Blackjack Page 17

  Cross held Tiger tenderly. As they kissed, his right hand dropped to Tiger’s prominent butt. Every eye in the room followed that hand, not the one hidden under Tiger’s thick, striped mane.

  “I didn’t think that would work,” she said, speaking very softly.

  “It was a mortal lock,” Cross assured her. “There’s a little scrap of paper under the back neckline of your sweater now. There’s four names on it. They all need to have their cases reversed on appeal.”

  “So long as they didn’t—”

  “Four cases, three homicides, one rape. No kids, no drugs. And all innocent.”

  “That’s still asking a lot. I don’t mean from me—you know how they work.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I do. But unless they handle this job, who’re they going to debrief?”

  “They don’t need more than—”

  “Yeah, they do. I think I’ve finally got this one figured out. And they’ll need all of those guys on the list to have it make sense. Polygraph them, hit them with the truth serum, whatever they want. Maybe this time they’ll go back and actually investigate. They’ll see it for themselves.”

  “So you say.”

  Cross leaned in toward Tiger, his lips feather-touching her ear. “They didn’t attack any of us—they … it … whatever it was, it only fought back in self-defense.”

  “They didn’t hit me or Tracker, either. Percy’s missing, but that could mean anything.”

  “Come back here and listen, okay? What I’m telling you is just between us. For now.”

  Tiger wiggled herself close, threw her left thigh over Cross’s right. “How’s this?”

  “Very fine.”

  “Don’t play games,” Tiger warned him. “You think I had an orgasm when you grabbed my ass?”

  “I came pretty damn close.”

  “Just stop! Why didn’t they attack any of you?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, they kind of did. But what I do know is that they could have finished us if they wanted—we were all running on empty, blood included. So they’re not kill-crazy; they were on a mission. It’s got something to do with crime, but only certain kinds of crime.”

  “How can—?”

  “Sssh! Just listen. It’s like they’re thinning the herd. Culling out the scum. You check the sheets of the men they slaughtered, I’ll bet you find something in common.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. But it feels like … it feels like they’re trying to … yeah, I know how this is gonna sound … like they’re trying to take out the humans who’re polluting their own race.”

  “But they’re not—”

  “Maybe not. But they kill humans, right? That’s the race I’m talking about. We—humans, I’m saying—we’re never satisfied with just killing each other, are we? No, we rape, we torture … we march people into gas chambers a lot bigger than the one we tried to trap it in. There’s nothing you can do to a human being that hasn’t been done. By other humans.

  “That … shadow or whatever it was … it’s like it was playing a game of blackjack. Only ‘hit’ doesn’t mean ‘hit me’—it means ‘hit them.’ ”

  “They can read the cards every person’s holding?”

  “Maybe it is something like that. The closest I can get to what I’m trying to say is … remember, when the Nazis marched people into the gas chambers, it wasn’t just Jews. Homosexuals, Gypsies … it would have been everyone on the planet but themselves. And even that wouldn’t have lasted.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t. That’s the political part, not the … genetic, I guess. There’s only one way to keep blood ‘pure.’ Inbreeding. And we know what happens in these families where incest covers too many generations. There’s records going all the way back to Sawney Bean. And that’s just written records. It might take us a while, but, eventually, the human race was going to rot from the inside out.”

  “I … I can see that. But the Nazis didn’t succeed.”

  Cross took Tiger’s hand in his. She made no move to pull away.

  “Tiger, if you want to file this under ‘Lunatic,’ that’s up to you. But what my mind keeps seeing is that smoke. The smoke from their ovens. That gray, shadowy smoke.

  “What if, every time human slaughter ever occurred in the history of the world, there was more of that smoke? What if the smoke had … I don’t know … something of the slaughtered people in it? What if it became a thing of its own?”

  “I’m not telling those junior G-men any story like that.”

  “I don’t want you to. I’m not telling them myself. I’ll just feed them enough to send them alien-hunting.”

  “This … theory of yours, you want to keep it to yourself?”

  “No, girl. If I’m wrong, we all go back to our lives, whatever they were before this. But if I’m right … I don’t know how to say this, exactly. You know who I am; you know what I do. I’m not one of the good guys, and that was my choice.

  “But if a hard rain’s coming—if the filth is being washed out of our race—then, whoever they are, this is one job I want them to pull off.”

  Tiger looked deeply into Cross’s eyes for a long moment. “Me, too,” she finally said. “And when you get out, we have things to say to each other.”

  “How do I find you?”

  “You just keep on working out of that Red 71 dump of yours, Mr. Cross. I’ll find you.”

  AS TIGER spoke, the graffiti-style red arrow leading to the basement poolroom began to work its way downstairs, looking much like an MRI of a boa constrictor swallowing its prey. In a language no human could understand, spoken at a pitch outside of human hearing range:

  “Find you …”

  And, just as nobody hears those words, nobody hears:

  “Stay!”

  And nobody sees the quick flash of a river of aces and jacks spilling out of the bottom arrow, as if sprayed from the hose of a short, squat container of pesticide.

  EPILOGUE

  FOUR YEARS later …

  “HEY, BUDDHA, you seen Princess?” Rhino asked, his nearly five-hundred-pound body visually enlarged by the gray jumpsuit he habitually wore. The overall effect was to make the back door of the poolroom behind him seem nonexistent. “He didn’t come back to the spot last night.”

  “Maybe he got lucky,” the short, pudgy man offered, glancing up from a white sheet of oilskin he had spread out on a desk made from a solid-core door positioned over a pair of sawhorses. On the cloth he had arranged various parts of an automatic pistol next to a micro-tool kit any surgeon would have envied. For illumination, three parallel tubes of the sunlight-replicator used to treat seasonal affective disorder hung overhead. “Even a full-bore maniac like him has to score once in a while. Law of averages.”

  “What’s your problem with Princess anyway?” the giant demanded. “He doesn’t mean any harm—you know that.”

  “He’s like a little kid, Rhino,” the pudgy man said, in a “How many times do I have to say it?” tone. “A little kid, playing games. I’m a professional—so are you. Fact is, I can’t figure out why Cross puts up with—”

  “You want to know, why don’t you ask him?” the giant responded. His voice was an incongruous high-pitched squeak, but to those who knew him, no less threatening than the grunting of a flotilla of angry alligators.

  “Take it easy,” Buddha said hastily. “What’re you so worried about? This can’t be the first time Princess didn’t show.”

  “Yeah, it is,” the huge man replied. “At least, he always left word.”

  “Hey, he’s a grown man,” Buddha said, suddenly turning gentle as he saw the genuine anxiety on his partner’s face.

  “No,” Rhino replied, shaking his head sadly, “you’re right—he’s a big kid.” The giant glanced quickly around the room. “Cross around somewhere?”

  “He’s always around somewhere,” Buddha said, not a hint of interest in his voice. “Either he’s up on the roof playing with those stupid
birds of his, or else he’s down at the Double-X checking out the new shipment.”

  “I’ll go look,” Rhino said. “Maybe he—”

  “You’re on duty, right?” Buddha told him, his voice softening again. “What if someone comes around? Me, I’m not doing nothing—just modifying the counter-balance on this piece. Let me go see if I can scare him up.”

  “Thanks, Buddha,” Rhino said gratefully, a lower-register note of surprise in his usual squeak. He backed out the door and took up his post again.

  Buddha quickly reassembled the pistol, slipped it into a shoulder holster, buttoned his charcoal-dyed field jacket, and exited through another door.

  BUDDHA TOOK the back staircase, then used a key to open a heavily braced steel door. The floors he passed had all been empty, as expected.

  He made his way to the roof, musing that being the registered owner of several pieces of property didn’t amount to an actual cash flow … as his wife constantly reminded him.

  “You need make more money!” was her endless refrain, as if her shrill voice was on some permanent loop of unbreakable tape.

  “How much more damn money could you possibly spend, So Long?” was Buddha’s tired retort, memorized from constant repetition.

  “You watch,” she would say.

  And proceed to prove her point. Again and again.

  I don’t know why I do it, Buddha thought to himself. Meaning, why go home at all? He was no stranger to shrewish women, but So Long made them all look like geishas. He could just walk away, find another place to sleep.

  I can just hear Cross now, Buddha thought. She knows too much. He knew the gang leader’s solution to any such potential problem would be a lethal one.

  So what do I care?

  Buddha could never answer that question, despite endless attempts. Introspection wasn’t one of his skills.

  BUDDHA OPENED the door to the roof and stepped out gingerly. He scanned the terrain, his eyes sweeping over a lengthy wooden box that looked as if it had been carelessly discarded. He moved carefully, approaching the box the same way he had walked jungle trails years ago, always alert for trip wires.

  A bird’s head popped up from the center of the box, its yellow-orange eyes gleaming with malevolence. “Don’t get all excited,” Buddha said softly. “I’m not messing with you—I’m just looking for Cross.”

  The bird’s eyes tracked Buddha’s every movement. It fluttered its wings briefly, as though considering flight. Buddha registered the flash of blue on the wings, confirming this was the male of the mated pair of kestrels that Cross maintained on the roof. Kestrels are small birds, less than a foot in total length, even including their long, stabilizing tail feathers, but they are fierce, relentless dive-bombers.

  Much larger birds run for cover when a kestrel’s shadow darkens the sky. The hunter-killers are blessed with incredible eyesight, awesome dive-speed, and deadly accuracy—the “one shot, one kill” snipers of the avian world.

  Satisfied that Cross wasn’t on the roof, Buddha carefully backed up until he was on the stairs. He gently closed the overhead hatch after him.

  THE LIVE GIRLS! sign on the Double-X flashed its blood-red neon against blacked-out window glass. Buddha opened the door, grateful for the sudden blast of air conditioning.

  The doorman greeted Buddha by nodding his head a couple of inches. He knew better than to demand the cover charge—Buddha was the nominal owner of the joint. “We need a place where we can meet with people—a place we can control,” Cross had argued.

  “You got a thing for pole dancers, that’s your problem,” Buddha had responded. “How come we gotta chip in?”

  “It could be a real moneymaker,” Cross said.

  “I don’t know anything about running a strip joint,” Rhino squeaked. “I’d rather do what we do. What we all do.”

  “I can get someone to run it,” Cross said, thoughtfully. “Tell you what … if it’s not making money in six months, I’ll buy out all your shares. Deal?”

  Cross then turned to the rest of the crew, opening his hands at his sides to indicate he was ready to listen if anyone else had objections.

  Ace pointed a finger at Cross, then at himself. He didn’t need to say more—the two men had been partners since they were kids. Children too young for prison, but old enough to be incarcerated in one of the “training schools” that made Illinois nationally infamous.

  “Come on, Rhino. It’d be fun,” Princess had begged.

  The giant reluctantly agreed, shaking his head at what he was sure was his own stupidity.

  But after a rocky start, the joint was coining money. It always attracted the best girls, but not necessarily the most accommodating ones; its furnishings were decent, but hardly worthy of a sultan; and its cover charge was a ridiculously high fifty bucks. But what the club did have was some features not offered anywhere else in Chicago.

  Word got around fast—if you danced at the Double-X, you never had to worry about the patrons getting out of hand. You didn’t have to put out for the “manager,” and if you didn’t want to turn tricks—just strip and “dance”—that was okay, too.

  Best of all, if you were having trouble with your boyfriend, the club instantly transformed itself into the world’s only domestic-violence shelter for strippers.

  “He started it!” Princess once said, explaining to the others why he had fatally fractured the skull of a low-level pimp who had slapped his one-girl stable. “He slapped Marisa, so I just slapped him back.”

  The pimp had noted Princess’s hyper-muscled body—it was impossible to ignore—but had overlooked the physique because of its packaging: Princess had been wearing his usual rouge, eyeliner, and lipstick, highlighting his chartreuse tank top. In fact, he had been discussing makeup complexities with two of the dancers when the pimp had just walked into the dressing room.

  Why Princess dressed so outrageously—and camped it up at every opportunity—was known only to a few. In his deranged mind, he could only act when another individual “started it.” This brain-wave malfunction developed from his teen years, spent as a cage fighter in the headquarters of a Central American drug lord. Because he had been taken as a child, and fought so viciously that even his captors had been impressed, he was trained as a modern-day gladiator. After that training, he was kept for the amusement of those who enjoyed watching two men go at each other like bull elephants in mating season.

  But Princess never wanted to fight—he wanted to make friends. Each and every time his opponent was led into the cage, Princess would ask if they couldn’t be friends instead of fighting. When his offer was sneered at—and followed by an attack of some kind—Princess absorbed disappointment after disappointment until his mind finally developed the “He started it!” implant.

  After he was pulled from the jungle by Rhino—who never explained why, and was never asked—Princess quickly realized that getting into fights was a lot more difficult when his opponent actually had a choice. Thus, the outrageously overdone presentation evolved. Another thing Princess had learned was that far too many tough guys actually believed homosexuals wouldn’t fight.

  The other man—or men; it made no difference to the muscle-armored terror—had to “start it.” But once that fuse was lit, Princess could pull any adversary apart as easily as a loaf of fresh-baked bread.

  RHINO ALSO worked the floor sporadically—protecting his investment, he claimed. But it was an open secret that he stayed close in case Princess’s protective instincts went too far.

  Bruno, the man who worked the door, had a reputation of his own. He was a notorious life-taker who’d already served two terms: one for grievous bodily harm, the other for manslaughter. But compared with the Rhino-Princess combo, he was considered a mild-mannered gentleman.

  None of the girls were paid for working the club. They rented “stage time” from the management, split their nightly take, and got to keep all their “tips.” The cover charge and the insanely priced champagne and cigars kept ma
nagement deeply in the black, to say nothing of its piece of any “special services” the girls chose to provide in the VIP Room.

  As in all upscale strip clubs, the booze and cigars were a major source of untaxed revenue. The bartender was a short, thick-set Mexican, improbably known as “Gringo.” An exboxer, he was still quick with his hands. He was quicker still with the .357 Magnum he kept under the bar, as two would-be holdup men had discovered the year before. The club’s basement didn’t just store stock, it doubled as a body-disposal system.

  Everybody knew the deal: You get to the Double-X any way you can, and at your own risk. But once inside its parking area, you were as safe as in church. Safer, if the stories about the local archdiocese were to be believed.

  BUDDHA FOUND Cross at his private table that had been built into a triangulated corner of the joint. The unremarkable-looking man was watching a naked redhead table-dance for three guys in business suits, his face as expressionless as usual.

  “What’s happening, boss?”

  “No incoming, either direction,” Cross replied. “No business, no hostiles.”

  “Rhino says Princess hasn’t been around. He’s worried out of his mind about that looney-tune—wanted to speak to you. He’s on duty, so I volunteered. Uh … you seen him around anywhere?”

  “No,” Cross said, stubbing out a cigarette in a black glass ashtray. The smoky light in the bar was just bright enough to illuminate the bull’s-eye tattoo on the back of his hand.

  “Yeah. Well, that guy’s a stone head-case anyway. I mean, I don’t see why you—”

  “That’s enough, Buddha. Princess is one of us. And that means”—Cross paused to look directly at the pudgy man—“he brought some baggage with him when he signed on. But he’s stand-up to the max. Everybody in this crew has a reason to be here, right? The same reason.”

  “Right,” Buddha admitted, as Do you hate them? Do you hate them all? flashed across the screen of his mind. “But he’s been with us for years and we still don’t know his MOS?”