She wasn’t. She’d ended that evening’s performance like she usually did, with a short speech about some political topics Marcus didn’t really follow. He’d have to get a library card and read up on South Asian politics. Or maybe he’d get his Mac up and running again and get online. He could do that now, couldn’t he? Yeah, once he knew what the hell she was talking about he’d take the next step. Meet her backstage. Natya, I’m a big fan of your show. Feel like getting a cup of coffee? Or … Hey, Natya, how about them Tamils?
Just the thought that her finale tonight was called the bharatanatyam snake dance made him feel funny inside. He had no idea what to expect, but man, it was a snake dance! Maybe she was trying to tell him something.…
“Well, if it’s not Jokertown’s newest vigilante hero!” Lucas Tate appeared beside him, patting him on the shoulder. He wore an expensive-looking tux, perfectly tailored. His mask, tonight, had an Asian flare to it, some sort of stylized canine baring a grin of pure devilish joy. “I didn’t know you were a fan of dance, IBT. Man of culture, huh?”
Marcus swirled the ice cubes in his glass. How quickly Infamous Black Tongue had become IBT. Didn’t matter. Marcus had begun to like both names. “I’m Natya’s number one fan,” he said. “Have been for a while.”
“You’re full of surprises. But I should know that by now, shouldn’t I? IBT, I want you to know how sorry I am. I misjudged you. I can’t tell you how bad I feel about that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Marcus said, liking the way the nonchalance felt.
Tate ordered a gin and tonic from the six-armed bartender, specifying that he needed a straw. He also ordered Marcus a refill. “Listen,” he said, “I saw you come in earlier. Had to think about it, but now I’m sure. I’ve got some information you may be interested in.” He leaned in closer and dropped his voice. “I know where Lu Long is hiding.”
“What?”
“Yep. He’s still in the city, if my source is worth anything. Long is in a warehouse on X Street. It wears the number 215B. It’s not abandoned, but it looks like it is. Behind the old Penney’s building. The type of place you wouldn’t even know was there, unless you know it’s there.”
Marcus could feel his pulse in his fingertips. He swirled his glass again, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “You take this to the cops?”
“It’s brand-new info. I just took the call as I was walking here.”
“I’d think you’d call the cops with it.”
Tate slipped the straw inside his grinning mask and sipped. “I would’ve, but then I saw you. Got me thinking … This city owes you a break. I owe you. No, I do. I really do. I wrote some hurtful things about you, and I regret it. So here’s what I’m offering. You get first crack at Long. Think of the headlines you’ll make by bringing him in. Your star will be in full shine, my friend. And, of course, the Cry will have the jump on the exclusive. Maybe we’ll do an interview. Full photo spread.” Tate indicated the size of the spread with his arms, a gesture that seemed to reach around the world. “Of course, if you’re not up for it…”
Marcus asked, “What was that number again?”
♥
He found the old warehouse tucked behind several newer structures. Marcus climbed the wall and slipped into an open window a couple stories up. He paused inside, feeling the warm air flow past him into the chill night. Before him stretched rows of desks and tables and sewing machines, lit only by the gray highlights slanting in from outside.
He glided across the room and through an open door. He stood in the stairwell listening. At first he thought the place was silent. The longer he listened the more it seemed to grumble, as if he were in a hungry belly. The furnace in the basement murmured. He slithered carefully up the stairs. His tail still felt a little sluggish with cold, but it was warming. On the third floor some machines hummed in semislumber. On the fourth a clock ticked and rodents scampered through a nearby wall. Below the next landing he paused again. Just across from him a door, cracked ajar, spilled out a yellow glow.
Marcus poked his head through the door. Lu Long stood in the center of the large room, back toward the door as he worked on something laid out on the table before him. Shirtless, the stretch of Long’s scaly back was impressive, as was his thick tail, the tip of which plucked out some tune he must’ve had in his head. A heavy scent floated in the air, like gasoline but different somehow.
Watching the joker, Marcus went through his options. He could back-slither. Call the cops. Let them handle this. He didn’t have any doubt that they’d take. Long down hard, now that everybody knew how crooked he was. He could do that.
But then again he couldn’t. That was the old Marcus thinking; IBT had different ideas. He felt as much in his clenched fists, tasted it in the venom seeping like saliva into his mouth. It wasn’t just cops who Long had hurt. It wasn’t just Twitch. This was for all jokers, for anyone ever exploited by people in power who looked down on them, didn’t see or care about their humanity. This was personal. And it was more than personal. It was for justice, delivered fast and sudden as a snakebite.
“Turn around,” Marcus said loudly. “I want to see your face as you go down.”
Long jerked. His shoulders started to swing around, but then stopped, steadied. “Who’s that talking?”
Marcus slipped closer. His fists tightened into stone mallets. He’d pummel this fucker. Fist, fist, tongue. Pow. Fight’s over. “Turn around and see.”
“You know what?” Long asked, his voice growing contemplative. He seemed to be carrying on with whatever he’d been working with on the table. “I don’t have to turn around. I’m thinking you’re the squirmer they call Black Tongue.”
“That’s Infamous Black Tongue.”
“‘Infamous’? You even know what that means? Nothing to be proud of, kid.”
“I’ll consider it ironic … Puff.”
The joker grasped some sort of metal container in one hand, a tubelike thing. He bent forward for something else.
“Hey,” Marcus snapped, “I said turn around!”
“What’d you ever do to become infamous, anyway?” Long asked, ignoring the rising alarm in Marcus’s voice. “Just got yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time. You got a knack for that. Look here, you’ve done it again. For the last time.”
Long swung around. In addition to the container, he held a monster of a weapon propped on his other arm. Tubes connected the two. The ex-cop hefted the weapon up and pointed it at Marcus. He hit a lever and a tiny flame spurted from the end. Long grinned hideously. “That’s the last time you’ll call me Puff. Get ready to burn, motherfucker!”
Marcus suddenly had a very bad feeling about where he was standing. He launched himself upward with all the coiled energy he could, just as a jet of flame roared out of the weapon, toasting his tail as he hauled it up behind him. The room had a high ceiling, with the metal framework exposed. Marcus grabbed the steel girders and surged through them. Long cackled and howled as Marcus stayed just ahead of the jets of fire.
Each time Marcus thought he might leap down, new eruptions chased him on. He kept moving, but he ran out of room quickly. He slammed into a corner, panting, sweating, his lower scales scorched and painful. Fuck! This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Long came on, shoving his way through the desks and other debris.
Marcus leaped. He plummeted downward and hit the joker with all the force of his falling body. He grappled him. They went over twirling, the flamethrower spouting ribbons of fire. A clawed foot caught him in the abdomen and doubled him over. And then another kick, again and again and again. He had a lot of abdomen, and Long was kicking his way down all of it.