"How's Jack?" Rosemary reached out and took the cap from Bagabond. Putting it on, she looked inquiringly at Baga bond, who shook her head.
"Doesn't go with the tweed." Bagabond sat back carefully, as if worried the chair would collapse. "Okay, I guess. We're not talking all that much right now. I just got a call from him before I came over. He's out hunting a niece who ran away to New York City."
Rosemary raised an eyebrow.
"Her name's Cordelia Chaisson. Sixteen. Country girl from Louisiana. Jack says she's real pretty-tall, slender, black hair, dark brown eyes. That's all he told me. He sounded pretty upset. "
"I'll put the word out in the station houses," said Rosemary. "That much I can do. Too many kids run away to the city." She took a fountain pen out of the desk set by her hip.
Bagabond nodded her appreciation. "How's life off the street?"
"Who says I'm off the street? With this job, I never leave." Rosemary sighed and continued to play with the fountain pen. It was obvious she had other things on her mind. "Things are getting worse with the Family. The Butcher-remember Don Frederico?-is killing anyone who threatens his authority. It's no way to run the Gambione Family. We're no longer completely in control in Jokertown. Somebody's setting the jokers against us, the Family. They're just being used, of course."
"The jokers are always getting used. Either they're the great downtrodden minority of this century, or else they're a plague to be eradicated." Bagabond fixed her with wide black eyes.
Rosemary continued, "They get something when they pay protection to the Gambiones. That's one tradition that even the Butcher doesn't dare abandon." She gestured with the pen. "I keep thinking that if my father had just had a son, to take over the Gambiones, this wouldn't be happening. Maybe that S. O. B. Butcher will have a nice accident. Slip in the bathtub or something."
"He always was bad news." Bagabond smiled humorlessly up at Rosemary. "Even in our brief acquaintance, I can't say that he made a good impression. If I hear anything. I'll let you know. I usually avoid Jokertown, but the rats like it down there. Lots of food."
"I don't want details, please." Rosemary shivered. "You want to know what else is making my life interesting? First thing I hear this morning is that there're some valuable note books on the street. I don't even know whose they are, but the Egrets want them. If the Egrets want them, so do I. You really do hear the strangest things, so if you find out anything about this, I would appreciate it." Rosemary wouldn't meet Bagabond's dark gaze. "I feel as if I'm using you, Suzanne, but you know things no one else does. Thanks."
"I have a lot of eyes and ears." Bagabond looked out the window behind Rosemary's shoulder. "You are a friend. I only have one other-human. I want to help."
"I wish Jack wasn't such an idiot," Rosemary said. "What is wrong with that boy?" She shook her head in sympathy. "Have you thought of maybe looking elsewhere?"
"Maybe at the mission?" Bagabond combed the hair back across her face with her fingers and jammed the cap down on her head. She stood up and spread the ratty paisley skirt she wore over a pair of chinos. "Or perhaps the singles bars. I could start a new fashion trend."
"I'm sorry." Rosemary slid off the desk and touched Bagabond's shoulder. Bagabond swung away from her hand.
"I've been alone for years. I'll survive. Besides, the cats would be happier." Bagabond showed her teeth, white and sharp. "I'll be in touch."
Rosemary opened the door and walked with her to the front desk.
"I've got court in twenty minutes. Just call me if you need anything, dear." The stooped and limping bag lady nodded her lowered head and walked away. As she passed the receptionist's area, Goldberg looked up.
"Hope to see you again soon. Have a nice day."
As he said the last words, the bag lady turned her head to stare at him.
"Yeah, I don't believe I said that either." He grinned and shrugged in apology, and the phone rang again. "'Bye." Making her way slowly down the stairs, Bagabond wondered if Jack had found Cordelia yet. Missing girls, missing notebooks. Everyone was looking for something. She wasn't. It was the advantage of having nothing to lose.
The jokers started all looking alike.
So did the normals dressed and made up as jokers.
Jack blinked confusedly. Trying to survey all the faces he was encountering was akin to scanning more than about six rows of book spines in the Strand. After a while, the colors, the sizes, the titles, all began to look the same. He saw black hair-never the right black hair. He saw fedoras, panamas, snap-brims, nothing was exactly right.
At the corner of West 10th, he nearly collided with a kid heading east. "Watch it, faggot," the young man said.
Jack stared at him in surprise.
"You can't fool me," said the kid. "Don't even try."
Jack started to step around him, since it was obvious the kid wasn't going to move. Punk, he thought. Real street punk-not costume punk with mohawk and makeup.
Shorter than Jack, the kid was as skinny as a ferret. Face hollowed, eyes the color of rainwater, there was a tight, springloaded look about him. "Just watch it," he said again.
As Jack moved past, he was jostled by a passerby. Recovering his balance, he brushed the kid's elbow with his hand. The young man recoiled, his hands coming up in what looked to Jack like a martial arts stance.
"Don't touch me, fairy," said the kid.
They stared at each other for several seconds. Then Jack nodded, stepped back, and turned to go. He didn't look back, but had the feeling that the kid was staring after him with those clear, mean, psychopathically intense eyes.
The Crystal Palace smelled like any other bar in the morning-like stale smoke and spilled beer and disinfectant. Fortunato found Chrysalis in a dark corner of the club, where her transparent skin made her nearly invisible. He and Brennan sat down across from her.
"You got the message, then," she said in her phony English-public-school accent.
"I got it," Fortunato said. "But the trail's cold. The Astronomer could be anywhere by now. I was hoping you might have something else for me."
"Perhaps. You know a yo-yo calls himself 'Demise'?"
"Yes," Fortunato said. His fingernails dug uselessly at the urethane finish on the table.
"He was in about an hour ago. Sascha got a reading off him, loud and clear. 'He's going to fucking kill me. That twisted old fuck."' "Meaning the Astronomer."
"Right you are. This Demise seemed completely round the bend. Had quite a lot on his mind, Sascha said."
"You mean there's more," Fortunato said. "Yes, but the next bit's going to cost you."
"Cash or favors?"
"Blunt this morning, aren't we? Well, I'm inclined to say favors. And in honor of the holiday, I'll even extend you a line of credit."
"You know I'm good for it," Fortunato said. "Sooner or later."
"I don't like charging for bad news, in any event. The other line Sascha heard was, 'Maybe he'll be too busy with the others. "'
"Christ," Fortunato said.
Brennan looked at him. "You think he's going on some kind of killing spree."
"The only thing that surprises me is that it took him this long. He must have been waiting for Wild Card Day out of some fucked-up sense of drama or something. Was there anything else?"
"Not about the Astronomer. But there is another matter. This is perhaps more in your bailiwick, Yeoman. I got a call this morning advising me to keep my eyes open for a certain stolen book. Three books, actually. Two of them are stockbooks with rare postal stamps in them. It was the third the caller seemed most interested in. Its the size of a regular schoolboy's notebook, blue in color, with a bamboo pattern on it."
"So who was the caller?" Brennan asked.
"Unimportant. What interests me is the group he seems to belong to. It took me a bit of time and a bit of influence, but I came up with a name."
"What's your price?" Brennan said.
"Information for information. I think if we should put our heads together on this, we'd both benefit. But you mustn't hold out on me. I'll know it if you do."