Wildcards

Jokertown was where pleasure could always be found.

HARTMANN PLEADS FOR CALM MAYOR SAYS RIOTERS WILL BE PUNISHED

New York Daily News, July 17, 1976

John Werthen came into Hartma

Gregg had been lying on his bed, his suit jacket thrown carelessly over the headboard, his hands behind his head as he watched Cronkite talk about the deadlocked convention. Gregg turned his head toward his aide. "What now, John?"

Amy called from the Washington office. As you suggested, we gave the problem of Tachyon's Soviet plant to Black Shadow. We just heard that the plant was found in Jokertown.

"He'd been strung up to a streetlamp with a note pi

"Christ," Gregg muttered. He let out a long breath. For a long minute, he lay there as Cronkite's cultured voice droned on about the final vote on the platform and the obvious deadlock between Carter and Ke

John shrugged. He loosened his tie and opened the collar of his Brooks Brothers shirt. "Not yet. He'll say that he didn't do anything, you know, and in his own way, he's right."

"Come on, John," Gregg replied. "He knew damn well what would happen if he tied the guy up with that note on him. He's one of those aces who think they can do things their way without worrying about the laws. Call him in; I need to talk with him. If he can't work our way, then he can't work for us at all-he's too dangerous." Gregg sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing at his neck. "Anything else? What about the JJS? Have you managed to reach Miller for me?"

John shook his head. "Nothing yet. There's talk that the jokers will march again today-same route and all, right past city hall. I hope he's not that stupid."

"He'll march," Gregg predicted. "The man's hungry to be in the limelight. He thinks he's powerful. He'll march." The senator stood and bent over the television set. Cronkite went silent in midsentence. Gregg stared out the windows. From his vantage point in the Marriott's Essex House, he could look down at the green swath of Central Park caught between the towers of the city. The air was stagnant, unmoving, and the blue haze of pollution hid the further reaches of the park. Gregg could feel the heat even with the air-conditioning in the room. Outside, it would be sweltering once more. In the warrens of Jokertown, the day would be unbearable, rendering already quick-fused tempers even shorter.

"Yes, he'll march," Gregg said again, softly enough that John did' not hear it. "Let's go to Jokertown," he said, turning back into the room.

"The convention?" John inquired.

"They won't settle anything for days yet. That doesn't matter at the moment. Let's collect my shadows and get going. "

JOKERS! YOU'RE BEING DEALT A BAD HAND! -from a pamphlet handed out by JJS workers at the July 18th rally Gimli exhorted the crowds under the brilliant noon sun. After the night of chaos in Jokertown, the mayor had put the city's police force on double shifts and canceled all leaves. The governor had placed the National Guard on standby. Patrols stalked the borders of the Jokertown district, and a curfew was imposed for the following night. The word that the JJS would attempt another march to Jetboy's Tomb had spread quickly through Jokertown the previous evening, and by morning, Roosevelt Park was swirling with activity. The police stayed away after two unsuccessful attempts to sweep the jokers out of the park resulted in broken heads and five injured officers. There were simply more of the jokers willing to march with the JJS than the authorities had predicted. The barricades were set in place on Grand Street once more, and the mayor harangued the assembled jokers via bullhorn. He was roundly jeered by those at the gates.

From the rickety dais they'd erected, Sondra listened to Gimli as the dwarf's strong voice swept the jokers up in its ferocity. "YOU'VE BEEN TRAMPLED, SPAT UPON, REVILED LIKE NO OTHER PEOPLE IN HISTORY!" he exclaimed, and they screamed their agreement. Gimli's face was rapt, shiny with sweat, the coarse strands of his beard dark with the heat.

"YOU'RE THE NEW NIGGERS, JOKERS. YOU'RE THE NEW SLAVES, THE ONES

COUNTRY!" Gimli flung an arm toward the ramparts of New York. "THEY

THAT STAND TO LIVEl'" The last word was a roar and it echoed through the park, all of the jokers rising to shout with Gimli. Sondra looked out on the mass of people, speckling the lawn under the glaring sun.

They'd all come out, the jokers, pouring from the streets of Jokertown. Gargantua was there, his immense body bandaged; Marigold, Flicker, Carmen, five thousand or more like them all behind. Sondra could feel the excitement pulsing as Gimli lectured them, his own bitterness snaking out like a poison into the air, infecting them all. No, she wanted to say. No, you can't listen to him. Please. Yes, his words are full of energy and brilliance; yes, he makes you want to raise your fists and pump them skyward as you march with him. Still, can't you see that this is not the way? This is not the revolution. This is only the madness of a man. The words echoed in her mind, but she could not speak them. Gimli had caught her in his spell with the others. She could feel the are of a smile on her chapped lips, and around her the other members of the cadre were yelling. Gimli stood at the front of the dais, his arms wide as the shouts became louder and louder, as a chant began to rise from the massed throat of the crowd.

"Jokers' Rights! Jokers' Rights!"

The beat hammered at the waiting ranks of police, at the inevitable crowd of bystanders and reporters.

"Jokers' Rights! Jokers' Rights!"

Sondra heard herself saying it along with the others. Gimli jumped down from the dais, and the burly dwarf began to lead them toward the gates. The crowd began to move, a mob with no pretense of order. They spilled out of Roosevelt Park from the gates into the side streets. Taunts were shouted toward the waiting line of police. Sondra could see the flashing lights of the cruisers, could hear the drone of the trucks with the water ca