Lowball

The Big Bleed
Part Nine

“Your guy just arrived. He’s got the girl with him.”

“Thank you,” Jamal Norwood said. “We’ll be there as soon as possible.” Then he clicked off. He didn’t want to be on the phone with Jack Metz any longer than necessary. Not that he had anything special against Upper East Side building managers, but this one was off-scale creepy.

He had proved to be useful, however. Metz’s call meant that Michael Berman was back in the city with Mollie Steunenberg, aka Tesseract. Jamal knew it was unlikely to be for long.

It was early morning, mid-week, rainy, colder than it should be in New York this time of year. Jamal’s physical and mental state matched the grim weather. He had been dozing, dreaming strange dreams about being chased down a street by the missing joker Wheels, feeling that he was late, ill-equipped, in danger.

On waking, he considered phoning Julia, something he had not done in over a week. But what would he tell her? I’m feeling great! Every conversation he could imagine ended in a lie, or a very uncomfortable revelation.

So he didn’t. He distracted himself by watching TV with its news of the various campaigns, growing bored as the same stories repeated.

Eventually he turned to a movie channel and, to his amazement, caught the last half hour of Moonfleet, a cheap adventure feature he had worked on early in his career. In spite of its title, it had not been sci-fi, but rather a period piece about pirates and smugglers in the Caribbean (though the confusing title likely contributed to Moonfleet’s failure … that and an unappealing cast and incoherent script). Stuntman Jamal Norwood had one major gag in the piece, as a sailor who goes aloft during a storm only to have the yards break, plunging him to the deck of a ship.

Who was that young man? So eager, so fit, so certain he was making all the right decisions, making money, making himself into a star-

Right now Jamal merely wished he possessed that young man’s health.

Franny picked him up a block from the Bleecker. “You’re getting good at all this paranoid shit,” the detective told him.

“A little too late.”

“Don’t be a pessimist.”

“Don’t be a cheerleader.”

It was the middle of rush hour, a murderous time to be traveling from Jokertown to the Upper East Side. “I don’t suppose you can use your siren,” Jamal said.

“Sure, but it won’t do us any good.” They were completely gridlocked trying to reach the FDR. Eventually it did, and to Jamal’s relief there were no unusual traffic problems.

As they turned into the building’s parking lot, Jamal suddenly feared a Murphy’s Law moment, that they would drive right past Michael Berman and Mollie Steunenberg heading out for a latte or breakfast-

Fortunately, no. Perhaps less fortunately, the attendant at the lot seemed all too aware of their business. “You know, my favorite TV series is Baltimore Stakeout,” he said. “How do you get into that kind of work?”

“If you have to ask, you’re not qualified,” Jamal snapped.

They met up with Metz, who was as eager as a five-year-old on Christmas Day. “They’re up there! You can hear voices.”

“You actually saw them, though, right?” Jamal said.

Metz nodded.

Within minutes, Jamal and Franny were heading up the service elevator. Jamal carried a Watchman tuned to the cameras they had hidden in the apartment the night before, toggling from one view to the other. They were cheap Radio Shack-style equipment that couldn’t be monitored remotely and of the two men one was too busy to man the cameras 24/7 and the other was too sick. No, the cameras were there because of Tesseract and her power. Both Jamal and Franny knew they needed to grab the girl first. Otherwise she’d be gone, and Berman with her. Jamal could see Berman and Mollie in motion in and out of the living room and hallway. They were out of view for minutes at a time, presumably in the kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms.

Jamal loathed stakeouts and had not prepared for this one. Thank God Franny seemed to be … the police detective had not only suggested hauling two folding chairs up the elevator, he produced water and an energy bar without asking. “I hope this doesn’t take all day,” Jamal said, knowing that he was now grumbling like a man twice his age.

They had deliberately chosen the back hallway as a site for the second camera because it gave them their best opportunity to surprise Tesseract and grab her.

“We should have miked the place.”

“Well, we didn’t,” Jamal said. “So we wait.”

Their planning for Operation Grab Michael Berman had been complicated because they were skirting the edge of legality. “I don’t suppose you have any black bag team you could activate,” Franny said. “To find this shit and install it.”

Had Jamal still been on duty with SCARE, he could easily have given the task to just such a group-right after Carnifex signed off on the warrant and the budget. “Haven’t you created a team of Jokertown irregulars?”

“Not yet,” Franny said. “And if this goes tits up, not ever.”

Then there had been the question of warrants. “I can get one,” Franny had said. “Might take a day, or at least hours. What about you?”

Jamal shook his head. “Right,” Franny said. “Hard to do that when your bosses have no idea-”

“-And you’re on medical leave.”

They could just have gone ahead, warrantless. But, eager as he was to put Berman, and by extension this whole gaggle of joker-nabbing criminals, out of business as swiftly as possible, Jamal was unwilling to allow those arrested under U.S. law to skate because he and Franny acted like movie cops. “Do what you can as quickly as you can.”

While Franny worked the warrant issue, Jamal trolled through the audio and video shops on Eighth Avenue in search of surveillance gear-which turned out to be easy to acquire, though a bit hard on his credit card.

That night he left a message for Franny, then collapsed. When he awoke, yesterday morning, Franny’s message was: “Warrant in hand; good to go.”

Shortly after twelve-thirty P.M. Jamal and Franny heard raised voices from inside the apartment, Berman yelling something at Mollie and receiving a blistering answer in return. “All right,” Franny said, “I withdraw my petty complaint about lack of audio surveillance…”

Wearing a T-shirt that displayed two of her more notable features and a pair of shorts that would, if worn in public, have gotten her arrested in certain communities, Mollie stormed into the hallway carrying a bag of garbage.

“Showtime!” Jamal whispered. Franny displayed a pair of handcuffs (“Double-locking Smith amp; Wesson,” he had told Jamal earlier. “Bought them for twenty-five bucks!” He unlocked them-

— As Jamal pushed the door open, smiling and saying, “Hey, there!”

The girl was stunned into silence and immobility as Jamal wrapped her up-not the most unpleasant act he had performed in the past few weeks-allowing Franny to cuff himself to her, his left wrist to Mollie’s right.

Now Mollie found her voice. “What the fuck?” she shouted, writhing and struggling and trying to slap Franny with her left hand.

Her voice brought Berman-in rumpled khakis and an American Hero T-shirt-into the hallway.

Jamal was ready for him-“Hi, Michael!”-diving at the producer and slamming him against the wall in a hammerlock, an action he had wanted to take for at least five years. He got a second pair of cuffs on Berman. “In case you’re wondering, you’re under arrest.”

Berman had sufficient composure to say, “Do you have a warrant?”

Franny slapped the warrant on his chest. “Read, weep.”

They hauled Berman into the living room. Jamal shoved him into an expensive-looking leather chair while Franny took Mollie to the couch. “Why are you doing this?” she asked the detective.

“So you don’t pull your Tesseract trick.”

“I don’t need my hands.”

“True. But if you go, you’ll be taking me. And I’m guessing you don’t want that.”

“What if I need to pee?” Mollie said.

Hearing this, Jamal laughed out loud. “Then you’ll still have Detective Black for company.”

Suddenly the girl seemed less eager.

Berman had been complaining ever since being slammed against the wall. “This is brutality, plain and simple. I don’t care what your warrant says.”

“We don’t care that you don’t care,” Jamal said.

“What’s the charge?”

Jamal turned to Franny. “Detective?”

“Dealer’s choice. Fraud, murder, accessory to both, terminal assholeism.” Franny grinned at Jamal. “It was hard to narrow it down-”

Berman finally lowered his voice. He looked at Jamal, too. “Hey, Stuntman, who’d a thunk it?”

“You mean, who’d a thunk that you’d wind up in cuffs someday, Michael?” Jamal said. “Only every fucking person you ever met.”

That actually seemed to sting Berman. He turned back to Franny. “Okay, what? You take us downtown? Is that the drill? When do I call my lawyer?”

“We could talk first,” Franny said. “Isn’t that right, Jamal?”

“I believe that Mr. Berman’s cooperation at this time would be looked upon with some sympathy.”

Berman seemed to think this over. Then, a dangerous smile-one that Jamal recognized-appeared on his face. “All right, then, yeah. A little conversation between friends.” He cleared his voice and looked at Jamal. “Would you like to record this?”

Jamal set his phone on the table between them. “We’d love to.”

“I am offering my full, voluntary cooperation here,” Berman said. “Mollie, you’re a witness.”

“Wow,” Mollie said, stretching a single syllable into a four-second snarl of sarcasm.

Berman held up his cuffed hands. “May we lose these?”

“What,” Franny said, “you can’t talk without using your hands?”

Jamal laughed. “He’s telling the truth!”

So Jamal uncuffed Berman, who flexed his wrists and got slowly to his feet. “Time for the aria. You may recognize this.”

“Jamal-” Franny said, a bit alarmed.

Jamal just waved a hand. “Watch and listen.” He knew that for Berman, presentation and salesmanship truly over-rode all other concerns, even personal safety and dignity.

The producer faced them, hands clasped, eyes closed.

Then he opened them. “Okay, picture this. A talented, rich, ambitious, handsome young man with a flaw. A very human one … he wants money and power, not just for themselves. But for what they can give him. Which is love, right? What everyone wants. Picture Tom Cruise.”

“Oh, you wish!” Mollie said.

Franny was still nervous. To Jamal he said, “Okay, what is this?”

“He’s pitching!”

“He’s trying to, Detective,” Berman said. He actually seemed angry at the interruption.

“Continue,” Jamal said.

“Thank you,” Berman said. “Let’s give our hero a name-Gene. Gene could never accept that he would be loved for who he was or what he wanted to be … so he went for the money. So, yeah, he’s a bit of an unsympathetic character. But so was Rick in Casablanca. Or Charles Foster Kane. You don’t have to like Gene, you just have to want to see how far he goes … the depths he will descend to.” To Jamal he said, “He makes a lot of money.”

“So I recall,” Jamal said, knowing that Berman was playing him, but not especially concerned. He had always found the producer to be fascinating. How low would he go?

“But no amount of money is ever enough, right? Just like you never have enough love or-” And here he leered at Mollie. “-or sex-” Which made Mollie shudder.

“And earning it through work is ultimately unsatisfying. So Gene begins to gamble.”

“Like every other rich asshole in Hollywood,” Franny said. Jamal laughed: Mr. Police Detective was getting into this!

“It starts with sports, then gets into … more interesting sports. Cock-fighting, then the human equivalent. Fights to the death, especially with jokers. Insane visuals, tragic moments, and large amounts of money changing hands. Then, and here’s where Gene’s arrogance rises to the level of a Greek tragedy-which is pretty highfalutin for a Hollywood pitch, but you’ll see why it works. He bets on his own television series, one of those survival game things in which spy cameras and crazy competitions are edited into episodes week by week, so audiences can vote on their favorites.

“This series becomes hugely popular, and there is betting everywhere, especially in Europe. Now, you can’t just go to Vegas and make these kinds of bets, not for interesting amounts of money. You’ve got to find a place with a Wild West sensibility, or in Gene’s case … Wild East. A casino in Kazakhstan.” Berman glanced behind him. “If I’d had a few moments’ notice, I could show you some visuals.”

“If you’d had a few moments’ notice, we wouldn’t be here,” Franny said.

“Gene goes big for a female winner whose name is probably not important-only to have her walk off the show! There’s a little twist for you … she just changes her fucking mind, typical woman, something Gene can’t control-making a far less-suitable male contestant the winner.”

Jamal cleared his throat. “Less suitable?” He couldn’t let Berman’s comment pass without challenge.

Berman continued to play the game. “Let’s just say, less suitable for our hero’s purposes.”

Jamal wanted to get to the point where Berman actually incriminated himself. “Michael, so far we’re just taking our character down,” Jamal said. “I like a good wallow as well as anyone, if the scenery is good and the dialogue is snappy.”

“Oh, the scenery is fantastic. A bleak landscape in Kazakhstan, and set against it a city of mystery. Known as Talas when it was a major stop on the ancient Silk Road you’ll now see it written as Taraz or Tapa3, but it’s the same place filled with history and secrets. And there are dangerous secrets in this casino palace in the middle of it. Beautiful Russian hookers for eye candy. Handsome Eurotrash men in tuxes. And wild bad guys like Dmitri, who is this huge fat guy, always wears a T-shirt, one of those sleeveless ones, even on the casino floor. Oh, and he chews gum. All the time. What makes him dangerous is his ability to crawl into your head. Fucks with you, makes you afraid. So afraid you freeze up.”

“Noted,” Jamal said. “But Dmitri isn’t the star of your movie.”

Berman smiled. “Nowhere near. He’s just one of many threats. There is one far more dangerous, and the most unlikely villain you can imagine. Picture an elderly woman, call her Baba Yaga-”

“Michael,” Mollie said, warning the producer. She had suddenly begun to pay attention.

He ignored her. “Obviously, given her business, she’s not an ordinary old lady. Terrific casting possibility here, though. I’m thinking of one of those English actresses who were sex symbols a generation ago-”

“Wait!” Franny was laughing. “Your big villain is the world’s scariest seventy-year-old woman? What does she do, whack you with her walker?”

Berman laughed. “Good one, Detective. Actually, no. Baba Yaga is an ace. She … changes people. And not in a good way. We’re talking about furniture. So, at the same time Gene suffers a series of losses-huge amounts of money he can’t pay-rather than transform him into a footstool, which she threatens to do, she comes up with a way he can pay her back: by using his skills and his team to, uh, recruit jokers for death matches at her casino. Next thing Gene knows, he’s in business with a pretty young woman who possesses an amazing talent, one that allows her to move pretty much anywhere. There’s a nice symmetry there too-this girl was also a contestant on our hero’s show but in a later season. Ties everything together, you know? Anyway, this is the end of the first act.

“This team identifies interesting jokers and grabs them. Not by themselves, of course … Baba Yaga wants people she trusts at every step of the process. So Gene and his girl-”

“I was never your girl,” Mollie snapped.

“I’m talking about the girl in this movie,” Berman said, smoothly. “The jokers would be held in New Jersey until they had enough to fill a van for this talented girl to ship them to Kazakhstan.”

Franny said, “Hey, is that where Father Squid is?”

“Who?”

“A very large joker who looks just the way the name suggests,” Jamal said. “He’s a priest.”

Berman snorted. “He’s not part of the pitch.”

“He’s an important figure in Jokertown,” Franny snarled. “It’s important for us to find him.”

“I can … imagine a joker like that in Kazakhstan. So, sure, he’s part of the cast, part of this new crew. Better fights, more money. Everybody’s happy!” Then he lowered his voice. “Until one stupid cameraman sells footage of the fights.”

Jamal had felt two different emotions as he listened to this presentation. First was amusement at seeing Berman in action-the producer’s version of begging for his life and using the tools that have worked for him all his career.

Second was the satisfaction of having the dots connected for the missing jokers and dead cameraman Joe Frank. “Is there some point in the story where our hero fucks up?” Jamal said. “Where he is confronted by the police and possibly a handsome superstar of a federal agent, and he gives up the cameraman only to learn that he’s been killed?”

Berman blinked. “The hero is stuck. He knows that the cameraman is in, shall we say, a tenuous situation, quite likely to be a victim of Baba Yaga’s temper. But he has no choice, does he? He’s trying to buy time-”

“What’s act three?” Jamal said. “How does he get out of this?”

All during the pitch, Berman had been on his feet, moving between the couch and the television. Now, however, the producer was kneeling in front of the cabinet beneath his television, rummaging through various DVDs.

Until he came up with a gun, which he swiftly pointed at Franny. “This is how,” he said, pulling the trigger.

Before he could react, there was a flash to Jamal’s left-a change of light as, strangely, the couch seemed to open up and swallow Franny and Mollie. But only for a fraction of a second; the couch was in place again, spewing fabric as Berman’s bullet blew through it.

Berman was training the weapon on him, but now Jamal was in motion, moving faster than he had in months. He slammed the producer into the entertainment unit, hurting himself in the process, but ensuring that Berman was unable to fire the pistol again.

He was ready to pummel the man … years of frustration made him want to smash the smug criminal bastard’s face. But Berman was moaning, already defeated.

Franny appeared, dragging Mollie with one wrist, holding his weapon with the other. They had simply walked into the living room from the back hallway. “Do pitches usually end like this?” Franny said.

Jamal had no answer for that. After securing Berman’s pistol, he pulled the producer to his feet. Berman groaned and stretched his back, which surely hurt like hell. “Michael, what did you think would happen?” Jamal said.

“Shoot the cop, then you. Then out of here.”

“I’d bounce back.”

“Sure. But not for a few minutes.” Possibly not ever, Jamal thought.

“It’s time we took Mr. Showbiz and his tape downtown,” Franny said.

“What about me?” Mollie was blinking tears and now looked about fifteen-and frightened.

“What about her?” Franny said.

“We take her in, book her, she gets a lawyer. No way any lawyer is going to let her help us. And we need her to get the jokers. Or worst case, she gets bail and she’s in the wind.”

“So a little sin of omission,” Franny said.

Which is how Stuntman wound up handcuffed to Tesseract.