"I did not," Jube told him with indignation.
"Look me in the eye and say that, you two-bit jerk." Behind the skull-faced man, the door opened and Troll ducked through into the taproom, followed by a short redhaired man in a lime-green suit. "Tachyon," Jube said with apprehension, suddenly reminded of the Takisian warship up in orbit.
Jube's unpleasant companion twisted his head around so sharply that his cowl flopped down, revealing thin brown hair and a bad case of dandruff. He jerked to his feet, hesitated, and rushed for the door as soon as Tachyon and Troll had moved toward the back. "Hey!" Jube called after him, "hey, mister, your paper!" He'd left; the Cry on the bar. The man went out so quickly he almost caught the end of his long black cape in the door. Jube shrugged and went back to his pina colada.
Several hours and a dozen drinks later, Chrysalis had still not made an appearance, nor had Jube spotted anyone who looked like he imagined this Popinjay might look. When Lupo announced last call, Jube beckoned him over. "Where is she?" he asked.
"Chrysalis?" Lupo asked. Deep red eyes sparkled on either side of his long, hairy snout. "Is she expecting you?"
Jube nodded. "Got stuff to tell her."
"Okay," Lupo said. "In the red room, third booth from the left. She's with a friend." He grinned. "Pretend you don't see him, if you hear what I'm saying."
"Whatever she wants." Jube thought the friend had to be Popinjay, but he didn't say anything. He lowered himself carefully off the stool and went to the red room, off to the right of the main taproom. Inside, it was dim and smoky. The lights were red, the thick shag carpeting was red, and the heavy velvet drapes around the booths were a deep, rich burgundy. Most booths were empty at this time of night, but he could hear a woman moaning from one that was not. He went to the third booth from the left, pulled back the drape, and stuck his head inside.
They had been talking in low, earnest tones, but now the conversation broke off abruptly. Chrysalis looked up at him. "Jubal," she said crisply. "What can I do for you?"
Jube looked at her companion, a compact sinewy white man in a black tee shirt and dark leather jacket. He wore the plainest of masks, a black hood that covered everything but his eyes. "You must be Popinjay," Jube said, before he recalled that the detective did not like to be called by that name. "No," the masked man replied, his voice surprisingly soft. He glanced at Chrysalis. "We can resume this conversation later if you have business to transact." He slid out of the booth and walked off without another word.
"Get in," Chrysalis said. Jube sat down and pulled the drapes closed. "Whatever you have for me, I hope it's good." She sounded distinctly annoyed.
"Have for you?" Jube was confused. "What do you mean? Where's Popinjay, shouldn't he be here by now?"
She stared at him. Sheathed in transparent flesh and ghost-gray muscles, her skull reminded Jube of the unpleasant man who'd sat next to him at the bar. "I wasn't aware you knew Jay. What does he have to do with anything? Is there something about Jay that I need to know?"
"The report," Jube blurted. "He was going to tell us about these Masons who hired Devil John to steal that body from the morgue. They were dangerous, you said."
Chrysalis laughed at him, drew back the privacy curtains, and rose languidly. "Jubal, I don't know how many exotic rum drinks you've indulged in tonight, but I suspect it was a few too many. That's always a problem when Lupo is behind the bar. Sascha can tell when a customer has had enough, but not our little wolf-boy. Go home and sleep it off."
"Go home!" Jube said. "But what about the body, what about Devil John and these Masons…"
"If you want to join a lodge, the Odd Fellows would suit you better, I'd think," Chrysalis said in a bored tone. "Other than that, I don't have the vaguest idea what you're talking about."
The walk home was long and hot, and Jube had an uneasy feeling, as if he were being watched. He stopped and looked around furtively several times, to try and catch whoever was following him, but there was never anyone in sight.
Down in the privacy of his apartment, Jube immersed himself gratefully in his cold tub, and turned on his television. The late movie was Thirty Minutes Over Broadway!, but it wasn't the Howard Hawks version, it was the awful 1978 remake with Jan-Michael Vincent as Jetboy and Dudley Moore doing a comic-relief Tachyon in a hideous red wig. Jube found himself watching it anyway; mindless escape was exactly what he needed. He would worry about Chrysalis and the rest of it tomorrow.
Jetboy had just crashed the JB-1 into the blimps when the picture suddenly crackled and went black. "Hey," Jube said, stabbing at his remote control. Nothing happened.
Then a hound the size of a small horse walked out of his television set.
It was lean and terrible, its body smoke-gray and hideously emaciated, its eyes windows that opened on a charnel house. A long forked tail curved up over its back like a scorpion's sting, and twitched from side to side.
Jube recoiled so fast he splashed water all over his bedroom floor, and began shouting at the thing. The hound bared teeth like yellow daggers. Jube realized he was babbling in the Network trade tongue, and switched to English. "Get out!" he told it. "Get away!" He scrabbled over the side of the tub, splashing more water, and retreated. The remote control was still in his hand, if he could reach his sanctum-but what good would that do, against some thing that walked through walls? His flesh went hot with sudden terror.
The hound padded after him, and then stopped. Its gaze was fixed on his crotch. It seemed momentarily bemused by the forked double penis, and full set of female genitalia beneath. Jube decided that his best chance lay in a dash for the street. He edged backward.
"Fat little man," the hound called out in a voice that was pure unctuous malice. "Will you run from me? You sought me out, fool. Do you think your thick joker legs can carry you faster than Setekh the destroyer?"
Jube gaped. "Who…"
"I am he whose secrets you sought to know," the hound said. "Pathetic little joker, did you think we would not notice, did you think we would not care? I have taken the knowledge from the minds of your hirelings, and followed the trail back to you. And now you will die."
"Why?" Jube said. He had no doubt that creature could kill him, but if he must perish, he hoped at least to understand the reason.
"Because you have wasted my time," the hound said. Its mouth twisted into obscene, unnatural shapes when it spoke. "I thought to find some great enemy, and instead I find a fat little joker who makes his money selling gossip to a saloonkeeper. How much did you think the secrets of our Order would be worth? Who did you think might pay for them, Walrus? Tell me, and I will not toy with you. Lie, and your dying will last till dawn."
The hound had no idea what he was, Jhubben realized. How could it? It had learned of him from Chrysalis, from the street; it had not walked behind his false wall. Suddenly, for reasons he could not have explained, Jube knew that Setekh must not know. He must lead it away from his secrets. "I did not mean to pry, mighty Setekh," he said loudly. He had posed as a joker for thirty-four years, he knew how to crawl. "I beg your mercy," he said, edging backward toward the living room. "I am not your enemy," he told it. The hound padded toward him, eyes smoldering, tongue lolling from its long snout. Jube jumped for his living room, slammed the door behind him, and ran.