"No," Tachyon snapped back, and she found herself staring at his rigid back as he scanned the crowd.
A portly joker, his nose replaced by a long trunk ending in several tiny fingers, broke from the edges of the crowd like a calving iceberg, and chugged toward Tachyon.
"All set?" he asked, thrusting out a hand.
"All set. Des, may I introduce Roulette Brown-Roxbury. Roulette, Xavier Desmond, owner of the Funhouse, and one of Jokertown's most sterling citizens."
"Some would argue that that's an oxymoron."
"My, we're crabby today," Tachyon teased, with a touch of acid.
A look passed between the two men, and Roulette realized that theirs was a complex relationship. They were friends, they respected one another, but something lay between them, a memory of ancient pain.
This flash of cattiness had an unusual effect. Rather than strengthening her desire to kill the man it somehow made him all the more charming. He was not perfect, or even perfectly evil. Just "human," and therefore understandable, and she cursed the insight, for it is easier to hate in the abstract. Des glanced at his watch. "Running late as usual."
"I just hope delays and the heat don't conduce to any shall we say… incidents." He tugged on his upper lip. "I can't help but think of '76 when I see all these police."
"There was a strange feel on that day. Mercifully we've never felt it since."
"Well, I'd best mingle." He caught up both of Roulette's hands, and pressed a quick kiss onto each. "I will be back to collect you before we get under way."
"Are you sure I should be with you? Maybe we could just meet for lunch afterward, or something…" Her voice trailed away.
"No, no. I need the support."
"Difficult situation."
"I beg your pardon?" Roulette pulled her eyes from Tachyon's fast-vanishing form.
"If he doesn't take part in the parade he's accused of showing contempt for the jokers, and favoring the aces. When he does join in-which he's done for the past five years-he's accused of being a heartless parasite, living off the misery of the jokers he helped create. A little tin-plated king of his own freak kingdom."
Her eyes roved the park. Sno-cone vendors hawking through the crowd, police with sweat stains in the pits and front of shirts, Tachyon like a tiny redheaded, red-clad devil in the midst of a Dantesque scene as jokers doubled for demons. Just do the job, and get out of this. That was all she wanted now.
Somehow she had to pry him loose, seek the privacy of a hotel or apartment, and make the kill. She couldn't cut him out yet. His sense of duty would keep him in this freak parade, and he was a featured speaker at the tomb. Her thoughts propelled her, carried her across the park toward the Takisian, while behind her Des frowned over her abrupt departure. Perhaps a sudden indisposition? Stupid! All that would get her was a bed at the Jokertown clinic. Definitely the wrong bed. Perhaps a- Use your goddamn body! Most men's brains seemed to be lodged in their penises!
His welcoming smile embraced her. "Ah, I think you must be a telepath. I was just coming for you."
"Were you?" she heard herself reply, but the voice seemed to be coming from a long distance. "I hope you'll continue to come for me." Her arm slid around his neck, and molding her body to his, she pressed a kiss onto his mouth.
For an instant there was withdrawal. Had she overplayed the moment? Then their tongues met, and all restraint was swept away. His tongue teased, thrust past the barrier of her teeth. His hand, hot against the nape of her neck, pulled her closer. A chorus of appreciative catcalls rose around them, and they broke apart.
"Well," Tachyon gusted, and, pulling a handkerchief from a pocket, patted briskly at his forehead.
She snuggled in close, and pulled his arm through hers. "I was very sad earlier. You've changed all that, and I wanted to thank you."
"Madam… Roulette, thank me anytime you wish."
A chauffeur, tail lashing at the ankles of his boots, held open the door of a large gray Lincoln.
"Ah, Riggs, punctual as always. I often wonder how you tolerate me, for I am so notoriously unpunctual."
"I've learned to bear with it." His voice was like soft velvet, and his luminescent green cat's eyes seemed lit from behind with amusement.
"Riggs, this is Roulette Brown-Roxbury. She is our guest for the day." A pinch to her fingers. "And I hope into the night. "
Riggs touched the bill of his cap. "Ma'am."
"So, you employ jokers," she remarked as she slid across the leather upholstery.
"Of course." And the reply struck her as smug. "Riggs's reflexes and night vision are far superior to an ordinary human's. I'm very grateful to have my safety in his capable hands. "
The lead float was nosing majestically onto the Bowery. Behind it E S. 235's marching band swung into a snappy rendition of the "Pineapple Rag."
Senator Hartmann's open car was next in the line. An ace jogged beside the limo. At least Roulette presumed he was an ace. Most normal secret-service agents didn't run about dressed in white form-fitting jumpsuits complete with black hood covering face and head.
Hartmann beamed and waved, every inch an elder statesman. Someone in the crowd lining the street shouted out, "How about '88, Senator?"
"Suggest it. I'm ready," Hartmann called back, and grinned as the laughter and cheers rippled through the throng. Two more floats, the mounted patrol, then Riggs put the big Lincoln in gear, and they rolled out at a steady ten miles per hour.
"Why not an open car?" Roulette asked, and from overhead a whining answered as the sun roof slid back.,
"I may have lived on Earth for forty years, but I'm still a Takisian. I'm damned if I'm riding in an open car for anyone. And on Wild Card Day my enemies as well as my friends are abroad."'
Fifteen minutes later, and he dropped back onto the seat fanning himself with his handkerchief. "Dreadful weather."
"Here." She had been exploring while he had perched, on the roof and waved to the crowd, and had discovered the bar. "Dubonnet on ice. What an elegant lifesaver you are. Are you joining me this time?"
"Yes."
She moved in close, her thigh pressing against his. They each took a thoughtful sip, then she ran one long nail down his cheek, noting the way his sideburns lay in red-gold whorls against his white, white skin. She paused, and inspected the small isosceles-shaped scar on his pointed chin.
"What happened?"
"Combat training. Sedjur and my father agreed we should leave it as a reminder to move more quickly next time." And his face closed down while tears of grief blurred his lilac eyes.
It was the moment. She cupped his face between her hands, and kissed him, her lips coaxing the rigidity out of his mouth. A tear splashed warmly on her hand, as she licked the tiny point of moisture away.
"Why so sad?"
"Because Sedjur is dead, and my father, were he aware, would like to be. I think memory is a curse."
"Yes, so do I." Her hand slid down the satiny fabric of his waistcoat, and gripped his waistband. His gasp played counterpoint to the rasp of the zipper. "So let's explore sensation and the moment, and forget memories."
She had him free now, and was gently rolling his penis between the palms of her hands. He stiffened instantly, his back arching, and beads of sweat broke across his brow and upper lip.
"By the Ideal, woman, what are you doing?"
She gave him a Mona Lisa smile, took him in her mouth, and gave gentle suction. One hand shot out and hit the control, raising the window between them and Riggs. He moaned as her tongue teaseat the underside of his glans.
"Have mercy," he groaned, one hand twisting in her braids.
"All right." She drew back.
"The Ideal, you leave me like this?"
"Then let's go somewhere."
"The speech."
"Afterwards."
"Oh God!"
The subway car's metal wheels squealed as they pulled into Times Square. The doors hissed open and Spector got up, feeling better than he had all morning. The Astronomer had to figure he was dead, and the old man was having a very busy day. There wouldn't be any time for second thoughts about him.