Wild Cards V Read Free Page B

inside. The man they sandwiched, though, didn’t look like a street tough.
    He was small, thin, and pallid. His hands looked soft and weak, his eyes were dark and bright. Many street toughs had a streak of madness in them, but even on first sight Brennan could see that this man was more than touched by insanity.
    â€œThese men,” Danny Mao said, “are going on a mission. Care to join them?”
    â€œWhat kind of mission?” Brennan asked.
    â€œIf you have to ask, maybe you’re not the type of man we’re looking for.”
    â€œMaybe,” Brennan said, smiling, “I’m just cautious.”
    â€œCaution is an admirable trait,” Mao said blandly, “but so is faith in and obedience to your superiors.”
    Brennan put his hat on. “All right. Where’re we headed?”
    The pale man in the middle laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “The morgue,” he said gleefully.
    Brennan looked at Mao with a lifted eyebrow.
    Mao nodded. “The morgue, as Deadhead says.”
    â€œDo you have a car?” the Werewolf asked Brennan. His voice was a mushy growl behind the Nixon mask.
    Brennan shook his head.
    â€œI’ll have to steal one,” the Werewolf said.
    â€œThen we can go to the drive-up window!” the man called Deadhead enthused. The Asian sitting next to him looked vaguely disgusted but said nothing. “Let’s go!” Deadhead pushed at the Werewolf, urging him out of the booth.
    Brennan lingered to glance at Mao, who was watching him carefully.
    â€œWhiskers,” Mao said, nodding at the Werewolf, “is in charge. He’ll tell you what you need to know. You’re on probation, Cowboy. Be careful.”
    Brennan nodded and followed the unlikely trio onto the street. The Werewolf turned and looked at Brennan.
    â€œI’m Whiskers,” he said in his indistinct growl. “This is Deadhead, like Danny said, and this is Lazy Dragon.”
    Brennan nodded at the Oriental, realizing his initial assessment of the man had been wrong. He wasn’t an Egret. He wasn’t wearing Egret colors, and he didn’t have the demeanor of a gang member. He was young, maybe in his early twenties, small, about five six or seven, and slender enough so that his baggy pants hung loosely on his lean hips. His face was oval, his nose slightly broad, his hair longish and indifferently combed. He didn’t have the aggressive attitude of the street punk. There was a reserve about him, an air of almost melancholy thoughtfulness.
    Whiskers left them waiting on the corner. Lazy Dragon was silent, but Deadhead kept up a constant stream of chatter, most of which was nonsensical. Lazy Dragon paid him no attention, and neither did Brennan after a while, but that seemed to make no difference to Deadhead. He burbled on and Brennan ignored him as best he could. Once Deadhead reached into the pocket of his dirty jacket and pulled out a bottle of pills of different sizes and colors, shook out a handful, and tossed them into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed noisily and beamed at Brennan.
    â€œTake vitamins?”
    Brennan wasn’t sure if Deadhead was offering him some or asking if he took vitamins himself. He nodded noncommittally and turned away.
    Whiskers finally showed up with a car. It was a dark, late-model Buick. Brennan hopped into the front seat, leaving the back for Deadhead and Lazy Dragon.
    â€œGood suspension. Smooth drive,” Whiskers commented as they pulled away from the curb. Brennan looked into the rearview mirror and saw Lazy Dragon nod and reach into his pocket for a small clasp knife and a block of soft, white material that looked like soap. He opened the knife and began to whittle.
    Deadhead kept up a stream of running chatter that no one listened to. Whiskers drove smoothly, cursing potholes, spotlights, and other drivers in his muffled voice, continually glancing in the mirror to follow Lazy Dragon’s progress as