Dead Mans Hand

9:00 A.M.

"You've got a reporter named Thomas Downs," Jay said. The receptionist looked at him dubiously. She was a chic little number who looked like she'd been specially bred to sit behind the high-tech chrome-and-glass reception desk. The offices of Aces magazine were a lot classier than Jay had anticipated. If he'd known they had two entire floors at 666 Fifth Avenue, Jay might have stopped for that shine in the subway. Obviously, there was money to be made in stories about Peregrine's love life.

"Digger didn't come in today," the receptionist said. On the wall behind her, the magazine's logo had been burned into a chrome steel plate by Jumpin' Jack Flash. Elsewhere around the reception area, various distinguished ace visitors had transmuted a chrome ashtray into some kind of weird purple glass, twisted steel bars into new and fanciful shapes, and constructed a perpetual-motion machine that had been whirring happily away for four years now. Little brass plaques commemorated each of these feats.

"Where can I find him?" Jay asked. "It's important."

"I'm sorry," the receptionist said. "We don't give out that kind of information."

"Is there someone else I could talk to?" Jay asked. "Not without an appointment," she said.

"I'm an ace," Jay told her.

She tried to suppress a smile, and failed. "I'm sure you are."

Jay looked around the reception area, made the gun shape with his fingers, and pointed at a long chrome-andleather sofa. It vanished with a pop. He'd needed a new couch anyway. "Do I get a little brass plaque?" he asked the receptionist.

"Perhaps Mr. Lowboy could help you," she said, lifting up the phone.

The editorial floor had been partitioned off into a maze of tiny cubicles. Larger private offices, with real walls and doors, lined the outside of the building, leaving the big central space windowless. There were lots of cheerful colors and potted plants, and peppy Muzak kept the well-dressed staff busy at their computer terminals. Everything was very clean and orderly. Jay hated it.

Mr. Lowboy's comer office had no computer terminal, no cheerful colors, and no Muzak. Just a lot of wood and leather, and two huge tinted windows looking out over the Manhattan skyline. Mr. Lowboy wasn't there when they arrived, so Jay wandered around the room looking at the framed photographs on the walls. He was studying a faded black-and-white print of Jetboy shaking hands with a wizened little man who looked like an anemic gnome when Lowboy finally made his entrance.

"That's my grandfather," he said. "He and Jetboy were like that." Lowboy crossed his middle and index fingers. He was a couple of inches shorter than Jay and wore a threepiece white suit with a pastel shirt and a black knit tie.

"Why is he handing Jetboy a check?" Jay asked.

"Oh, well, truth is, he was lending the kid money all the time. Jetboy never did know how to manage his finances. Just like a lot of these modern aces." He held out his hand. "I'm Bob Lowboy. I understand you're looking for Digger." He didn't wait for an answer. "I'm afraid we can't help you," he said as they shook. "Digger's a crackerjack reporter, no doubt of it, but he's not the most reliable man we've got on staff. He took off yesterday during his coffee break, and we haven't seen him since."

"Aren't you a little concerned about that?"

"Not to worry" Lowboy assured him. "He's done it before. The last time, he showed up a week later with all the dope on the Howler's secret love child. Made the cover."

"I'll just bet it did," Jay said.

"If you'd like to leave a card with my assistant, we'll make sure Digger gets it," Lowboy promised.

Jay left a card with Mr. Lowboy's assistant and told her he'd find his own way out. He was threading his way through the labyrinth when a woman called out to him. "Mr. Ackroyd?"

She was young, early twenties maybe, dressed in a plain white shirt open at the collar, jeans, and a pin-striped gray vest. Her hair was cropped short, and round wire-rims framed her face. "Mandy told everyone about the couch," she said. "You're Popinjay." She offered her hand shyly. Her nails were trimmed down to the quick.

"I hate that name."

She looked guilty "Oh God, that's right, it was in your file. I'm sorry, I forgot. I hope I haven't offended you. I'm Judy Scheffel. Sometimes they call me Crash."

"Crash?" Jay said dubiously.

"Don't ask. I'm Digger's research assistant. Can we talk?" She produced a key from the pocket of her vest. "The key to Digger's office," she said. "C'mon."

Downs might have been only a reporter, but clearly Aces valued his services. His office was a third the size of Lowboy's, but it was a real office, with walls, a door that locked, and even a single narrow window. The bookshelves along the west wall were jammed far beyond capacity and looked as though they could come cascading down at any moment. A computer work station occupied the corner by the window. Next to it was a bulletin board crowded with mug shots of people that Jay didn't recognize. "Who are they?" he asked.

Crash carefully locked the door. "Aces who are still up the sleeve," she said. "For future reference. You'd be surprised how many times Digger's been the first to break the story on a new ace. No one else comes close."

"If they haven't gone public yet, how does he know they're aces?" Jay said, studying the pictures.

"I think he has a source down at the Jokertown Clinic who tips him off whenever a new ace is diagnosed." Crash shoved some papers aside and sat on the edge of Digger's desk. "Digger's in trouble, isn't he?"

"You tell me," Jay said.

"He's in trouble," she said. "He's always been kind of jumpy, but yesterday he just freaked."

"Tell me about it," Jay said. He moved a box of Peregrine pinup calendars off the swivel chair and sat down. "We were working on a story yesterday morning. About the convention-a profile of the ace delegates. Digger had this tiny little Sony Watchman on in the background, in case any news broke on the convention floor. When they came on with the newsflash about Chrysalis, he turned white as a sheet."

"They were close," Jay said. "Maybe even lovers."

"It wasn't just grief," Crash said. "It was fear. Digger was terrified. I gotta go, he said. I asked him when he'd be back, but it was like he didn't hear me. He practically ran out of the office. And Mandy, up front at the desk, she told me he didn't even wait for an elevator. He took the stairs down."

Jay had to admit that didn't sound like a man going underground for a story; it sounded like a man running for his life. "Downs ever do a story on the bow-and-arrow killer?"

"No. Aces doesn't run a lot of crime stories."

"He ever mention Chrysalis being afraid of someone?" She shook her head.

"Some of his stories must have pissed people off. Was there anyone in particular had it in for him?"

"Peregrine," Crash said quickly. "She and Dr. Tachyon were both angry with Digger over a story he did during the tour. He just reported what Tachyon told him."

Dr. Tachyon was one of maybe six people that Jay was reasonably certain he could beat in an arm-wrestling contest. Peri he wasn't so sure about, but both of them were down in Atlanta anyway. "You're sure he had no history with Yeoman?" he asked. When she nodded, he said, "How about the Oddity?"

She considered that for a minute. "Digger did a story on the Oddity years ago, when he first came on staff. He showed it to me once. It was very well written. Digger said it would have won a Pulitzer, but Lowboy spiked it and it never ran."

"Why?" Jay said.

Crash looked embarrassed. "It was before my time, but I guess it was because the Oddity's a joker. Lowboy is always saying that our readership doesn't want to read about jokers."

"Was the Oddity upset that the story never ran?"

"Not as much as Digger was," she said.

Jay frowned. "You have any idea where Digger might have gone?"

Crash shook her head. "All I know is he's not at home. I've phoned him a half-dozen times, but all I ever get is his machine."

"That just means he's not answering the phone. Could be hiding under his bed, for all we know." He could be dead, too, he thought, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, his brains leaking onto the rug. He didn't say it. "I better check." Jay. looked at her thoughtfully. "Before, you said something about my file."

"Sure," she said. "We have files on all the aces."

Jay put his hand on top of the computer. "Can you get at them through this thing?"

"You can tap into our data library from any work station, if you've got the password," she said. "But I could get fired for giving unauthorized access to our files."

"No problem," Jay said. "I'm sure Digger will understand. If he's still alive."

Crash looked at him for a moment, then got up and pulled the dustcover off the computer. Jay leaned over her shoulder. She turned on the machine and typed in Digger's password.

"Nose?" Jay asked.

Crash shrugged. "It's his password, not mine. What file do you want to look at?"

"Chrysalis got killed by someone who was inhumanly strong. Five'll get you ten that Digger's hiding from the same guy. I want to know who that could be."

" I can call up a list of all aces on file with that power, but it's going to be awfully long. Enhanced physical strength is the third most common wild-card power, after telepathy and telekinesis."

"Do it," Jay urged.

Her fingers moved expertly over the computer keyboard. "You want just aces, or jokers, too?"

"I thought Aces didn't report on jokers?"

"We don't, but the library draws from all kinds of sources. SCARE reports, scientific papers, clippings from the daily press. The research department is very thorough."

"If it's strong enough to pulp a human skull, I don't care if it's an ace, a joker, or a rutabaga."

"We don't have the rutabaga data on line yet," she said, entering a series of commands. It seemed a god-awful long time before the computer completed its search.

"Three hundred nineteen cases," Crash read cheerfully from the screen. "Not as many as I thought. That's everyone we know of who's ever displayed physical strength beyond the normal human range. Want me to print out the list?"

"Three hundred nineteen suspects might be a little cumbersome," Jay said. "Is there some way to narrow it down?"

"Sure," she said. "Factor in some other parameters. Some of these people are dead. We could eliminate them."

"Dead people make lousy suspects," Jay agreed.

Crash typed in a command. "Three hundred and two," she said. "Not much of an improvement. What if I restrict it to city residents?"

Jay thought about that for a moment. "No," he said reluctantly.

"Why not?" she asked. "It would cut the list by seventy or eighty names, at least. The computers counting aces from all over the country… Detroit Steel, Big Mama in Chicago, Haymaker in Kansas City. You don't think it was one of them?"

"No," Jay admitted. "I figure it's more likely our killer is somebody who actually met Chrysalis. It usually works out like that in murder cases. Problem is, there are some out-oftowners who qualify. Billy Ray and Jack Braun, for two."

"It couldn't be Golden Boy," Crash pointed out. "He's down in Atlanta. Besides, Digger was always saying what a weenie he was."

"Obviously the mere mention of Braun's name reduced him to a state of abject error," Jay said. He put his hand on her shoulder. She didn't seem to object. "Listen, can this thing cross-index several factors at once?" he asked.

"No problem," she said.

"Real good," he said. "I want anyone with a criminal record or a history of mental illness. Hell, give me anyone who's been arrested for a crime, never mind whether they were convicted. Also anyone who's ever been linked to Chrysalis or the Crystal Palace. Anyone who lives in Jokertown. Or near Jokertown… the Lower East Side, Little Italy, Chinatown, the East Village, anywhere down around there. Can you do that?"

"I think so," she said.

Jay gave her shoulder a squeeze and watched her work. When it was done, Crash leaned back in the chair, stretched, said, "Here goes nothing," and pressed the enter key.

The machine began to hum and search.

"It's working through the three hundred two candidates, name by name, taking each suspect and searching the data banks to see if any of our criteria fit," she explained. "You gave me four parameters-arrests, mental illness, ties to Chrysalis, geography. I programmed it to flag each name with stars to indicate the number of fits."

"Real good," said Jay, who hadn't thought of that.

Jay grabbed the paper as it slid out of the laser printer, still warm to the touch. Nineteen finalists had survived.