Jokers Wild

Ackroyd got it on the fifth ring. "It's too early," the PI complained. "Go away."

"Out of bed, Popinjay," Hiram said cheerfully, knowing it would irritate him. "The early bird gets the worm, and tonight you'll be solving for your supper, so to speak."

"It better be more than one supper, Hiram," said. "And don't call me Popinjay, dammit."

Ackroyd

Each stockbook had ten pages and each page held about a hundred stamps with their Scott Postage Stamp Catalog numbers written in neatly below them, making them very easy to identify.

There were ten Ireland #38 (Great Britain #171, overprinted "Rialtar Sealadac na heinea

…

Je

Kien had put together quite a little collection. She didn't know much about philately, but a quick perusal of the pricing information in the front of the catalogs, and her general experience in the field of rare and collectable materials, told her that Kien had assembled the perfect collection for realizing maximum profit when it came time to sell.

The stamps he had gathered were rare, but not exceedingly rare. The really rare stamps were so well known that all extant examples of them were documented, but enough of these issues existed so that they were untraceable. They were rare enough to be, well, rare, and common enough so that their appearance on the market wouldn't cause a stir.

They were also rare enough so that-depending, of course, on how desperate he was at the time he liquidated his holdings-Kiev could expect to get near catalog price for them when he wanted to turn them into something more negotiable. A quick check of several selected issues in catalogs from previous years told her that they were also rare enough to increase in value every year. And if Kien played the proper cards when cashing them in he wouldn't have to pay taxes on them. Of course, a single stamp dealer would have a hard time coming up with enough cash to purchase the entire collection, but there were a lot of stamp dealers in any given large city.

Unfortunately, Je

Still, ten percent would be nice. Two hundred thousand isn't bad for a morning's work.

She had a big balloon payment coming up on her apartment that had recently gone condo, and then there were her special projects. She took a small black book out of her purse and sca

Moisture was seeping from a long crack ru

It seemed incredible to her that after the debacle in May when the aces of New York had stormed the Cloisters, killing a number of Masons and destroying the Shakti device, that the Astronomer had calmly returned to his old haunts and no one had noticed. True, there were only a handful of them left; Kafka, the Master himself, Roman, Kim Toy, Gresham, Imp and Insulin and her-saved because she'd chosen to spend that day at a concert in upstate New York. Perhaps the threat from the Swarm (only recently removed) could offer some explanation.

The tu

Still Life for a Madman, thought Roulette, and hysteria and revulsion pulled her throat taut.

Kafka, looking positively dadaesque as he doubled as a towel rack, hunched beside the Astronomer. Several fluffy towels with applique teddy bears hung over his chitinous, skeletal arms. His carapace was rattling, but whether with cold or fear Roulette couldn't tell.

Finally she forced her eyes to her master, who finished fastidiously wiping his hands on a towel and dropped it onto the floor at his feet. His eyes swam like enormous moons be hind the thick lenses of his glasses, but he was vibrant, fairly crackling with energy, and she knew he was ready to begin the day's agenda. A blood feast now to prepare for the banquet to follow.

"Well?"

"Howler is dead."

"Excellent, my lovely dear. Excellent." He turned, and contemptuously pushed aside his wheelchair. Its wheels creaked mournfully as it rolled into a corner. "But tell me all. Every subtle nuance, every agonized grimace…"

"It wasn't very subtle," she said flatly, and pushed back her braided hair to reveal the bruise. "And I still can't hear very well out of my right ear."

He laughed, a deep-throated bass rumble that left her shaking with fury.

"I could have died! Doesn't that matter to you?"

"Not tremendously." His eyes were on her, and she writhed, unable to meet his gaze.

"You could have at least warned me," she cried, trying to find a safe place to rest her eyes, but everywhere she looked there was madness.

"I'm not your daddy. I assumed you had enough intelligence to do your own research."

"I'm not a professional killer. I don't research."

Even Kafka emitted a whispering, panting chuckle that sounded like dry, dead hands being rubbed together, and the Astronomer threw back his head and roared, the tendons in his ski

"Oh, my precious dear. Is that how you hide from your soul? You little fool. You should embrace the hate, lick it, eat it, revel in it. I am offering you a unique opportunity to find vengeance. To repay loss with pain. And after it's all over I'll give you the freedom you crave. You should thank me."

"I'm becoming a monster," Roulette murmured.

"is this doubt I'm hearing? Then please quash it. Guilt is a most debilitating emotion. It makes you weak. You see, doubt can lead to betrayal, and you know how I deal with those who betray me. I'm giving you Tachyon, though I really want to kill him myself, so don't come bleating about how close you came to death, and how awful I am for making you kill. And don't even think about backing out. I haven't time to deal with the good doctor myself-I've even had to delegate Turtle to Imp and Insulin-so I would be very upset with you if I had to add Tachyon back into my agenda. The pleasure wouldn't outweigh the aggravation, believe me."