Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel by George R. R. Martin, Melinda M. Snodgrass Page A

“Sorry…”
    “No, no, I’m not insulted. Just surprised to hear you say it. You’re an artist, a professional … I figured you for an East Village type, not a J-town boy like me.”
    At that Eddie snorted. “Hardly. I live in an efficiency about a mile from here. Heart of Jokertown.”
    “No shit? Why haven’t I seen you around the neighborhood?”
    “I don’t get out much.” Not in person, anyway . Eddie cleared his throat. “I hear things, though. Rumors. Some kind of monkey-faced Peeping Tom, looking in windows at night. Maybe a whole gang of Peeping Toms. Have you heard about anything like that?”
    “Not lately.” Lupo’s lip drew back, exposing yellowed fangs. “But two years ago … I was staying at my sister’s place, and she came screaming out of her bedroom saying that some big-eared little bastard was on her fire escape watching her undress. I couldn’t get the window open, but I got a look at the guy before he escaped.” His hairy hands balled into fists. “I might be a joker, I might be an alcoholic, I might even have sold a few things that didn’t exactly belong to me, but I’d never stoop that low. If I ever catch that little asshole…” He smacked a fist into the opposite hand, and Eddie realized there was still some serious muscle under the ex-bartender’s fat. “He’ll be sorry.”
    Eddie was ashamed to admit that he had no idea which of the many women he’d peeped in on had been Lupo’s sister. The incident didn’t stand out from so many similar ones in his memory. “Sorry to hear about that,” he said aloud.
    “You wouldn’t believe the shit that goes down in Jokertown.” He blinked. “Or maybe you would. How long you lived here?”
    “Almost ten years.”
    “So you never saw the Palace before the fire?”
    “No. I’ve heard about it, though. Was it really as crazy as they say?”
    “Crazier.” He grinned, an evil thing full of yellow teeth. “One time I was damn near killed by a panda bear. A panda bear! In a bar! Where else but the Palace?”
    He went on like that for a while, sharing fascinating anecdotes about people and places that were nearly legends to Eddie, until the wardroom door opened and Franny emerged. “Beastie tells me you saw the fourth snatcher?” he said to Lupo. He seemed half hopeful and half dubious.
    “It’s true! Swear to God!”
    Franny didn’t look convinced. He turned to Eddie. “You’ve been talking with him. Do you believe him?”
    Eddie nodded. “I do, actually.”
    “Would you be willing to do a few more sketches?”
    “Sure, if you’re paying. But I don’t have my stuff with me.”
    The detective set his jaw and did his best to look decisive. “All right. Come back in an hour and I’ll try to find you an interrogation room.”
    After Franny left, Lupo said, “Thanks for standing up for me.”
    “You’re welcome. And thanks for the stories.”

    The second session went much more smoothly than the first. Sober, Lupo turned out to be as keen an observer as he’d claimed to be, and in less than an hour they had a good sketch of the fourth snatcher, a hulking blond nat with a broken nose. Lupo also remembered some more details about the other two nats—one had a badly scarred ear, the other a tattoo on his left wrist that Franny identified as a Russian gang mark. “This will be very helpful,” he said. “It might not hold up in court, but if we can use it to pull in a suspect, that’s a start.”
    Behind the detective’s back, Lupo gave Eddie a thumbs-up.
    Eddie didn’t even want to admit to himself how good that small gesture made him feel.

    That night, instead of peeping, Eddie sent Mister Nice Guy out to prowl the streets on foot, peering at faces. Eddie had not been allowed to keep a copy of the sketches he’d made, but after so many hours with Lupo he knew the snatchers well, especially Fish-Face.
    Mister Nice Guy had no trouble blending in with the street traffic in the shabby joker neighborhood near