Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel (38 page)

El Monstro had just sat down beside Marcus, saying winners should sit together, shouldn’t they? Eight feet tall, plated, with an oddly benevolent smile: Marcus couldn’t figure him out. He’d been in here longer than anyone but Asmodeus. He was thriving here, enjoying the violence and the raw pleasures it afforded him. At least, outwardly he was. At times, Marcus saw a timorous quiver beneath his arrogant facade, as if every now and then he forgot who or where he was. Or maybe it was that every now and then he remembered. Once, during a melancholy moment, he’d mumbled something about his mother. Marcus didn’t hear what, and he didn’t ask for him to repeat it.

Marcus pulled Olena tight against his body. She repositioned her arms around his neck, leaned in and nibbled his ear. He felt the room’s lecherous eyes on her, and on the other girl. The jokers didn’t even try to hide their lust. If it wasn’t for Baba Yaga’s rules and Dmitri’s talent, Marcus was sure he’d be fighting them all off. El Monstro seemed to thrive on the jealous attention. Marcus didn’t, but he couldn’t miss seeing the fight. And he wanted Olena with him. It had only been one night, but he wanted her beside him forever and ever.

Everyone in the gladiator compound had gathered to watch Father Squid’s first bout. Chairs and couches had been pulled together before a large-screen television. The buffet table lay ravished behind them. The mood was festive, edged with menace, but festive nonetheless. None of the spectators had to worry about their own lives tonight. That was on the priest and whomever he was going to fight. Nobody knew who that was yet—somebody brought in special for it, apparently.

“Look at them,” El Monstro said, nudging Marcus’s shoulder. “They’re like wolves licking their chops. And they say we’re the savages!”

The large screen panned across the expectant faces of the audience. Men and women, old and young, different races and features: they all shared the same expression. They looked possessed. Their noses flared as they breathed. Their eyes bulged. The sight of them made Marcus’s skin crawl.

Asmodeus entered the room. He stood in the door a moment, staring at Marcus. Or … that’s what he thought until the joker’s eyes shifted and met Marcus’s. He glared at him for a long moment, and then he moved into the group to take a seat. Before he met his eyes, Marcus realized, he’d been looking at Olena.

Onscreen, the camera shifted to one of the combatants. The joker shook out his muscle-bound shoulders, snapped his hands, and flexed his fingers. He shouted and stomped, his enormous eyes trembling with rage. Marcus tensed. The guy was hard not to recognize. Marcus had last seen him emerging from the white van.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer intoned, “tonight’s main event features two debut performances in our arena. Aleksei the Eel, a joker of incredible physical strength, a fighter just recently snatched from the mean city streets. Formidable—and horrible—to look upon. There’s more to him than brawn. He’s endowed with a high-voltage touch. Aleksei the Eel, ladies and gentlemen!”

Wartcake said, “That’s how the ugly bastard caught me. Fucking shocked me.” Others spoke up as well. It seemed that many of them had had run-ins with the Eel.

“Why’s he in there?” John the Pharaoh asked.

Asmodeus answered. “He screwed up when he nabbed the squid. Was supposed to just get snake-boy, here. Add to that selling
DVD
’s on the side, and wreckin’ a van and slugging it out with a bunch of fucking aces. Baba Yaga ain’t happy. She’s teaching him a lesson.”

Marcus didn’t say anything. He just glared at the screen.

The announcer described the fighter facing him as an agent of righteous retribution, a killer who hides beneath the robes of a saint, a man with a past mired in unspeakable violence. “Some know him as a saint, but saint and sinner; what’s the difference? Ladies and gentlemen, the Holy Redeemer!”

Father Squid appeared on the screen. He stood motionless, his arms slightly raised to either side, like a gunfighter awaiting the moment to draw. His gloved hands hung loose. His cloak draped him and covered his head, but the lights illuminated his face. The camera even drew in near enough to show the sway of the tentacles covering his mouth as he breathed. His expression was impossible to read.

It began abruptly. Bellowing, Aleksei barreled forward. Father Squid stayed immobile as the hulk charged. His head hung forward. It didn’t even look like he saw the guy rushing toward him, not until the last minute. Just as Aleksei reached him, Father Squid shifted to one side, dodging Aleksei’s headlong attack. It was a swift, efficient motion, just enough to send Aleksei stumbling into the wall beyond him. He bounced off it and whirled.

Father Squid strode away. His steps looked as heavy and ponderous as ever, but there was a grace to him that Marcus hadn’t noticed before. The priest circled and shifted as if his body was remembering the motions for him. He kept Aleksei at arm’s length, near enough to talk to. That’s what he was doing. Marcus couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he saw his tentacles shifting and flexing as he spoke.

He’s going to do it
, Marcus thought. Look how cool he is. How calm.

Gesturing with his arms, Father Squid made some argument that Aleksei kept trying to punch through. Aleksei shook his head savagely. He spit and hissed and pressed to get in striking range. “The squid’s a coward,” Wartcake said.

Marcus snapped, “He’s no coward. He’s just above this shit. He’s not going to fight for those fuckers.”

This got him a few jeers and insults, but mostly they all just watched the fight. Aleksei was all testosterone-pumped, muscle-bound rage. He threw wild, powerful punches, changeups that went from high to low, swinging wide or jabbing for the torso. His fists sparked with electricity. His ugly face contorted as he concentrated.

For his part, Father Squid moved with an uncanny precision. He backed and dodged, slipped his head to the side, twisted from the torso. No matter how he tried, Aleksei couldn’t land a blow. Father Squid didn’t move any faster, but it seemed he knew what his opponent was going to do just before he did it. He swatted the joker’s punches away with sharp, karate-like motions, his body taking on stances Marcus had never imagined the old priest capable of. Once, he caught Aleksei’s fist in his gloved hand. Judging by the way the big man scowled, Father Squid must’ve squeezed it painfully. Just for a moment, though, then he flung it away.

“Squid’s getting pissed,” El Monstro said.

Don’t
, Marcus said to himself.
Don’t give in
.

Aleksei landed a punch in Father Squid’s gut. The priest lurched over around it, and Aleksei slammed another fist into his temple. The electric force of it hurled Father Squid’s body backwards. He rose just as Aleksei bore down on him. He snapped out a hand, catching Aleksei’s arm at the wrist. He twisted around, keeping a grip on the arm while clipping the man’s legs with his body and using his momentum to trip him. The joker flew heels over head. Father Squid planted his feet and pulled. The arm popped out of its socket. It was a sickly thing to watch, the unnatural way the body and arm moved in opposite directions. Father Squid let go and backed away. He looked horrified at what he’d done. He stared with bulbous eyes as Aleksei squirmed across the stadium floor, helpless.

“Finish him,” Asmodeus said, mouth open, tongue sliding across his teeth.

Shaking his head, Father Squid stepped forward. He made soothing gestures with his hands. He reached out, and Marcus knew he was trying to position Aleksei to slip his arm back into its socket.

Yes,
he thought.
Show them
.

He didn’t get a chance to.

Aleksei transformed. In the blink of an eye, he became an eel. Eight thick, muscular, slimy feet of one. His jaws opened and he lunged up at the priest’s face. Father Squid blocked with his forearm. The eel bit into it and thrashed, yanking the priest off his feet. The crowd went wild, roars so loud Marcus could hear them through both the television and through the actual walls themselves. He watched, unsure what to feel, his stomach tied in knots.

After a few frantic moments, Father Squid got the eel pinned beneath his thighs. He gripped the joker around the neck and banged his head on the floor. He banged it hard, over and over again.

Grimacing, Marcus shut his eyes.

Ties That Bind

Part Three

THE CONDO WAS NORMALLY
quite roomy. One bedroom with a king-size bed for them, one bedroom for Isai, two large bathrooms, and a modern open-plan layout for the rest. It worked great for their family—or at least it had, until Kavitha’s family showed up on their doorstep and moved in. Two parents, two sisters, and their husbands, all bunking on air mattresses in the living room. Glorious.

“He was here in New York, Michael,” Kavitha’s mother said in British-accented English. “That was where he called us from last. The phone records are clear.”

“Yes, I know,” Michael said, trying to be patient. Sandip’s parents had hired an investigator when the kid had first gone missing, but the man had turned up nothing. So far, neither had Michael. It wasn’t technically his jurisdiction, but he’d squeezed looking for Sandip into every free minute at work. You did that for family; the other cops understood and covered for him when they could. But phone records, bank records, Internet, nothing. Michael had walked the streets, checked his contacts, but with no luck. As if the kid had dropped off the planet. “I know Sandip was here in New York; we saw him then.” Was he still here? Michael had no idea.

“So, I tell it to you again,” she snapped, regal in her silver sari and hair in a perfect bun, despite four nights sleeping on the floor. “And you will listen!”

Michael could only nod in response. He didn’t have a lot of moral ground to stand on, given his living situation, which Kavitha’s parents were handling with a fierce lack of acknowledgment. They had barely spoken to their daughter for years, ever since she’d gotten pregnant by a black guy and decided to keep the kid. But for this, for their only son, they’d finally broken the silence with a vengeance. Family was the most important thing to Kavitha, Michael knew; it had broken her heart when they’d turned so cold. But she wouldn’t betray them now, no matter how they’d treated her. It was one of the things Michael loved about her—he knew that no matter what, she would be loyal to family forever. Which loyalty now included him, Isai, and Minal. And as for her parents, Kavitha might never forgive them, but she’d still feed and house them until Sandip was safely found.

Now Michael stood in front of Kavitha’s mother, trying to swallow his own anger at the kid who had driven the whole family to distraction by disappearing. He was probably running around with some gang, pretending to be a hero. But he couldn’t say that to this tiny old woman, wrapped tightly in her shawl and shivering, clearly out of her mind with worry for her youngest child. When he found Sandip, he was going to strangle him. But he couldn’t tell her that; what Michael said out loud was only, “Don’t worry, Aunty.” She frowned at him, and he wasn’t sure if it was for the fatuous reassurance, or if she thought the “Aunty” impertinent. What was he supposed to call her? He couldn’t use her name—he was sure she’d think that was rude. This whole situation was impossible. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

If Michael was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was worried about the kid too. It was only two years ago that his own daughter had disappeared. Just for a few hours, but he’d thought his heart would stop. If Sandip would just pick up the damn phone and call.

He couldn’t spend all his time looking for the kid, not if he wanted to keep his job. Most of Michael’s days were spent on the street, talking to contacts, trying to figure out how the art smugglers were getting their pieces into New York. He’d nailed down almost every other part of the case—he knew who was doing the smuggling, where the pieces were coming from, who was buying. The one thing missing was the point of connection, the person or place that moved pieces from thief-seller to buyer. As soon as Michael found that link, he’d be able to make an arrest. Not that anyone at the station would care—everyone’s attention was focused on the missing jokers now. His punk partner was getting all the glory on what had turned out to be a much bigger case than anyone had expected. Michael glared across the desk at Franny, at just the wrong moment—the boy happened to look up, caught the glare, and then ducked his head back down, flushing.