Michael shook the e-mail at him. “This says you want me to die.”

  “That’s hyperbole, dude. I was trying to make the point that you’re already dead creatively. It don’t mean I went and killed a whole bunch of jokers because I think you’re a poser. I wasn’t there; I wouldn’t do that.” The joker continued to rub at his broken arm. Michael could see the broken ends knitting together already, the sandy skin there darkening as the fluid leaked out. “Damn, you really don’t like people telling you the truth about yourself, do you?”

  Michael swung away from the joker, moving past him into the next room. The joker followed him as he prowled the room, not knowing what he was looking for: electronic wiring, packets of C4, even a ticket stub from the concert, anything that could indicate this guy was somehow involved in the bombing, even as he argued with himself internally. He’s not the one. Not the one …

  There was nothing incriminating in the room. Nothing to indicate that this person could have been the bomber. Everything about this screamed that the joker was just one of the sad people who could talk aggressively and puff himself up online but was nothing but bluster in real life.

  This was a dead end.

  Michael put the copy of the e-mail on the joker’s desk. “What’s your name?” he said.

  “They call me Sandy,” he said, then to Michael’s shake of his head. “Yeah, I know. I’m just a big fucking joke.”

  “OK, Sandy. Listen to me: if you say anything about me being here, I’ll have you arrested for making death threats—and I can guarantee that if I do that, the FBI will be looking at you for the bombing, too. Send me or anyone I know anything else like this crap, and you’ll have the feds at your door.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Sandy said again. His voice was sullen. The black pebbles of his eyes were downcast.

  “Then all you have to do is make sure you keep your mouth shut,” Michael told him. “I don’t ever want to hear from you again.” With that, he headed toward the door, passing the dried out husk of the joker’s arm in the front room. “Sorry about that,” Michael said as he left, his shoes scraping against the glistening sand grains on the floorboards.

  When Michael reached the street, he found that the Uber driver had left.

  * * *

  Michael swung by the Carter Institute a few days later, finding Rusty standing under the baobab tree in the courtyard. It was misting, and streaks of rust were beginning to run down Rusty’s arms. Wally saw Michael approaching and waved to him over the joker kids running around the courtyard, most of whom he’d met the other day. He could see Ghost among the ones closest to Rusty. She also waved to him; he waved back. “Hey, DB!” Rusty bellowed. “Good to see ya, fella.”

  Under the leaves of the baobab, the mist turned into large, random drops. Michael pulled up the hood of his jacket. “You too.” Michael hesitated, and Rusty jumped into the conversational lacuna.

  “So we still have to find the bomber, huh?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Michael figured Rusty wouldn’t catch the emphasis he put on the “I,” but thought he’d try anyway.

  “Maybe we could put up a post on Facebook—we’ve got a page there—saying ‘If anyone knows anything about the bombing in Roosevelt, please contact us.’ And we could do the same thing on Twitter. You have a Twitter account, right? Hashtag #bomber…”

  Michael was already shaking his head, and Rusty slowly ground to a halt. “Look, Rusty, you know as much as anyone about what goes on here in Jokertown. Can I run something past you?”

  That brightened Rusty’s expression. “Sure. Anything.”

  “Good. Tell me if you’ve heard someone talking like this…”

  Michael handed Rusty a copy of the unsigned letter that Grady had sent him. The joker’s thick, clumsy fingers took the paper and unfolded it. Drops fell on the paper from the leaves; Rusty ignored them, scanned the letter, his breath sounding like steam as he read. He snorted nasally as he looked up at Michael with large sad eyes. “This is one sick fella,” he said. “You think the bomber, the guy who sent the manifesto, is the same person who wrote this?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s a hunch. The thing is … You’re in Jokertown more than me. Have you heard of anyone around here saying these kind of things, especially directed toward me or Joker Plague? A joker like us. Maybe someone new to the area.”

  Rusty scraped at the brownish-orange stains on his arm with a finger, leaving a trail of bright metal. “A joker? Saying those kind of things…?”

  “I gotta know,” Michael said. “I gotta know who did this, and I gotta know he’s dead, and I gotta know if anyone helped him. I lost … I lost…” Michael stopped himself, bottling up the grief and fury that was threatening to spill out suddenly. He was grateful for the dripping leaves as he took the paper back from Rusty.

  Rusty’s hand touched Michael’s top shoulder gently. “Hey, fella, I understand,” he said. “Look, I have another idea. You ever hear about that Sleeper fella? He’s been around since Jetboy, they say. No one knows Jokertown like him. If you can find him–“

  * * *

  Spread enough cash around and you can find anybody. Croyd Crenson, according to the walrus-faced joker at the newsstand on Hester, could be found in the back room at Freakers. “Look for someone who looks like he’s been swimming in an oil spill,” the walrus told him. “And don’t touch him. He’s sticky.”

  Pushing in through the double doors between the legs of the giant neon stripper that marked the entrance to Freakers, Michael was immediately assaulted by the smells of stale beer, urine, and cigarette smoke. He forced himself not to take a step back. The faces of the joker patrons inside turned to him, and the bartender—a tentacled joker as wide as he was tall, with eyes as big as saucers–blinked and spat. “Hey, looky, a celebrity,” he announced in a booming voice. “Didn’t you used to be important?”

  “I’m looking for the Sleeper,” Michael said.

  The bartender waved a tentacle vaguely toward the back. “In our champagne parlor. For VIPs only.”

  Michael pulled out his wallet. “How much to be a VIP?”

  “One Benjamin. Fifty for the champagne, fifty for the girl.”

  He tossed down a hundred. “Here. Hold the champagne. Hold the girl.”

  The champagne parlor was lit by a single overhead fluorescent tube, giving off both a cold, pale light and an annoying loud hum from the ballast. Along the walls were shadowed booths where horseshoe-shaped couches upholstered in Naugahyde wrapped around small tables.

  Only two of them were occupied at the moment. A busty teenaged stripper was squirming in the lap of a well-dressed nat in one. In the other, a greasy-looking joker sat alone behind a small table, the fluorescent sparking highlights from the glossy skin. He was nursing a beer.

  “You Croyd Crenson?” Michael asked him.

  “Who wants to know?” The man looked up from his beer. “Fucking Drummer Boy.” He nearly spat the name. “Your music’s total crap, you know? Tommy Dorsey, the big bands, Sinatra … now that was music. Everything since … noise.”

  As Michael’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could see that there were various small objects stuck to Croyd’s body like the dark spots of flies on a strip of fly paper: napkins, paperclips, two Bic pens, what looked like a torn strip of a band poster—not for Joker Plague—half a coffee mug upside down on his right bicep, and, disturbingly, what looked like someone’s toupee on his chest.

  “Everyone’s a critic,” Michael responded.

  Croyd laughed. “Yeah.” Eyes the color of old ivory moved in the oily face, tracking down to Michael’s missing arm, then coming back up. “I’m Crenson. Why do you care? What do you want from me? It ain’t like we’re old friends.”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Do I look like the missing persons bureau? Go talk to the fucking cops. Leave me the hell alone.”

  “I don’t want Fort Freak involved in this.”

  Croyd laughed at that. He took a sip of beer from the heavy glass mug in his hand. Michael noticed that he didn’t have to close his fingers around the glass; it was already well-stuck to his palm. Strands of viscous black pulled away from Croyd’s lips and snapped as he brought the mug back down hard on the table. It shattered, leaving broken glass glued to Croyd’s hand. The Sleeper stood up, the heavy wooden chair on which he was sitting adhering for a few seconds to his butt before dropping back down with a bang. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want. I said leave me the hell alone.” He held up his hand with its glittering shards. “Unless you want this smashed across that ugly face of yours.”

  Michael didn’t move. “You don’t like my music. Fine. I think that big band crap sucks dog turds myself. But no one ever blew up Glenn Fucking Miller. And no one seems to care who blew up my bandmates and my fans.”

  Croyd snarled. “I read the Cry. The fucker blew himself up. End of story.”

  Michael shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not. Damn it, I need to know who this guy was.” The words quavered in the air, the emotion raw and tearing at Michael’s throat. “Over the years, the things you’ve done … had to do … you have to understand how I feel.” All five of Michael’s hands lifted, the stub of his missing one moving in sympathy. “I gotta do something. I can’t just sit and wait.”

  Croyd lowered his hand a few inches. He was still standing, but he didn’t move toward Michael. “And you think I might help you find the bomber?”

  “They say you know Jokertown like the back of your hand.”

  That made him laugh again. “The back of my hand changes every time I go to sleep. Your bomber is probably dead.”

  Michael shrugged. “Probably. I want to know for sure. And I want to know that he didn’t have other people helping him.”

  “You looking for revenge, Drummer Boy? You going vigilante?” Under the rubbery, slick surface of his face, his mouth turned up in a smirk. “Fuck it. What’ve you got?”

  “Here,” Michael said. He took the copy of the unsigned letter that Grady had sent him from his pocket, unfolded it, and carefully put it on the table in front of Croyd. The joker squinted down at it but didn’t touch it. Michael could see his gaze scanning the writing. Croyd sniffed. “That’s one sick, angry fucker,” he said. “He’s right about your music, though.”

  Michael ignored that. “All I want from you is this: have you heard anyone around here saying these kind of things, especially directed toward me or Joker Plague. A joker like us. Most likely someone new to J-town.”

  “And if I have? You taking this to the cops?”

  Michael shook his head. “No cops. Just me. And I won’t be telling anyone where I got the information.”

  Croyd sniffed again. His hands closed around the glass shards; it didn’t seem to bother him. He sat again.

  “I might be able to help. I haven’t seen this guy in a few weeks, but there was a joker whose card had just turned who came in here. He was … angry about what had happened to him. Raving about God and sin and all the rest of the pious garbage that’s in here.” He pressed a pudgy forefinger on the letter. When he lifted the finger, the paper came with it. He looked annoyed and slapped the paper against the side of the table a few times; it ripped and left a corner on Croyd’s forefinger. “The bouncer threw him out. Real gently.”

  “What was his name, Croyd?”

  “Don’t know, but … he had more arms than you. At least twelve, I think. A head like a praying mantis, fringed with purple hair around the neck. Just a long tube for a body: red with iridescent blue spots all over it. He walks on those hands like a centipede, and lifts up the front of his body a little to use the front ones—one of those was holding a stupid bible. Ask around. Someone else maybe knows his name and where he lived.”

  Michael felt his stomach knot. Maybe … maybe he’s the one … “Thanks, Croyd,” he said. “I appreciate, more than you know. I’ll have them send you back another couple beers.” He turned to leave the room, and heard the Sleeper chuckle behind his back.

  “You think it’s going to help you to know for sure?” Croyd asked him. “It won’t. Nothing makes that kind of pain go away. Nothing.”

  * * *

  It took two days of discreet inquiries, but the Sleeper was right; the description was solid enough that Michael eventually had a name and an address for the joker: a rundown apartment building on Allen Street near Canal.

  The super was a joker whose handless arms were tentacles covered in octopus-like suckers, and whose face was shaped like a rubbery, upright shovel, the eyes squashed together at the apex. “Whoa!” he said when Michael knocked. “You’re DB!”

  “Yeah. I’m looking for a guy named Robert Krieg—red with blue spots, a dozen hands or so? He lives here, I’m told.”

  The super grunted assent. “You mean Catapreacher? Yeah, he lives here. Or he did.”

  “Look,” Michael told the super, “you have keys to his apartment, right? Mind if I have a look inside?”

  The spade-face squinched up. “Not supposed to do that.” His voice trailed off hopefully; the tentacle arms swayed. But he didn’t have any issue handling the envelope Michael passed to him, manipulating it easily as he opened it and scanned the bills inside. He grunted, a tentacle snaking the envelope into a pants pocket.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t matter much. God knows how Catapreacher’s left the place. Come on—he’s on the first floor.”

  The apartment smelled of moldering food and stale air. The super gave a short laugh. “Look at this crap. This is the kind of shit I have to deal with all day, every day.” He waved a hand at the cluttered, messy apartment, strewn with clothes and paper. “Krieg—he don’t appreciate the name I gave him—just moved in here, what, fuckin’ two months ago. Didn’t get his garbage out last Tuesday. I had ta fuckin’ do it. None of my renters like him. Always going on about how awful the place is, how he hates jokers and Jokertown—like he had a lotta room to talk—and spouting all kinds of religious shit.”

  Michael wandered around the small apartment as the super talked. Roaches scattered as Michael approached. There was a bible on the coffee table, a streak of something black, oily, and sticky on the cover. The bible was surrounded by half-empty Styrofoam cups of to-go coffee and paper plates with hard slices of frozen pizza curled on them. Flies buzzed around the remnants, with maggots writhing on the cheese. Next to a CD player on the floor, there was a stack of Joker Plague CDs. Michael picked them up, shuffling through them. The super laughed as Michael glanced at the covers.

  “Hey, he mighta had your CDs, but Catapreacher didn’t like your band, I can tell you,” he said. “I heard him going on about that once myself, so it beats me why he decided to go hear you guys at Roosevelt Park. I was gonna go myself…”

  Michael’s breath caught in his throat as he set the CDs back down. “He was at Roosevelt Park?”

  “Yeah. The guy’s really fucked up—in more ways than one.”

  Michael moved into the bedroom: no actual bed, just a nest of rumpled blankets. On the floor next to it was a framed photograph of a rail-thin young man in a black suit, standing alongside a lectern and holding aloft what could have been the same bible that was in the front room. An out-of-focus cross was prominent on the wall behind him. Michael assumed he was looking at a photograph of Robert Krieg before the wild card virus.

  It’s him. It has to be. A disgruntled joker who hated what he’d turned into, a religious fanatic missing since the bombing and with an admitted hatred for Joker Plague. It had to be him.

  Michael was certain when he looked into the bedroom closet. There were no clothes there at all, only a table with the legs sawed off so it was no higher than a few inches off the floor. The surface of the table was strewn with bits of wire, a soldering iron, the remnants of two disassembled clocks, and several olive-colored Mylar wrappers. Staring at the mess, Michael shivered involuntarily.

  It’s him. I’ve found him. He thought he should be feeling a surge of vindication, of triumph at the revelation, but instead he only felt empty. He remembered what Croyd had said. The anger, the rage he’d been holding in; it was replaced by … nothing. He stared at the evidence as his several fists clenched and unclenched. He tapped at his chest, and a soft doom filled the apartment as his throat opening flexed to shape the note.

  A funereal, low, and solitary beat.

  Voice, S’Live, Shivers, all dead because of this guy. Bottom disfigured. And me, the one he hated most of all, on my way back to normalcy—whatever the fuck that is … All the innocent jokers who’d come to watch us dead or hurt.

  And no one to punish. No one on whom to wreak vengeance. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.

  Nothing left to do except call Detective Black and tell him where to come find the evidence.

  “Did you know anything about what Krieg did before he came here?” he called out to the super. “Did he have any friends, people he might’ve been working with?”

  “Dunno what he did. And he don’t have any damn friends: a total loner. Nobody gives a flying shit about the little bastard and his preachifying. All I know is that if he don’t hand me his rent on Wednesday, maybe I’ll just toss all this crap in here out on the sidewalk. Especially now that I see how he’s keeping the place.”

  Michael gave a brief, dry laugh. “I hate to tell you this, but Krieg’s dead.”

  “Huh?” The super’s voice sounded genuinely startled. “When did that happen? Hell, he called yesterday to tell me that he was finally getting out of the hospital on Wednesday.”

  The statement stole Michael’s breath momentarily. The room seemed to lurch around him once. “Getting out—?” He closed the closet door and went back into the front room. The super was standing at the door, tentacles waving, one of the sucker pads holding a smoking cigarette.

  “Yeah. The bastard was one of the people hurt when that bomb went off. They took him to the Jokertown WIC Center on Grand. Been there ever since, not that he ever contacted me to tell me until that call yesterday. I thought that was why you was here. Doing that sympathetic good-guy thing for a fan, even if Catapreacher—God, he hates it when I call him that—ain’t really a fan. Kinda ironic, I guess.”

 

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