Aces High Page 7

  “You’ve got what I’d call a real liberal education,” Croyd said. “I should probably read more myself.”

  “You can buy a lot of books for fifty grand.”

  Croyd smiled.

  “So, we’ve got a deal?”

  “Let me think about it a little longer—over breakfast—while I figure out just how my talent works. I’ll come by your stand when I’m done. When would I pick up the ten grand?”

  “I can get it by this afternoon.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you in a hour or so.”

  Jube nodded, raised his massive bulk, slid out of the booth.

  “Watch your cholesterol,” he said.

  Blue cracks had appeared in the sky’s gray shell, and sunlight found its way through to the street. The sound of trickling water came steadily now from somewhere to the rear of the newsstand. Jube would normally have thought it a pleasant background to the traffic noises and other sounds of the city, save that a small moral dilemma had drifted in on leathery wings and destroyed the morning. He did not realize he had made a decision in the matter until he looked up and saw Croyd looking at him, smiling.

  “No problem,” said Croyd. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

  Jube sighed.

  “There’s something I’ve got to tell you first,” he said.

  “Problems?”

  “Nothing that bears directly on the terms of the job,” Jube explained. “But you may have a problem you didn’t know you had.”

  “Like what?” Croyd said, frowning.

  “That pterodactyl we saw earlier…?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Kid Dinosaur was headed here. I found him waiting when I got back. He was looking for you.”

  “I hope you didn’t tell him where to find me.”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that. But you know how he keeps tabs on aces and high-powered jokers…?”

  “Yeah. Why couldn’t he be into baseball players or war criminals?”

  “He saw one he wanted you to know about. He said that Devil John Darlingfoot got out of the hospital a month or so ago and dropped out of sight. But he’s back now. He’d seen him near the Cloisters earlier. Says he’s heading for Midtown.”

  “Well, well. So what?”

  “So he thinks he’s looking for you. Wants a rematch. The Kid thinks he’s still mad over what you did to him the day the two of you trashed Rockefeller Plaza.”

  “So let him keep looking. I’m not a short, heavyset, dark-haired guy anymore. I’ll go get the stiff now—before someone buys him a short bier.”

  “Don’t you want the money?”

  “You already gave it to me.”

  “When?”

  “What’s your first memory of my coming back here?”

  “I looked up about a minute ago and saw you standing there smiling. You said there was no problem. You called it ‘a piece of cake.’”

  “Good. Then, it’s working.”

  “You’d better explain.”

  “That’s the place where I wanted you to start remembering. I’d been here for about a minute before that, and I talked you into giving me the money and forgetting about it.”

  Croyd withdrew an envelope from an inner pocket, opened it, and displayed cash.

  “Good Lord, Croyd! What else did you do during that minute?”

  “Your virtue’s intact, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You didn’t ask me any questions—about…?”

  Croyd shook his head.

  “I told you I didn’t care who wants the body or why. I really don’t like to burden myself with other people’s concerns. I’ve enough problems of my own.”

  Jube sighed.

  “Okay. Go do it, boy.”

  Croyd winked.

  “Not to worry, Walrus. Consider it done.”

  Croyd walked until he came to a supermarket, went in, and purchased a small package of large plastic trash bags. He folded one and fitted it into his inside jacket pocket. He left the rest in a waste bin. Then he walked to the next major intersection and hailed a cab.

  He rehearsed his strategy as he rode across town. He would enter the place and use his latest power to persuade the receptionist that he was expected, that he was a pathologist from Bellevue who had been called over by a friend on the staff to consult on a forensic peculiarity. He toyed for a moment with the names Malone and Welby, settled upon Anderson. He would then cause the receptionist to summon someone with the authority to take him downstairs and find him his John Doe. He would place that person under control, get the body and its belongings, transfer it to a baggy, and walk out, causing everyone he passed to forget he had been by. Certainly a lot simpler than more strenuous tactics he had had to employ over the years. He smiled at the classic simplicity of it—no violence, no memory.…

  When he arrived at the aluminum-paneled building of blue and white glazed brick, he told the cab driver to go on by and drop him at the next corner. There were two police cars parked in front and a shattered door lay before the place. The presence of police at a morgue did not seem that untoward an occurrence, but the broken door aroused his sense of caution. He handed the driver a fifty and told him to wait. He strolled past the place once and looked inside. Several of the police were visible, apparently talking with employees.

  This did not seem an ideal time to proceed with his plan. On the other hand, he could not afford to go away without finding out what had happened. So he turned when he reached the corner, and headed back. He entered without hesitation, looking about quickly.

  A man in civvies who was standing with the police turned suddenly in his direction and stared. Croyd did not like that stare at all. It pulled the floor out from under his stomach and made his hands tingle.

  He reached out immediately with his new power, heading directly toward the man, forcing a smile as he moved.

  It’s okay. You want to talk to me and do exactly as I say. Wave you hand now, say, “Hi, Jim!” in a loud voice and walk over to the side there with me.

  “Hi, Jim!” the man said, moving to join Croyd.

  No! Judas thought. Too damned fast. Nailed me as soon as I spotted him.… We can use this guy.…

  “Plainclothes?” Croyd asked him.

  “Yes,” the man felt himself wanting to answer.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Matthias.”

  “What happened here?”

  “A body was stolen.”

  “Which one?”

  “A John Doe.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “Looked like a big bug—grasshopper legs…”

  “Shit!” Croyd said. “What about his possessions?”

  “There weren’t any possessions.”

  Several of the uniformed officers were glancing in their direction now. Croyd gave his next order mentally. Matthias turned toward the uniforms.

  “Just a minute, guys,” he called. “Business.”

  Damn! he thought. This one will come in handy. You can’t hold me like this forever, fella.…

  “How’d it happen?” Croyd asked.

  “A guy came in here a little while ago, went downstairs, forced an attendant to show him the compartment, took the body out, and left with it.”

  “Nobody tried to stop him?”

  “Sure they did. Four of them are on their way to the hospital as a result. The guy was an ace.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one who wrecked Rockefeller Plaza last fall.”

  “Darlingfoot?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.” Don’t … Don’t ask any more—whether I’m involved, whether I hired him, whether I’m running a cover-up now.…

  “Which way did he go with it?”

  “Northwest.”

  “On foot?”

  “That’s what the witnesses said—big, twenty-foot leaps.” As soon as you let me go, sucker, I’m calling in the nukes on you.

  “Hey, why’d you turn and look at me the way you did when I came
in?”

  Damn!

  “I felt that an ace had just walked through the door.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I’m an ace myself. That’s my power—spotting other aces.”

  “Useful talent for a cop, I guess. Well, listen close. You are now going to forget you ever met me, and you won’t notice me leaving. You’re just going to walk on over to that fountain and get a drink, then walk back and join your buddies. If anyone asks who you were talking to, you’ll say it was your bookie and forget about it. You do that now. Forget!”

  Croyd turned and walked away. Judas realized he was thirsty.

  Outside, Croyd walked to his cab, climbed in, slammed the door, and said, “Northwest.”

  “What do you mean?” the driver asked him.

  “Just head uptown and I’ll tell you what to do as we go along.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  The car jerked into motion.

  Over the next mile Croyd had the driver jog westward, as he searched for signs of the other’s passage. It seemed unlikely that Devil John would be using public transportation when carrying a corpse. On the other hand, it was possible he’d had an accomplice waiting with a vehicle. Still, knowing the man’s chutzpah, it did not seem out of the question for him to be hoofing it with the body. He knew that there was very little anyone could do to stop him if he did not wish to be stopped. Croyd sighed as he scanned the way ahead. Why were simple things never easy?

  Later, as they were nearing Morningside Heights, the driver muttered, “… one of them damn jokers!”

  Croyd followed the man’s gesture to where the form of a pterodactyl was in sight for several moments before passing behind a building.

  “Follow it!” Croyd said.

  “The leather bird?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’m not sure where it is now.”

  “Find it!”

  Croyd waved another bill at the man, and the tires screeched and a horn blared as the cab took a turn. Croyd’s gaze swept the skyline, but the Kid was still out of sight. He halted the cab moments later to question an oncoming jogger. The man popped an earplug, listened a moment, then pointed to the east and took off again.

  Several minutes later, he caught sight of the angular bird-form, to the north, moving in wide circles. This time they were able to keep track of it for a longer while, and to gain on it.

  When they came abreast of the area the pterodactyl circled, Croyd called to the driver to slow. There was still nothing unusual in sight on the ground, but the saurian’s sweeping path covered an area of several blocks. If he were indeed tracking Devil John, the man could well be nearby.

  “What are we looking for?” the driver asked him.

  “A big, red-bearded, curly-haired man with two very different legs,” Croyd answered. “The right one is heavy, hairy, and ends in a hoof. The other’s normal.”

  “I heard something about that guy. He’s dangerous.…”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “What are you planning on doing if you find him?”

  “I was hoping for a meaningful dialogue,” Croyd said.

  “I ain’t gettin’ too close to your dialogue. If we spot him, I’m taking off.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while to wait.”

  “No thanks,” the driver said. “You want out, I’ll drop you and run. That’s it.”

  “Well … The pterodactyl is moving north. Let’s try to get ahead of it, and when we do you cut east on the first street where we can.”

  The driver accelerated again, drifting to the right while Croyd tried to guess the center of the Kid’s circle.

  “The next street,” Croyd said finally. “Turn there and see what happens.”

  They took the corner slowly and cruised the entire block without Croyd’s spotting his quarry or even viewing his airborne telltale again. At the next intersection, however, the winged form passed once more and this time he had sight of the one he sought.

  Devil John was on the opposite side of the street, halfway down the block. He bore a shrouded parcel in his arms. His shoulders were massive; his white teeth flashed as a woman with a shopping cart rushed to get out of his way. He wore Levi’s—the right leg torn off high on the thigh—and a pink sweatshirt suggesting he had visited Disney World. A passing motorist sideswiped a parked car as John took a normal step with his left foot, bent his right leg at an odd angle, and sprang twenty feet farther ahead to an open area near the curb. He turned then with a normal step and sprang again, clearing a slow-moving red Honda and landing in a patch of grass on the street’s central island. Two large dogs that had been following him rushed to the curb, barking loudly, but halted there and regarded oncoming traffic.

  “Stop!” Croyd called to the driver, and he opened the door and stepped to the curb before the vehicle came to a complete halt.

  He cupped his hands to his mouth then and shouted, “Darlingfoot! Hold on!”

  The man only glanced in his direction, already bending his leg to spring again.

  “It’s me—Croyd Crenson!” he called out. “I want to talk to you!”

  The satyr-like figure halted in mid-crouch. The shadow of a pterodactyl swept by. The two dogs continued to bark, and a tiny white poodle rounded a corner and rushed to join them. An auto horn blared at two halted pedestrians in a crosswalk. Devil John turned and stared. Then he shook his head.

  “You’re not Crenson!” he shouted.

  Croyd strode forward.

  “The hell I’m not!” he answered, and he darted into the street and crossed to the island.

  Devil John’s eyes were narrowed beneath his shaggy brows as he studied Croyd’s advancing figure. He raked his lower lip slowly with his upper teeth, then shook his head more slowly.

  “Naw,” he said. “Croyd was darker and a lot shorter. What are you trying to pull, anyway?”

  Croyd shrugged.

  “My appearance changes pretty regularly,” he said. “But I’m the same guy who whipped your ass last fall.”

  Darlingfoot laughed.

  “Get lost, fella,” he said. “I don’t have time for groupies—”

  They both clenched their teeth as a car drew up beside them and its horn blasted. A man in a gray business suit stuck his head out of the window.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  Croyd growled, stepped into the street, and removed the rear bumper, which he then placed in the vehicle’s backseat through a window that had been closed up until then.

  “Auto inspection,” he said. “You pass. Congratulations.”

  “Croyd!” Darlingfoot exclaimed as the car sped off. “It is you!”

  He tossed his shrouded burden to the ground and raised his fists.

  “I’ve been waiting all winter for this.…”

  “Then, wait a minute longer,” Croyd said. “I’ve got to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “That body … Why’d you take it?”

  The big man laughed.

  “For money, of course. What else?”

  “Mind telling me what they’re paying you for it?”

  “Five grand. Why?”

  “Cheap bastards,” Croyd said. “They say what they want it for?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask because I don’t care. A buck’s a buck.”

  “Yeah,” Croyd said. “Who are they, anyhow?”

  “Why? What’s it to you?”

  “Well, I think you’re getting screwed on the deal. I think it’s worth more.”

  “How much?”

  “Who are they?”

  “Some Masons, I think. What’s it worth?”

  “Masons? Like secret handshakes and all that? I thought they just existed to give each other expensive funerals. What could they want with a dead joker?”

  Darlingfoot shook his head.

  “They’re a weird bunch,” he said. “For all I know, they want to eat it. Now, what were you saying about money?”
>
  “I think I could get more for it,” Croyd said. “What say I see their five and raise it one? I’ll give you six big ones for it.”

  “I don’t know, Croyd.… I don’t like to screw people I work for. Word will get around I’m undependable.”

  “Well, maybe I could go seven—”

  They both turned suddenly at a series of savage growls and snappings. The dogs—joined by two additional strays—had crossed over during their conversation and dragged the small, insectlike body from its shroud. It had broken in several places, and the Great Dane held most of an arm in his teeth as he backed away, snarling, from the German shepherd. Two others had torn one of the grasshopperlike legs loose and were fighting over it. The poodle was already halfway across the street, a four-digited hand in its mouth. Croyd became aware of a particularly foul odor other than New York air.

  “Shit!” Devil John exclaimed, leaping forward, his hoof shattering a square of concrete paving near to the remains. He grabbed for the Great Dane and it turned and raced away. The terrier let go of the leg. The brown mongrel didn’t. It tore across the street in the other direction, dragging the appendage. “I’ll get the arm! You get the leg!” Devil John cried, bounding after the Great Dane.

  “What about the hand?” Croyd yelled, kicking at another dog newly arrived on the scene.

  Darlingfoot’s reply was predictable, curt, and represented an anatomical unlikelihood of a high order. Croyd took off after the brown dog.

  As Croyd approached the corner where he had seen it turn, he heard a series of sharp yelps. Coming onto the side street he saw the dog lying on its back snapping at the pterodactyl, which pinned it to the pavement. The battered limb lay nearby. Croyd sprinted forward.

  “Thanks, Kid. I owe you one,” he said as he reached for the leg, hesitated, took out his handkerchief, wrapped it about his hand, picked up the limb, and held it downwind.

  The pterodactyl shape flowed, to be replaced by that of a nude boy—perhaps thirteen years of age—with light eyes and unruly brown hair, a small birthmark on his forehead.

  “Got it for you, Croyd,” he announced. “Sure stinks, though.”

  “Yeah, Kid,” Croyd said. “Excuse me. Now I’ve got to go put it back together.”

  He turned and hurried in the direction from which he had come. Behind him he heard rapid footfalls.