In my effort to be P.C. I had picked an apartment smack in the middle of Jokertown. It was a relatively new building erected during a liberal mayor’s efforts to gentrify the area. It was white stone, relatively modern, which meant the living room, dining nook, and kitchen were all one big room. I had a decent-sized bedroom and a full bath with a tub in addition to a shower. I set my hat on the bookcase as I came in, and straightened the photo of my father in his dress blues. “Well, Dad, I hope you weren’t watching today,” I said to that stern, chiseled face.
I was supposed to have dinner with Altobelli that night, and I knew my mother would be waiting by the phone in the house in Saratoga, wanting to hear about my first day on the job. Not wanting to be seen in public, I canceled with Altobelli, but mothers couldn’t be postponed.
I put in an order for some Thai food to be delivered, and settled into the recliner with the phone tucked under my chin. “Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, honey, I’ve been thinking about you all day. How was it?”
The five-year-old who had run to Mommy with skinned knees and bumped elbows wanted to wail out every slight. Instead I feigned cheerfulness and said, “Great. It was great.”
“Your father would be so proud.” I heard the sigh in her voice. “So, who did you arrest?”
I told her about Abigail.
“Never get involved with perps or witnesses, dear. I’m sure Sam would tell you the same.”
“Yeah.” There was a knock at my door. “Hey, Mom, my food is here. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay, honey, take care. Be careful.”
I slammed down the footrest of the recliner with a satisfying kick, grabbed my wallet, and headed to the door. I opened it to a joker delivery boy. This one wasn’t too weird. He just had faceted eyes like a bee, and the usual fan of angry acne across his cheeks and chin that was the hallmark of every teenage boy. The hallway smelled of cabbage rolls and coffee, but they lost out to the sharp scent of green curry and garlic beef wafting up from the bag the kid carried.
“What do I owe you?”
The kid looked at the bill. “Twenty-one fifty-three.” I dug out twenty-five, and realized I couldn’t make a habit of this.
“Thanks.” I started to shut the door, but the kid held up a hand. “Yes?”
“Uh … if you want anything like for … dessert, I can set you up. I’ve got a friend.” He was staring at the pink and sparking nimbus that surrounded me.
“It’s a good thing you kept that vague, kid, because otherwise I would have to arrest you. But it’s your lucky night. I’m tired and I’m hungry so I’ll pretend I don’t actually understand what you’re saying. But just for that…” I took my cash back out of his limp hand, pulled out the five, and gave him a one instead. “No tip.”
“Hey! What about the fifty-three cents?” he howled in outrage as I started to shut the door.
“Get it from your friend.” I slammed the door.
♥
“Everyone’s a winner. Come on, mister, five’ll get you ten. Ten’ll get you twenty. Easy peasy, just pick the card.”
The singsong patter of a three-card monte hustle reached us. Bill gave a gusting sigh. “Fuckin’ Joe Twitch. Just ’cause he’s a sometime snitch he thinks he can pull this shit. Let’s go protect the rubes.”
Joe had set up between the Jokertown Dime Museum and Freakers, a spot guaranteed to get a lot of traffic. The citizens of Jokertown ignored him, but there was a crowd of tourists gathered around. None of them had ever seen a man’s hands move that fast. They were almost a blur. The man guiding those hands was short, wiry, and ugly as sin. He had faintly mottled skin, curly brown hair, and catlike green eyes that technically made him a joker. Aces and deuces were people who were outwardly unchanged, but possessed superhuman (or totally lame) powers.
The current mark had his cowboy hat pushed well back on his head, and was watching the moving cards with frowning concentration. He made his pick. It was wrong—of course—and Joe took his money. That’s when I saw the tattoos across his knuckles—FAST and FSTR.
Before another sucker could step up Bill pushed through the crowd. “Clear out, folks, you’re blocking the sidewalk.”
The crowd moved away with alacrity. Joe had the cards and money in his pocket and the table folded before I had taken two steps. Bill extended his nightstick. That plus a single word, “DON’T,” rooted Joe where he stood.
“Aww, shit, Tinkerbill, I’m just an honest businessman, making an honest buck.”
“No, Twitch, you’re a crook and hustler. I don’t want to hear you’ve moved over one block and set up again.”
“This is like fucking harassment!” His body swayed and jerked spasmodically. “I’m get a lawyer, take way to the Supreme Court!” He was talking so fast that he was dropping words, and a tiny rivulet of drool had begun to run from the corner of his mouth.
“No, Twitch, this isn’t harassment. This is harassment.” Bill pointed his nightstick at Joe Twitch and whistled.
The pink glow, stars, and sparks appeared all around Joe’s skinny body. For an instant I thought the guy was going to cry, and pity briefly twisted my gut. Now that I was close I could see dark circles under Joe’s eyes, and he looked like he’d been missing too many meals. He was also young, probably no older than me.
The moment of naked vulnerability passed, and he settled into bluster. “I’m somebody! I was on American Hero.” He was madly twitching now, popping his knuckles over and over. “You know Curveball? Babe, right? Well, her and me, we’re like this!” He crossed his fingers. “I can get her number for you.”
For one brief, wild moment I considered it, but then decided dating an ace would probably be more excitement than I needed. “No thanks.”
“And trying to bribe an officer can get you arrested,” Bill said.
“Yeah, like you’re not all on the take.”
Bill’s face tightened in anger at Twitch’s words. “Get out of here before I decide to find some reason to arrest you.”
Twitch and his table disappeared.
I spent the rest of the day occasionally thinking about the skinny joker and those desperate eyes. I was beginning to discover that sometimes certain people just get under your skin. Like the old lady whose apartment had been burgled, and she just kept crying because the perps had let her cat out. I had radioed K-10 and Tabby to be on the lookout. Quattore had been sympathetic, but Tabby had told me to shove it, he wasn’t the fuckin’ ASPCA. And now Joe Twitch.
We got back to the precinct at the end of our shift, I sat down in my chair, and the stench of cat urine rose up around me like an almost visible cloud. I felt the wet go right through the seat of my pants. Puff was laughing, his eyes glittering with malice. Tabby sauntered over. “Don’t you ever give me an order again, Franny,” he said in a low, ugly voice.
Like Joe, I didn’t know whether to fight or cry. I settled on, “It’s Frank, and I asked you for a favor.” It sounded lame even to me.
♣
Wednesday afternoon I was typing up a report about a cat fight between two strippers at Freakers that had resulted in assault and property damage charges. Beastie and his partner Chey Moleka, a Cambodian immigrant who was known for sharp elbows and voracious ambition, came through with another naked girl. I assumed she was naked. Her feet and legs were bare, and she was wrapped in Beastie’s voluminous yellow raincoat. This was the sixth naked chick in three days. They all told the same story—they were just walking along, minding their own business, when suddenly their clothes disappeared. For my own satisfaction I had stayed late one night, and tried to establish some connection between the women when there had only been four of them. I hadn’t found a single point of contact.