Dead Mans Hand

11:00 P.M.

Digger Downs was typing furiously on a laptop computer, so engrossed that he didn't notice when Jay stepped into his apartment. "You forgot to lock your door," Ackroyd announced loudly.

Digger glanced up from the screen, startled, and stared at Jay with a guilty look on his face. The reporter was four feet tall, going on five. He looked like a child playing with a Speak 'n Spell. "You," he said.

"Me," Jay admitted. "You really ought to lock your door. Never can tell when someone might break in and trash all your stuff." He looked around pointedly. Digger's apartment was just the way that Mackie Messer had left it. "You have a hell of a lot of nerve showing up here," Digger said. "I could of died in that goddamned cat box. They sent me all the way to Alaska."

"Alaska, Atlanta, hey, that's close enough for government work," Jay said. He smiled. "At least you don't have to eat that airline food."

"It's not funny! I ought to sue you," Digger bitched. "By the time I finally got to Georgia, I was so big they had to cut me out of the goddamned box."

"If it's any consolation, I didn't have a whole lot of fun myself," Jay said. He crossed the room, stepping gingerly over the debris. "Anybody ever tell you you're a shitty housekeeper?"

Digger scowled. "I'm not touching a thing, not till the photographer's been here."

Jay sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say something like that," he said. "What are you writing?"

Digger hurriedly hit a key, storing the file he'd been working on, then slammed down the top of the little laptop computer so Jay couldn't read the file names off the screen. "None of your business," he said. "How'd you know I came home?"

"I'm a detective, remember?" Jay said. He cleared himself a space on one end of the sofa and sat down. "Let's not make this any harder than we have to. I just want to get the hell out of here, check myself into a hospital, and take some serious painkillers for about a month."

"So who's stopping you? Go."

"Not till we get something straight. You're not writing anything about Gregg Hartmann."

Digger laughed. "The hell I ain't. This is the story of my life. I'm writing it all… Syria, Berlin, Mackie Messer, the Crystal Palace, everything… I'm going to hang him out and watch him twist in the wind. I figure a special issue of Aces with nothing but the Hartmann expose. Or maybe I'll sell it to the Washington Post, really show that bimbo Sara Morgenstern a thing or two." He slapped the computer with his hand. "When this thing comes out, Greggie'll be lucky if they don't lynch him."

"Real good," Jay said wearily. "So how many other wild cards will get lynched in his place? Ever think about that?"

"That's not my concern," Digger said. "I'm a journalist, that's all. I just tell the truth and let the pieces fall where they may."

"Yeah," Jay said. "Funny, the truth wasn't so important when there was a chance those falling pieces might be coming off your body." He held up a hand before Downs could interrupt. "Just hear me out," he said. "I've already gone over this with Tachyon. He was right-this is a story that can't ever be told. There are reasons, Digger" He went over them, one by one.

Digger was unmoved. "You're asking me to be part of a cover-up," he said when Jay had finished.

"Real good," Jay said. "You got it."

"No way," Downs said with righteous indignation. "I got ethics. Besides, what about me? Why the hell should I let Hartmann off easy, he tried to have me killed! Forget it, Ackroyd."

"I know who killed Chrysalis," Jay said. "He's going to turn himself in tomorrow morning at the Jokertown precinct house. If you agree to drop the Hartmann expose, you can have that story instead. I'll arrange for the killer to give you a complete confession before he goes to the police." Jay had already talked it over with Hiram on the flight home. Hiram had agreed; Hiram was in a frame of mind to agree to most anything that might possibly spare further bloodshed. "It's quite a story," Jay said. "It's got blackmail, drugs, sex, death, aces, jokers, the works. Juicy." He ought to know. He'd helped Tachyon work out the details. What it didn't have was any mention of Gregg Hartmann or James Spector. Ti Malice was villain enough. "You can have an exclusive," Jay promised Digger. "In fact, how's this, I'll arrange for the killer to turn himself over to you, and you can deliver him to the cops."

For a moment, Digger looked tempted. Then his child's face screwed up in a frown. "Do I look stupid or what? The Hartmann. thing is headlines coast to coast, talk shows, books, hell, a Pulitzer for sure, maybe a Nobel. No way am I gonna swap that for some penny-ante Jokertown murder. I mean, gimme a break, Chrysalis? Who cares? She's just another dead joker."

"I'll throw in some money," Jay said.

Digger got indignant. "Hey, I don't take bribes, you got it? You can just keep your goddamned money, the American public has a right to know the truth."

Jay sighed deeply. He was running out of ammunition. "Okay," he said. "Have it your way." He stood up. "Once you run your little scoop, it's going to get real cold out there for wild cards, but if you think you can stand the chill, hey, who am I to argue?" He started for the door.

"Me?" Digger said. "Why should I have to stand the chill?"

Jay turned and looked back at him. "You're an ace, aren't you?" he said innocently. He touched a finger to the side of his nose and raised a meaningful eyebrow.

"But no one knows that," Digger said. Jay smiled.

"You wouldn't," Digger said, horrified. "I told you that in confidence, man. If anyone found out, I could be in a world of shit."

"So true," Jay said sympathetically. "You know, if it was up to me, I'd just as soon keep a lid on it, but…" He shrugged. "The American public has a right to know the truth."

His hand was on the doorknob when Digger called out after him. "Ackroyd."

Jay looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Downs regarded him thoughtfully. "How much money?" the reporter asked.

Midnight

They stopped at the Red Apple Rest, a twenty-four-hour restaurant on Route 17. Brennan got out and went inside. "I need seventeen cheeseburgers, twelve foot-long hot dogs with chili, three with mustard and sauerkraut, twentysix large fries, fifteen Cokes, ten Seven-Ups, and one large coffee. Black."

"Jesus, mister," the counterman said, "what ya got in your van, a pack of starving animals or something?"

"Just a few friends," Brennan said, laying his money on the counter.

Brennan turned as the counterman went to fill his order, and looked back over the parking lot. The moon had nearly set. Hanging on the rim of the horizon, it looked to Brennan like a skull, smiling. It took little imagination to add eyes of deepest blue and lips of coral red. He smiled back as it slipped below the horizon, and said softly, "Good-bye."