Dead Mans Hand

9:00 P.M.

The Oddity wasn't listed in the phone book or the city directory. At least not under "Oddity."

The joker had other names: Evan, Patti, John. That much Digger had remembered from that story that Mr. Lowboy had refused to print. The Oddity wasn't one person but three, two men and a woman. They'd been roommates and lovers, Digger told him, a menage a trois, until the wild card had fused them into a single nightmare creature, three minds sharing one massive body, its flesh alive with the agony of perpetual transformation. Evan, Patti, John; but no surnames.

As for an address, the best that Downs could recall was that they lived down in Jokertown somewhere. That much Jay could have guessed by himself.

He took a cab to Jokertown and hit the streets, making the rounds until his feet began to hurt. The snitches at Freakers gave him some leads, after head dropped a few bills, but nothing had panned out. The Oddity didn't drink in any of the usual gin joints, eat in any of the usual greasy spoons, or get his or her ashes hauled in any of the usual cathouses. Jay finally tried the cophouse, ducking in through the side entrance to avoid his buddies Maseryk and Kant. There had been rumors about the Oddity, Sergeant Mole told him, but no complaints, no arrests, and no address on file.

After that, he walked the streets at random, in the half-assed hope of bumping into his quarry. When he hadn't been looking for the Oddity, the asshole had been showing up everywhere; now he couldn't find him for a prayer.

It must have been old habit that made Jay turn down Henry Street toward the Crystal Palace. He was half a block away when he remembered the Palace was closed.

Except, he saw when he got closer, that it wasn't.

Jay shoved in through the front door, following a pair of slumming yuppies. The taproom was as crowded as he'd ever seen it. All the tables and booths were full, and patrons were lined up two deep along the bar, clamoring for service. Jay moved through the press with a couple of feints and a deft elbow, to belly up to the rail. Lupo was the only bartender. His fur was slick with sweat, and he looked harassed. "I got his poisse cafe for him right here," he snapped at a waitress, grabbing his crotch. He drew a beer and set it on her tray.

"Here, give him this, if he doesn't like it, tell him Squisher makes the best poisse cafe in town over in the Basement." The bartender caught sight of Jay from the corner of his eye. He threw together a scotch and soda and brought it down, walking right past four nat barflies who were trying to get his attention. "Son of a fucking bitch," he complained as he set down the drink on a soggy coaster in front of Jay. "Busy tonight," Jay said.

"Tell me about it," Lupo said. "Nothing like a murder to goose up business. I never seen three quarters of these geeks before. Lemme tell you, they don't know jack about tipping neither."

"Hey!" one of the nats screamed from three stools down. "Hey, furface, I want some fuckin' service!"

Lupo turned his head and snarled, baring long yellow teeth. The nat cringed and almost fell off his stool. For a second it got very quiet along the bar. Lupo turned back to Jay. "You were saying?"

"Where's Sascha?" Jay asked.

"Good question," Lupo said. "This is his goddamn shift, only nobody can find him. Maybe if I was a telepath I'd know when to get lost, too."

"New boss on the premises?"

Lupo nodded, moving off as a waitress hailed him from the far end of the bar. "Try the red room," he said.

The red room was quieter than the main taproom, but all the booths were occupied, red velvet curtains drawn around each for privacy. Jay stopped a waitress and asked about Dutton. She pointed to the booth on the end.

He carried his scotch over and stuck his head through the curtain. "Peekaboo," he said.

Jube jumped like someone had given him a hotfoot and looked nervous until he saw who it was. Charles Dutton seemed unperturbed. "Have a seat, Mr. Ackroyd," he said calmly.

Jay slid into the booth and let the curtain fall closed behind him, shutting them into a soft red womb. It felt good to sit down.

Dutton was nursing a cognac. The Walrus had a huge pifia colada with a pineapple ring floating on top, but he pushed it away and maneuvered his bulk out of the booth. "I got to sell some papers," he said. "Catch you later."

Jay waited till he was gone. "Picking up the pieces?"

Deep-sunk cold eyes regarded him frankly. "You might say that. I've decided to keep the business going."

"Great," Jay said. "I'll be your first customer."

"What would you like to know? If the price is right, I'm sure we can do business."

"I get my usual generous discount, right?" Jay said. He went on quickly, before Dutton could say no. "I'm looking for the Oddity. Know where they live?"

"No," Dutton said.

Jay made a tsking sound. "Chrysalis would have," he said. "See, if you're going to be an information broker, you got to know things like that."

Give me time to consult her informants," Dutton said. "Sascha might know," Jay told him. "You pick up all kinds of things when you can read minds. Where is Sascha anyway?

"I would like to know that myself. He hasn't returned to his room since the murder. His mother hasn't seen him either. She's quite worried."

"He's probably with his girlfriend," Jay said. "Trust me, she's not the kind of girl you bring home to Mom." He finished his drink. "Guess you haven't found those secret files yet."

"No, more's the pity," Dutton told him. "I can assure you, however, that they're nowhere in this building." Dutton pulled his hood over his face and stood up.

"Don't tell me you're tired of my company already?" Jay said.

"I'm afraid I have business to attend to."

"Me too." Jay got to his feet. He was thinking about Sascha. The last time he'd paid a call, he'd gotten laid and lied to. Maybe it was time they had another chat.