out, I shouldn't have worried about Flattop anyway, since those overstretched digits of his let him climb like a monkey. Josh got by by holding onto his belt.

I don't know if you've ever been under a pier, but halfway down there's a whole network of beams and crossjoists, sturdy enough to support almost anything, though it's generally just used by the sea lions who hop up at high tide. It was low tide now, a good twelve foot drop to the water below.

I followed the prickling in my skin, avoiding the occasional sea lion, and soon heard the sound of an outboard motor. That was the main source of electricity. On one of the nearby pilings, a metallic circle gleamed in the reflected light of the water.

A boat had tied up to the pilings, and three men were busy affixing another to the tar-soaked wood with duct tape. From the size and shape, I knew exactly what it was — a film cannister.

Maybe I should remind you, since it's generally only known in Hollywood, but film used to be made with nitrocellulose. That's half of what you make dynamite with, and any blast you see in a motion picture generally comes from a few old reels and a match.

I probably don't need to tell you that, but from what happened next, all I can say is that they don't breed for brains in New York. The outboard engine had covered the sound of our arrival and the men in the boat hadn't noticed us yet, but then Josh called out as loud as he could, "Excuse me! You don't want to be doing that, do you?"

They turned around and next thing there were guns out. Flattop pulled Josh to the planks, which was lucky for him since a moment later a bullet whistled through in the space where he'd been.

That was all the time I needed. My St. Elmo's fire was up and my will-o'-wisps were out. They went straight for the guns.

Honestly, I'd only thrown shockers, not enough to kill a person, just enough to zap them unconscious, but electricity has a mind of its own and it likes metal. You run a couple hundred volts through a loaded gun, well, all I can say is you don't have a gun anymore.

You don't have a hand either, not that it mattered, since there were a couple strays, one of which went for the engine, the other for the stuff in the bottom of the boat.

The explosion would have looked good on film, if you like things like that. Bodies flew everywhere and I fell to the planks next to Josh and Flattop, struggling to pull my St. Elmo's back inside before I killed them too. Saltwater splashed over me and I felt the energy arc and sizzle.

Then there was a gurgling sound as the boat went under. In the distance, I could hear the barking and splashing as frightened sea lions jumped back into the ocean.

A moment later, everything was back to normal except for a few bubbles and bits of flaming debris on the surface of the water.

Josh was babbling something about there being too much wind, then Flattop looked at me and I almost gagged at the hero-worship in his weird eyes. "You're Will-o'-Wisp…."

I looked away. "Yeah, I guess so." The film spool taped to the piling glinted evilly, a white envelope stuck to its face, water dripping from the corners.

"Who's Will-o'-Wisp?" Josh asked.

I gritted my teeth, wishing Pete would take that note out of his voice. "Will-o'-Wisp's a hero. He's saved the lives of a lot of jokers. He's about the only one who protects us out here … but no one knows who he is."

I looked over at Flattop, now being supported by Josh. I shrugged. "I got an ace. I shocked a few people I saw beating up jokers, and no one seems to remember your face if you've got glowing eyes." I lit them up with a little foxfire for demonstration. Yd done it a few times in the mirror, and I knew that under the shadow of hat it could make you look pretty scary. More than that, it kept people from remembering my face, which is important if you're up the sleeve.