Wild Cards [07] Dead Man's Hand
grabbed one of the posts that had supported the canopy of Chrysalis's demolished bed. He swung it like an oversized baseball bat and connected solidly with the Oddity's back, right over the kidneys.
    The Oddity howled more in anger than pain. Brennan swung again, splintering the post into kindling.
    "Christ," Brennan muttered as the Oddity cursed and wrenched at his trapped arm.
    There was no sense, Brennan realized, in trying to fight the berserk joker. He dove out of the room as the Oddity pulled free, and ran down the hallway, gritting his teeth at the pain in his back.
    "We'll get you, you bastardl" the Oddity cried. His voice was slurred, as if perhaps two people were fighting for control of it. "We'll get youl"
    Brennan took a deep breath as he ran. No bones were broken, but his whole back felt bruised. There was no time to waste moaning. The police could arrive at any moment to investigate the commotion. He went up the stairs and out through the roof, replaying the Oddity's story in his mind. Chrysalis might have extorted favors or information as part of the game she liked to play, but she would never blackmail anyone for money. Brennan knew that wasn't in her.
    So why was the Oddity lying? And what was he-they, whatever-really looking for in the closet of Chrysalis's bedroom?

    9:00 A.M.
    "You've got a reporter named Thomas Downs," Jay said. The receptionist looked at him dubiously. She was a chic little number who looked like she'd been specially bred to sit behind the high-tech chrome-and-glass reception desk. The offices of Aces magazine were a lot classier than Jay had anticipated. If he'd known they had two entire floors at 666 Fifth Avenue, Jay might have stopped for that shine in the subway. Obviously, there was money to be made in stories about Peregrine's love life.
    "Digger didn't come in today," the receptionist said. On the wall behind her, the magazine's logo had been burned into a chrome steel plate by Jumpin' Jack Flash. Elsewhere around the reception area, various distinguished ace visitors had transmuted a chrome ashtray into some kind of weird purple glass, twisted steel bars into new and fanciful shapes, and constructed a perpetual-motion machine that had been whirring happily away for four years now. Little brass plaques commemorated each of these feats.
    "Where can I find him?" Jay asked. "It's important."
    "I'm sorry," the receptionist said. "We don't give out that kind of information."
    "Is there someone else I could talk to?" Jay asked. "Not without an appointment," she said.
    "I'm an ace," Jay told her.
    She tried to suppress a smile, and failed. "I'm sure you are."
    Jay looked around the reception area, made the gun shape with his fingers, and pointed at a long chrome-andleather sofa. It vanished with a pop. He'd needed a new couch anyway. "Do I get a little brass plaque?" he asked the receptionist.
    "Perhaps Mr. Lowboy could help you," she said, lifting up the phone.
    The editorial floor had been partitioned off into a maze of tiny cubicles. Larger private offices, with real walls and doors, lined the outside of the building, leaving the big central space windowless. There were lots of cheerful colors and potted plants, and peppy Muzak kept the well-dressed staff busy at their computer terminals. Everything was very clean and orderly. Jay hated it.
    Mr. Lowboy's comer office had no computer terminal, no cheerful colors, and no Muzak. Just a lot of wood and leather, and two huge tinted windows looking out over the Manhattan skyline. Mr. Lowboy wasn't there when they arrived, so Jay wandered around the room looking at the framed photographs on the walls. He was studying a faded black-and-white print of Jetboy shaking hands with a wizened little man who looked like an anemic gnome when Lowboy finally made his entrance.
    "That's my grandfather," he said. "He and Jetboy were like that." Lowboy crossed his middle and index fingers. He was a couple of inches shorter than Jay and wore a threepiece

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