Dead Mans Hand

"I hate this," Straight Arrow muttered.

Somewhere in the crowd, a chant of "traitorl" went up. Tachyon stopped and hid his face in his hands. Jesse had to put an arm around his shoulders and whisper encouragement in his ear to get the Takisian going again. Even then, Tach's smile looked like it had been pasted on. The alien grasped the flipper of a legless joker who had thrust it up between a policeman's legs. He said a few words, smiled, moved on. More hands reached for him.

A thin teenager in worn leathers slid through the crowd, smiling, just three people down the line. How the hell could anyone wear leather in this heat? Jay wondered briefly.

He was glancing away when something-the hunger in that lean face, the bright glitter in the boy's eyes-caught his attention and held it.

Tachyon touched-oh so lightly-the twisted fingers of a foul-smelling joker whose huge boils oozed with pus. He looked a little green, but he forced a smile.

One of the boy's shoulders was higher than the other.

"NO!" Jay screamed, moving forward, hands sliding out of his pockets.

The boy grasped Tachyon's hand. "I'm Mackie Messer," Jay heard him say as the buzz saw kicked in.

"I was in medical school in 1946," Mr. Bones said between sips of tea, "when the wild card came down out of the sky. My deformity was slight, but enough to get me banished from school. It was unusual enough to be a black man in medical school, but a joker black man couldn't be tolerated."

"You use your ante

Bones nodded. "After a while I discovered that they've given me a sixth sense, somewhere between taste and smell and touch that's probably about as hard to describe as sight to a blind man. Through the years I've learned to use it to help detect wrongness in my patients."

He put down his cup and turned to Je

Bre

Bones moved over and gestured for Bre

"Daniel," she murmured, and suddenly went limp. Bre

"It's all right, son, let her down gently. I think she's passed the crisis point."

Bre

"She needs sleep," Bones said. "I'm going to give her a sedative and I don't want her to be disturbed for at least twenty-four hours."

A vast sense of relief swept through Bre

Bones nodded.

"Thanks, doctor-I mean, Mr. Bones. What do I owe you?"

Bones shrugged lean shoulders. "I don't have set fees. My patients pay what they can."

Bre

"This is all I have with me," he said. "If there's anything else you ever need, call this number and I'll do what I can." Bre

Bre

Under the high, thin shriek of Tach's screaming was the hideous wet sound of a power saw cutting meat. Fingers and pieces of flesh and bone were flying everywhere. The boy stood there, fine drops of Tachyon's blood spattering his face and arm and leathers with a sound like summer rain, all the time smiling, his mouth open just a little, tongue moving slightly across his lower lip.

It seemed to Jay like he was moving in slow motion. His hand came up, fingers sliding into the shape of a gun… Tachyon staggered back, blood jetting from the ragged ruin of his right hand. The boy's hands were a blur. A cop grabbed him by the jacket. The leather boy sliced off his arm clean at the shoulder like it was the easiest thing in the world and turned back to Tachyon. The alien had stumbled to his knees. The boy reached down for him, almost gently, as if he were going to caress his cheek, stroke that long red hair.

But Jay was pointing. No one heard the pop. Too many people were screaming. But suddenly Mackie Messer was gone.

Dazed, trembling, Jay was hardly aware of the big blond man who came crashing out of the crowd an instant later, glowing as yellow as a bug light and staggering almost in a circle as he punched at an assassin who was no longer there. "Who did that?" he shouted. All around them people were shouting, ru

"Ackroyd," someone said. Jay looked around. Straight Arrow was talking to him. "Where did you send him?"

Jay couldn't think straight. "Yeah," he said. His hand was still clenched tightly in its gun shape. He flexed his fingers, ran them through his hair. "Oh Jesus," he said, patting himself to make sure he was intact.

"You!" someone bellowed at him. It was the big blond guy. He looked almost as young as the leather boy. "Who the hell are you?"

"Jay Ackroyd," Straight Arrow told him. "Private cop. They call him Popinjay."

"I had the bastardl" The blond guy made a fist, crushing a pack of cigarettes that he didn't seem to realize he was holding. Little bits of tobacco drippled down over his pants. "I could have turned him into Jell-O! Aw, fuck!" He threw down the squashed cigarettes and kicked them into the crowd. Suddenly Jay recognized Golden Boy. The reports of Braun's death were obviously exaggerated. Nobody ever told him anything.

"Where'd you send him, Ackroyd?" Straight Arrow asked. "Popped him…" His lips were very dry. When he licked them, Jay tasted blood.

The Mormon ace grabbed his lapels and shook him. "Where'd you send the assassin?"

"Oh," Jay said. "New York. The Tombs." Straight Arrow let him go. "Good."