Dead Man s Hand Page 0,88

thought, was oddly out of proportion to his body. It was long and narrow, with delicate, almost feminine features. It took Brennan several moments before he realized that the longshoreman looked like, of all people, Tachyon.

He was carrying one of the huge crates without strain, balancing it with one hand atop his head. In that posture he resembled photographs Brennan had seen of African women carrying pots of water, but pots of water didn't weigh close to half a ton. He walked steadily and easily, seemingly not at all encumbered by his massive burden.

"Doug Morkle?" Brennan asked.

The man glanced at him, kept walking.

"No. My name is Doug Morkle," he grunted, the weight of his load making it difficult to speak clearly.

"Ah, yes. Your name's not Morkle?"

"No. It's Morkle. Morkle."

Brennan glanced at Jennifer helplessly, and she gave it a try. "Could you spell that please, Mr., uh, Morkle."

He flashed Jennifer an angry look, stopped, and quickly shifted the crate, slamming it down to the dock.

"What do you people want? My papers are in order. I have a green card." He fumbled angrily in the pocket of his coveralls. He spoke perfect English, but with a peculiar accent that Brennan had never heard before.

He shoved a piece of paper at Brennan. It had his photo and the name "Durg at'Morakh bo Zabb Vayawandsa" printed under it. He was born, it said, on Takis. The name on his union ID card, which he also handed to Brennan, had been Americanized to Doug Morkle.

"Everything is in order," he said, his anger turned to smugness.

"Yes, I see," Brennan temporized. This was utterly unexpected. Brennan remembered that Tachyon had once mentioned the Takisian who'd been marooned on Earth back during the Swarm troubles. Expert martial artist and casual killer, he was certainly capable of murdering Chrysalis. But what motive would he possibly have for killing her? "It, uh, says here on your union card that you're a heavy-equipment operator."

Morkle stared at him through slitted eyes. "Are you from the union office?"

"That's right," Brennan lied.

"My exemption has been filed," Morkle said, triumph in his voice. "There is nothing wrong with my papers. The proper box is checked."

"Uh-huh." Brennan looked again at the card, scanning it carefully. The special "ace exemption" box had indeed been checked, "Giving the bearer the right to function as a heavyequipment operator with or without the actual physical presence of such equipment as long as he/she is remunerated at commensurate rates of compensation."

"Of course," Brennan said.

"I must return to work. My shift is almost over." Morkle held out a hand the size of a shovel. "My papers please."

"Do you always work the midnight-to-eight shift?" The Takisian nodded impatiently and hoisted his burden. "Last Monday, too?"

He nodded again, his anger obviously building. "Well, thanks, Mister... Morkle."

"That's Morkle!" He pronounced it with a liquid lilt at the end of the word. "Ideal! Will you Earthers ever learn how to speak correctly?"

"Do we believe him?" Jennifer asked as they watched him stroll off with his burden.

"It looks like an iron-clad alibi."

"Another dead end?"

Brennan sighed. "I'm afraid so."

But that just made Wyrm look more and more like the prime candidate. It was time to interview him personally. First, though, Brennan decided, it would be sensible to return tc the hotel room and pick up more firepower. He wasn't about to waltz into the Curio Emporium bare-handed.

10:00 A.M.

"What the hell do you mean it never got put on the plane?"

"I'm sorry, sir." The Delta luggage clerk wasn't nearly as good at being sorry as Waldo Cosgrove was. "Our next flight from La Guardia is due in about twenty minutes, I'm sure your luggage will be on that one." Behind her on the wall was a- large poster covered with drawings of suitcases. "If you could indicate the type of luggage," she said, "it would help us to locate the missing bags."

"It wasn't a suitcase," Jay said. "It was a cat carrier. Gray plastic, brand new, I just bought the damn thing. You have any idea how hard it is to find a twenty-four-hour pet shop, even in Manhattan?" He sighed. "My, uh, cat's going to be pissed."

"Oh, the poor thing," the woman said. "I have five cats myself, I understand how you must feel. We'll find it, don't worry. If you give me your Atlanta address, I'll have your cat delivered."

"Great," Jay said. He thought for a moment. "I don't know where I'll be. The convention has booked all the big hotels solid, I hear. Tell you what,