Taking the first step outside always made her catch her breath, even though her fears of the stoop didn't seem quite real, even to her. Once, she'd seen an alligator under there. No fantasy, she'd seen it. A big one, too.
This time, she saw triangles of white that flitted away from the stoop when she came down, her "escorts" waiting for her. Jube was there, too, marked out of the gloom by the white rectangle of the newspapers he still carried.
"Hiya, people," Zoe said. "Hey, Tube."
Her escort fell in beside her, Jube at her left. There was something odd about the way he walked, as if his hip joints didn't connect in a standard fashion.
"Want a paper, Zoe?"
"No. Distract me. Tell me the news, Jube. I belong to a post-literate generation."
"Things aren't going well at home?"
Not exactly. "No."
The streets were nearly deserted, unusual for a citizenry who usually felt more comfortable in the dark.
"Where is everybody?" Zoe asked.
Three of the Escorts had placed themselves in a triangle ahead of Jube and Zoe. They rotated the point position, traded off by using some sort of hand-jive that Zoe couldn't follow, while the remaining two ducked in and out of shadows and alleyways, waited, and changed positions with the two kids who brought up the rear.
"Hiding, if they have a place to hide, Zoe. And some have moved away. Gone to Nam, or to Guatemala. Can't be that many with that much money, though. Makes you wonder."
Nam, Guatemala. And Jerusalem, where medical care was excellent and jokers were ghettoed, but relatively safe. Safer than Anne would be in Barnett's medical camps. How? Buy a ticket, that was easy. Convince Anne to go. Not so easy.
"I need to get my folks out of here," Zoe said. "How do I do it, Jube?"
Jube didn't speak for a while. She'd never known him to be reticent. The Escorts turned at the next corner.
"Where are we going, Jube?"
"Going to get you some news, Zoe. And maybe some help." His hand was firm on her upper arm, guiding her forward.
In the cluttered alley, a single forty watt bulb hung over a rickety stoop. Needles knocked on a thick steel door, and a man in a hooded black cape opened it and ushered them inside with an exaggerated bow. Inside the cavernous, echoing space, the Turtle's battered shells hung motionless over a murmuring crowd of jokers.
Jellyhead slipped her hand into Zoe's. The hooded figure turned and Zoe saw his mask, a yellowed skull. He spoke to someone. No. Not a mask. Echoes richocheted from odd corners, sounds she couldn't recognize. She smelled burning Sterno.
"Who is that?" Zoe bent her head and whispered to the child beside her.
"Mr. Dutton," Jellyhead said.
Charles Dutton, the reclusive owner of the Famous Bowery Wild Card Dime Museum, a place as macabre as she had imagined. Even unlighted and motionless, the displays compelled the eye: Tachyon, with curls the color of cherry cough syrup; Jetboy, whose bloody wounds looked dusty and drab. Bloat, miniaturized, a blob with a boy's tortured face perched atop it, filled one corner.
"Jube, why did you bring me here?" Zoe asked.
Jube wasn't there. It was Needles who stood beside her. The boy put his finger to his lips and looked away from her, toward the bolted front entrance.
Blue Sterno flames flared out of what looked like a sturdy marble birdbath. A figure appeared from the shadows, scooped up some of the flames, and swallowed them. "It's time to begin," the fire swallower said.
"Can't see you, Hotair!" someone called out.
"Oh, sorry." The man hoisted himself up and sat cross-legged in the burning fountain. It didn't seem to bother him.
"Can we start with the report from Hester Street?" Hotair asked.
"Two beatings," someone said. "We didn't get there in time to film the attack."
"No way to identify the assailants?" Hotair asked.
"Description only. Shaveheads."
"Bowery?"
"We filmed a verbal assault," Needles said. "Shaveheads again. But we missed a knifing, damn it."
"They cut my dad. Someone did," Jellyhead called out. "He's dead." Her voice didn't even quaver. A joker woman moved close to her, and Jellyhead let herself be hugged, briefly, before she twisted away from the proffered comfort.
"Sorry, Jellyhead," Hotair said. "Any idea who did it?"
Jellyhead looked at the floor and said nothing.
"We'll move another team over to Bowery," Hotair said. "Johnson, can your team cover it?"
Johnson had pointed ears the size of dinner plates. "We'll have to leave our territory uncovered. But yeah, we can do it. We haven't had more than a couple muggings since yesterday."
"Ms. Harris?" The voice behind Zoe was well-modulated and low. "Jube said you might be of assistance to us, and asked me to speak to you."
Zoe heard the swish of a velvet robe.
"You're Dutton."
"Yes."
"But - " But I'm here to get help, not give it. A glint of reflected blue flame danced in the deep sockets of Dutton's eyes and then vanished.
"The patrols are trying to record episodes of violence against jokers, with the hope of forcing prosecutions. But it's difficult to stay funded. Camcorders cost."
"But - "
"Come with me. We can talk in my office."
Zoe followed him.
Dutton's office was loaded with computers, faxes, and modems. He ushered Zoe to a chair and settled himself behind his desk with a practiced flourish of his cape.
"I'm not a source of funds for joker streetfighters," Zoe said.
"Are you not? I am disappointed." Dutton's accent was Ivy League; his hands, folded on the desk, were normal and impeccably manicured. "Then what is your interest here?"
"My parents are jokers. They are not young. My mother is ill. I want to get her to Jerusalem."
"That is simple, Ms. Harris. One buys a ticket."
"She will need more than that. A place to live, introductions. Medical referrals. And some information I'm not likely to get from the Jerusalem officials, like how to buy protection for her. People get killed there, far too often."
"You seem to think I have access to such information."
"You seem to be providing a place where joker activists gather."
"Yes." Dutton steepled his fingers.
"I'll pay." How? The defense costs to keep me out of jail are going to take everything I have.
"Payment is not requested, Ms. Harris. I will make certain inquiries for you. I assume I can leave messages with Needles?"
Not at my company, please. Not at home, Anne will balk.
"With Needles. Yes."
"Give my regards to your father, Zoe." Dutton knew Bjorn? That wasn't surprising; rumor had it that the reclusive Dutton loved gossip. He got up and opened the door for her. The museum was emptying rapidly. Needles and one of the Jimmies fell into step beside Zoe and led her toward the back door. A fetid wind from the river enriched Jokertown's pervasive stench.
"Get me to the train, kids," Zoe said.
"Going uptown, right?" one of the Jimmies asked.
"Right"
At the station, one of the Jimmies ducked down the stairs. Zoe heard a whistle, and the tiny one - Jan, that was, a little girl who Zoe now realized was twelve or less, flashed her fingers at Needles, then stuck her hands back in her pocket.
"No trouble down there," Needles said. "You can go back home, Zoe. Where it's safe."
"Where do you ...?"
"Sleep? When it gets cold, we used to buy a bottle of wine for Jellyhead's dad. He'd get drunk and we'd sleep on his floor. But he's dead."
"There's nothing ..."
"You can do."
Needles patted her hand, smiled, and turned away.
She walked down into the city's concrete guts. Wanting to be able to tell him, to tell someone, even to tell Dutton, it's not my problem. I got out. I can't take in every joker orphan in one block of this stinking place, much less help them all. Don't ask me, Dutton. I have to take care of my own, first. I have to take care of me.