George Martin - Dead Mans Hand

"Everyone's looking for Elmo," Sascha complained. He looked like shit, Jay thought, except that he'd never seen shit look as pale and sweaty and trembly as Sascha looked right now. "Well, I don't know where he is. He went off to run an errand and he didn't come back." Sascha giggled. It was a thin, high, frightening sound, on the edge of hysteria. "The dwarf who never returned, that's Elmo. Good for him. They'll hang him for it, you know. Wait and see. He's only a joker."

Jay couldn't find one of his socks. He shoved the other one in a pocket and sat on the edge of the couch to lace up his shoes. The couch was new, expensive, upholstered in plush wine-colored velvet. Jay gave the apartment a good once-over, really seeing it for the first time. The floors were covered by deep-pile wall-to-wall carpeting, as white as snow. On the far side of the pass-through was a modern kitchen where rows of copper-bottomed pots hung between a towering bronze refrigerator-freezer and a microwave that could double as a hangar for small planes. The living room was full of weird but expensive-looking primitive art that Jay figured must be Haitian. Elaborate painted symbols covered the walls. Off to his left, the loft had been subdivided into a maze of smaller rooms; it looked like there could be five or six bedrooms back there.'

"What is this place?" Jay said, a little baled.

"It's a place you don't belong," Sascha said. "Why don't you just leave me alone?"

"I will. As soon as you've answered a few questions." That made Sascha furious. "No!" he shouted. "Now. I told you, I can't wait, damn it, you get out of here, I need the kiss, I don't want you here, I don't want you bothering me." Jay had never seen Sascha this way. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked. "Sascha, are you hooked on something?"

Sascha's rage suddenly changed to giggles again. "Oh, yes," he said. "Kisses, oh, kisses sweeter than wine."

Jay stood up, frowning. "Kisses," he repeated sourly. Ezili was real good in bed, but if this is what a long-term relationship with her did to you, he'd settle for a one-night stand. "Sascha, I don't give a damn about your love life, I just need to find Elmo. He knows me well enough to know I wont turn him in. I just want to talk. He might know something that could help me figure out who killed Chrysalis."

Sascha stroked his little pencil-thin mustache in a motion that was almost furtive. "But we know who killed her, don't we? He left his calling card, didn't he? Yes, I see you remember, I can see the picture in your head right now"

It made Jay feel a little creepy to have Sascha fooling around in his mind. "Someone dropped an ace of spades on the body," he said, "but I'm not convinced it was Yeoman, he-"

"It was him!" Sascha interrupted. He surged to his feet angrily. "Yeoman! That's who it was! There's your murderer, Popinjay, oh yes. He's back in town. I just saw him."

Jay was unsure. "You saw him?"

Sascha nodded rapidly. "Out at Brighton Beach. My mother's place. He came looking for me. He's after Elmo, too."

"Why?" Jay demanded. "Why would he kill Chrysalis?" Sascha looked around the room, as if to make sure that no one else was listening, then leaned forward and whispered, "she knew his real name." He giggled. "Would you like to hear it? If I tell you, will you go away and leave me alone?"

"You know it, too?"

Sascha nodded eagerly. "She never said it aloud, but sometimes she thought it. I picked it right out of her mind one day. If Yeoman knew, he'd kill me, too. Do you want it?"

"Tell me," Jay said.

"You promise you'll go away? You won't bother me anymore? You won't pry into my affairs?"

"I promise," Jay said impatiently.

"Daniel Brennan," Sascha said. "Now get out."

Jay looked back once on the way out as he pulled the door of the apartment shut behind him. Sascha was kneeling by the bedroom door, eyeless face pressed up against the wood, pleading for a kiss.

Chickadee's was located in the heart of the Bowery. Its exterior was plain, almost severe, greystone, with no sign, canopy, or doorman to announce its existence. Chickadee's didn't have to advertise. Word of mouth was enough.

Brennan went up the steps empty-handed, having stashed his bow case in a rental locker, and was met in the bordello's anteroom by a joker with the approximate size and musculature of a male gorilla. The joker gave him the once-over, and sniffed, a little put off by Brennan's jeans and T-shirt. Nevertheless he open the antechamber's inner door, leading, as Chickadee's thousands of satisfied customers thought, to paradise.

Twelve-Finger Jake was playing the piano in the corner of the greeting parlor, pounding out the complicated chords of the super-syncopated music he called j jazz joker jazz that took all twelve of his fingers to play properly. Johns, dressed mostly in expensive-looking three-piece suits, were sitting on the parlor's comfortable chairs and sofas, drinking and chatting with the girls. The women of the house ran the gamut of races and colors. All were beautiful, but since this was Jokertown some of them had decidedly unusual attributes.

A nat hostess met Brennan at the door. At least she looked like a nat, and the garter belt, nylons, and high heels she wore could have done very little to conceal joker deformities. It was true, though, that some of the girls at Chickadee's were different in very subtle ways.

"Hello, Joe," she said. "I'm Lori. Want to party?" Brennan smiled. "I'm looking for a man," he began. "Wrong place, Joe. We got all kinds of girls-white ones, black ones, brown ones, ones like you never seen before, but if you want a man-"

"A friend, I mean," Brennan added hastily. "Lazy Dragon-"

"Oh." Lori nodded. She linked arms with Brennan and drew him toward her. Her sleek hip pressed against Brennan's, her long, lean silk-covered thigh brushed against his as they walked.' "I should have guessed with the mask and all. Marilyn Monroe, right? She's one of my favorites. I'll take you up myself. I can use another taste."

"Sure."

Brennan followed, somewhat mystified, but satisfied that his minimal disguise was doing its job. They went through the parlor area, raucous with the j -jazz flowing from Twelve Finger Jake's nimble digits and the chatter of thirty girls and fifty prospective johns, up a flight of stairs, and down a corridor ending in closed double doors guarded by a couple of Werewolves wearing Mae West masks identical to Brennan's.

"What's up?" one of them asked as Brennan and the girl approached. Brennan nodded. "Relief. Let me check in with Dragon."

"Just one of you? Who gets off?"

Brennan shrugged. "Not my decision."

The Werewolf grunted, stood aside, and Brennan and Lori went through the doors.

Inside was a large room decorated with the exuberantly lavish taste one might expect in an establishment like Chickadee's. Half the walls were wallpapered in a silver-and-gold paisley pattern, the other half were mirrored, making the room seem much bigger than it really was. The overstuffed couches and fat hassocks scattered about the room were all occupied by house girls and men wearing suits that were as tasteful as the wallpaper.

A naked girl was lying languorously on one of the couches with lines of what looked like cocaine laid out on her body between and over her ample breasts, up her sleek legs, and converging at the juncture of her thighs. Three men were taking turns snorting lines leading to their favorite body parts. Other girls wearing mostly makeup were circulating with trays with drinks and little silver bowls filled with powders or pills of various sorts.

Lori said, "See you later, hon," and moved off into the drift.

Lazy Dragon was sitting in a corner of the room, sipping a drink from a long-stemmed glass. As Brennan watched he virtuously turned down a bowl of white powder offered him by a sleek black woman whose body was covered by fluffy feathers.