"Find out who's in charge, and tell them I want the tuna," Hiram said. "As much as he has. We'll do blackened tuna tonight instead of lobster."
"Paul will not be amused," Curtis said.
Hiram paused at the door to his office. "Let him scream. Then let him cook. If he refuses, I'll do it myself. I'm not unfamiliar with Cajun cuisine." He paused thoughtfully. "Alligator has an interesting taste. You don't suppose that Gills might have… no, that's too much to ask. Oh, and offer a premium price for that tuna. If I hadn't interfered this morning, none of this would have happened."
"You shouldn't blame yourself," Curtis said.
"Why not?" Hirain asked. He snorted. "I remember when I was first diagnosed, back in 1971. After Tachyon assured me that I wasn't going to die, that I'd been gifted with extraordi nary powers instead, I determined that I must use those powers for the public good. Absurd, I know, but it was the tenor of the times. I tell you, Curtis, heroism is a ludicrous career choice, although not half so ludicrous as I was in my costume." He paused thoughtfully, and flicked a piece of lint off the swell of his vest. "It was well-tailored," he said, "but ludicrous nonetheless. At any rate, my physique was distinctive, masked or no, and my abortive experiment in semiprofessional adventuring ended abruptly when a gossip columnist accurately divined my identity. I'm not a modest man, Curtis, but food is what I'm best at. Gills would be a lot better off if I'd remembered that this morning." He turned away before Curtis could reply, and shut the office door behind him.
His lunch was waiting on his desk: three thick-cut pork chops grilled with onion and basil, a side of pasta salad, steamed broccoli with grated romano cheese, and a piece of the famous Aces High cheesecake. Hiram sat down and contemplated it.
A newspaper lay next to his untouched lunch platter. The Daily News had already gotten out an extra, and Anthony had brought up a copy with Hiram's tux. The picture spread across the front of the tabloid had been taken at Jetboy's Tomb by some amateur photographer. Hiram supposed that it was a great news photo, but he could scarcely look at it.
He found himself averting his eyes from Kid Dinosaur's mutilated body, and looking at the faces in the background. Their emotions were plain to read: horror, hysteria, anguish, shock. Some just seemed baffled; others stared with unwholesome fascination. In the right-hand corner was a pretty blonde who couldn't have been more than eighteen, laughing, no doubt amused by some witticism from the boy whose arm she clung to, as yet oblivious to the horror a few feet away. How did she feel when she looked around, the laughter still fresh on her lips? How would she feel when she saw this picture, her laugh frozen there for all time?
His lunch was growing cold, but Hiram had no appetite. Kid Dinosaur had been a constant nuisance to the proprietor of Aces High. He remembered one hot summer night when a pteranodon had swooped in through the open terrace doors and buzzed the diners. Drinks were spilled, plates were dropped, the dessert cart tipped over, and a half-dozen indignant customers left without paying their bills. Hiram had put an end to the incident by making the creature too heavy to stay aloft, and reprimanding him in no uncertain terms. From all reports, the boy had been cowed for almost a week.
When the phone rang, Hiram grabbed it quickly. "What?" he demanded brusquely. He was in no mood for conversation. "Me, Hiram," Jay Ackroyd said.
Hiram had almost forgotten about the detective. "Where are you?" he demanded.
"At the moment I'm at a pay phone outside the men's room of the Crystal Palace, being eyed by a joker who looks like a cross between a douche bag and a saber-toothed tiger. I think he wants to use the phone, so I'll get right to the point. Chrysalis knows something."
"Chrysalis knows a good many things," Hiram said. "Real good," Ackroyd replied. "Your friend Bludgeon isn't independent. Him and his whole scam are part of something, something a lot bigger. Chrysalis knows who and what, but the price she quoted for the information was way out of my budget. Maybe not out of yours, though. I'm bringing her up tonight, you can talk to her yourself."
"You're bringing her here?" Hiram said. "Jay, she's a joker, not an ace."
"I'm an ace," Ackroyd reminded him, "and she's my date. Don't worry, I made her promise to cover her tits. A shame, though. They're nice tits, even if they are invisible. Just pretend she's really British and you'll get on great."
"Fine," Hiram said. "And while you've been arranging your social calendar and studying Chrysalis's breasts, Bludgeon put Gills in the hospital and destroyed my lobsters."
" I know," Ackroyd said.
Hiram was astonished. "How could you possibly know?"
"I dropped by Fulton Street before I went to see Chrysalis, figured maybe I'd see Gills, charm him with a few magic tricks, pull a coin out of his gills, and see if he'd talk to me. I got suspicious right off when I saw a truck burning in the alley. This seven-foot-tall guy was going out as I was coming in. He looked a lot like the guy waiting for the phone, only ugly. I made a citizen's arrest. He's in the Tombs."
"God," Hiram exclaimed. "Jay, this is the first good news I've heard all day. Thank you, and good work. You'll get a month of free dinners for this."
"Appetizers included, I hope. The thing's not done, though. Bludgeon's locked up for the moment, but sooner or later someone's going to notice him hollering in there, and then they'll count heads and let him go, unless we can get him charged with something. Can you go downtown and do the honors?"
Hiram felt in a terrible bind. " I… Jay, I want to, but I can't possibly leave now."
"A crisis with the pate de foie gras?"
"Fortunato is going to be bringing some people by. I need to, ah, stay. Besides, I've never laid eyes on Bludgeon. Gills was the one they assaulted. Have him prefer charges."
"He's terrified, Hiram."
"If we put Bludgeon away, he has nothing to be terrified of. Tell him that. He can't let them get away with this." Ackroyd sighed. "All right. I'll go talk to him. Hell. On days like this, I wish I could pop myself around. Do you have any idea what the traffic's like out there?"
Spector stared across the Hudson River toward the Jersey shore. He'd grown up in Teaneck. As long as he could remember he'd hated New Yorkers. Hated them for their contemptuous comments and unending supply of Jersey jokes. They really thought they were better, just by living a few miles away. Every New Yorker he killed was a little revenge for the way he'd always been treated by them.
The Astronomer knew he was alive by now. The old man was probably too busy to watch TV himself, but had plenty of flunkies to dish him the information. Spector could only hope that the other aces on the hit list were more important than he was. Hell, there was even a chance the Astronomer would buy it. They'd kicked his ass before. If he could manage to stay out of the way, Spector might be able to read everybody else's obit in the Times tomorrow.
The West Side Highway was behind him, already crawling with cars. The docks were busy; working guys still had to eat. They couldn't take the damn day off to gawk around.
Spector looked back into Manhattan. The Windhaven Tower building was directly across the highway. The apartments in it were exclusive and pricey. The architecture was like something out of a thirties sci-fi pulp, including an open lobbv all the way to the top of the building. He followed the unbroken silver line of the tower all the way up. He squinted. There was something, someone, up there.
A man in a hang glider pushed off the edge of the roof, twenty stories up. lie dived for a few seconds, then leveled off and headed out toward the river.
"Cops are gonna put your ass in jail when they catch you buddy." Spector hated heights, and shuddered as he thought of falling off a building like that, wings or no. He turned back toward Jersey.