“Stripping women. I think a competent D.A. can make the argument that’s almost rape.”
The kid went white at the R word. “I didn’t … it’s not … you’re full of it.”
“Maybe my partner is exaggerating, but only a little,” I said. “You’re in a lot of trouble.”
“I know my rights. I don’t have to say anything.”
“Oh, goody, now I can make up any story I want, and sell it to the D.A.,” Bill said.
“You can’t do that!” The kid’s eyes shifted nervously to me. “Can he?”
“Sure he can, and you won’t have said anything to counter his version of things,” I said, though it pained me to do so. “Look, talk to us. Tell us why you did it. The D.A.’s reasonable. If you just discovered your power maybe you were having trouble controlling it.”
It was the wrong thing to say. It struck at the core of his fragile teenage ego. His face went red, then white, the pimples livid against his skin. “I’ve had my power for three years. I tried out for American Hero. I’m not just some dumb kid. They said I was too young, but they took that stupid girl and her stuffed dragon! I’m an ACE!” And then he blew a kiss at me, and I was sitting there buck naked.
Bill gave a thoughtful nod. “And a one-trick pony. I can see why they didn’t take you. Tough power to put on television.” He said all this while I was holding my file in front of my package, and Bill’s behind my ass, shuffling for the door.
I exited to gales of laughter from my coworkers.
♥
The following week Bill and I got moved to the swing shift. Night in Jokertown was a whole new experience. On the Bowery neon ruled, garish as the Las Vegas Strip. Off the main streets darkness ruled.
Even though I had moved into the neighborhood a few days before I started work, I hadn’t gone out much. Too busy getting settled. After I started work I hadn’t gone out much because I’d been too damn tired. And when I did feel like going out I was probably going to head to the Village or Little Italy. A singles bar in Jokertown didn’t look like a real good prospect for a nat like me. And in the privacy of my own head I could at least be honest with myself—I wasn’t going to date a joker.
At night the crimes were darker too. The bar fights more vicious. Armed robberies often became assaults. We found some bodies too, victims of the increasingly vicious turf war between the Demon Princes and the Werewolves, and I was proud of myself because I didn’t lose my dinner over any of them.
This night the heat lay on the city like a suffocating blanket. A hulking figure wrapped in a voluminous cloak shuffled out of an alley. My hand closed reflexively on the butt of my pistol.
Bill laid a hand over mine. “Relax. It’s the Oddity. They’re on our side—sort of.”
I had been on the job for a week and was starting to feel like a bit of a pro. “I know, I’ve heard about him. Bugeye, Puff, and Tabby seem to think he’s … she’s … it’s … a good guy.”
“I take it you don’t agree,” Bill said in a neutral tone.
“The rule of law is essential to an advanced society. You abandon that, and no one is safe because there’s no certainty. The government can seize your person or your property, gangs threaten you and your only recourse is to form or hire your own gang—”
“Aren’t we just another gang, bigger, better armed … maybe, but still a gang?”
“No. We try to adhere to a set of standards that protect people from the overwhelming power of the state. They have recourse when we act like thugs. They have none from a person like him … her.” I gestured at the figure now vanishing into another alley.
“Yep, you’re going to end up at One Police Plaza, Franny,” Bill said.
“Frank. It’s Fra—” I started to say when I was interrupted by squealing tires. A beautiful vintage Ferrari convertible came roaring around the corner. Bill and I dove off to each side as the car careened wildly, the driver trying to get control. I had a brief glimpse of long brown hair and a horror mask face before the car was past us.
We took off in pursuit while Bill radioed in our location and the description of the car. It wasn’t too hard to follow; there was the sound of scraped metal and squealing tires, and car horns from the other drivers on the street. Our pounding feet echoed off the walls of surrounding buildings. I felt like a one-man band with my handcuffs clinking against my heavy flashlight, billy club banging against my belt buckle, holster thwapping against my thigh.
Brakes screeched followed by a bang and the wail of crumpling metal. A girl, her voice at a supersonic level, screamed out, “Come on, boys! It’s all yours!”
We heard approaching sirens. I pushed harder, but didn’t seem to be running any faster. Bill and I finally spun around the last corner to see dark forms heaving all around the car, which had plowed nose first into a building. Not just any building; McGurk’s Suicide Hall, the headquarters of the Demon Princes. It was like watching African army ants swarming on the body of a fallen water buffalo. I pulled out my flashlight, thumbed it on, and eyes glittered in the sudden light. Jokers. Lots of them. All holding a piece of the Ferrari.
“Hey!” Bill shouted. We sprinted forward. We passed the mouth of an alley, and were ambushed by four rolling garbage cans. One hit me hard on the shin, and I went down. By the time Bill and I fought free, the car was a metal carcass and all we saw were a few backs vanishing into various alleys. Not one of them went into Suicide Hall, which meant we couldn’t either.
The girl who had driven the car into the wall was in the top ten of ugly jokers. A pair of tiny arms emerged just below her breasts, ending in hands with only three fingers tipped with claws. Right now they were folded over her stomach. She kicked off her high-heeled shoes and took off running.
I sucked in a deep breath and set off after her. She craned her neck around to look at me. A red fluid dripped from the corners of her eyes and ran down her cheeks like scarlet tears. Her nose was a flattened snout, but beneath them was a perfect cupid bow mouth with full, sensual lips. The incongruity was almost more horrifying than the deformities.
She was fast, but lacked stamina. Bill and I managed to get on either side of her. Her shoulders slumped, she came to a stop, and she folded the extra arms across her stomach. The claws were dripping the same viscous fluid that ran out of her eyes.
“Is that your car?” Bill panted.
“A friend loaned it to me,” she said.
“And told you to run it into a brick wall, and then have it stripped?” Bill’s voice dripped sarcasm. She gave the universal teenage response—a bored shrug. “Let me see some ID,” Bill said.
“I don’t have it with me.”
“Do you have a driver’s license?”
“Not yet. I’m in driver’s ed.”
“What’s you name?”
“Joan McDermott.”
“Okay, Joan, we’re going over to the 5th and calling your parents,” he added with a glance to me. “Get the registration out of the car.”
I trotted off obediently, rummaged through the glove compartment, and came out with a folder containing proof of insurance and the registration. The car was owned by one Peter Fairbanks. Memory kicked in and provided the title that went with that name. It was Assemblyman. He represented a particularly rich and Republican part of Long Island. A slow throbbing headache began at the base of my neck, crawled up over my head, and settled behind my eyes. It was going to be a long night.
♣
“Take her a Coke. See what she has to say,” Bill tossed over his shoulder at me as he pulled the phone closer and got ready to dial.