his cash cache and withdrew a couple of hundred dollars. Getting low, he mused. Have to visit the bank later. Or maybe rob one. The stocks were taking a beating, too, the last time around. Later. . .
He equipped himself with a handkerchief, a comb, his keys, and a small plastic bottle of pills. He did not like to carry identification of any sort. No need for an overcoat. Temperature extremes seldom bothered him.
He locked the door behind him, negotiated the hall and descended the stairs. He turned left when he reached the street, facing into a sharp wind, and he began walking down the Bowery. Leaving a dollar in the outstretched hand of a tall, cadaverous-looking joker with a nose like an icicle-who stood as still as a totem pole in the doorway of a closed mask shopCroyd asked the man what month it was.
" December," the figure said without moving its lips. "Merry Christmas."
"Yeah," Croyd said.
He tried a few more simple tests as he headed for his first stop, but he could not break the empty whisky bottles in the gutter with a thought, nor set fire to any of the piles of trash. He attempted to utter ultrasounds but only produced squeaks. He hiked down to the newsstand at Hester Street where short, fat Jube Benson sat reading one of his own papers. Benson had on a yellow and orange Hawaiian shirt beneath a light-blue summer suit; bristles of red hair protruded from beneath his porkpie hat. The temperature seemed to bother him no more than it did Croyd. He raised his dark, blubbery, pocked face and displayed a pair of short, curving tusks as Croyd stopped before the stand.
"Paper?" he asked.
"One of each," Croyd said, "as usual."
Jube's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the man before him. Then, "Croyd?" he asked.
Croyd nodded.
"It's me, Walrus. How're they hanging?"
"Can't complain, fella. Got yourself a pretty one this time."
"Still test-driving it," Croyd said, gathering a stack of papers.
Jube showed more tusk.
"What's the most dangerous job in Jokertown?" he asked. "I give up."
"Riding shotgun on the garbage truck," he said. "Hear what happened to the gal who won the Miss Jokertown contest?"
"What?"
"Lost her title when they learned she'd posed nude for Poultry Breeder's Gazette."
"That's sick, Jube," said Croyd, quirking a smile.
"I know. We got hit by a hurricane while you were asleep. Know what it did?"'
"What?"
"Four million dollars' worth of civic improvement."
"All right, already!" Croyd said. "What do I owe you?" Jube put down his paper, rose, and waddled to the side of the kiosk.
"Nothin'," he said. "I want to talk to you."
"I've got to eat, Jube. When I wake up I need a lot of food in a hurry. I'll come back later, all right?"
"Is it okay if I join you?"
"Sure. But you'll lose business." Jube began closing the stand.
"That's okay," he said. "This is business."
Croyd waited for him to secure the stand, and they walked two blocks to Hairy's Kitchen.
"Let's take that booth in the back," Jube said.
"Fine. No business till after my first round of food, though, okay? I can't concentrate with low blood sugar, funny hormones and lots of transaminases. Let me get something else inside first."
"I understand. Take your time."
When the waiter came by, Jube said that he had already eaten and ordered only a cup of coffee which he never touched. Croyd started with a double order of steak and eggs and a pitcher of orange juice.
Ten minutes later when the pancakes arrived, Jube cleared his throat.
"Yeah," Croyd said. "That's better. So what's bothering you, Jube?",
"Hard to begin," said the other.
"Start anywhere. Life is brighter for me now."
"It isn't always healthy to get too curious about other people's business around here. . . ."
"True," Croyd agreed.
"On the other hand, people love to gossip, to speculate." Croyd nodded, kept eating.
"It's no secret about the way you sleep, and that's got to keep you from holding a regular job. Now, you seem more of an ace than a joker, overall. I mean, usually you look normal but you've got some special talent."
"I haven't got a handle on it yet, this time around."
"Whatever. You dress well, you pay your bills, you like to eat at Aces High, and that ain't a Timex you're wearing. You've got to do something to stay on top-unless you inherited a bundle."
Croyd smiled.
"I'm afraid to look at the Wall Street journal," he said, touching the stack of papers at his side. "I may have to do something I haven't done in a