Roger glared. “That’s because you used your ace to make them actually work, Jim.”

“I did not,” Jim protested. “They work just fine for anybody, so long as you adjust them right, and it’s not my fault if people keep breaking them after they leave the store.”

“Jim, regular people can’t see through walls.”

“Sure they can. All they need are X-ray glasses. Or windows.” Jim glared at Roger. “You said the same thing when we were kids and you were upset because your sea monkeys didn’t look like the ones on the package and mine did. Just because I know how to follow directions and can get products to work the way they’re supposed to doesn’t make me an ace.”

Roger left the statement unchallenged, as did Sam. There was no point in arguing with Jim, especially when he got in a mood, since the flipside of absolute gullibility and literal-mindedness was absolute faith, and when the universe catered to your belief in it, this was not necessarily misplaced. Even if that belief was mostly in the outrageous promises of advertising, particularly the products in the backs of comic books and supermarket tabloids.

Jim still looked hurt. “You should remember what it’s like, Roger. You were a latent too, before the wild card gave you a black eye.”

Topper looked at Roger, incredulous. “A black eye?”

Roger nodded. “Jim is being accurate here. I got a black eye.” Roger raised his hand and flipped up his eyepatch. His left eye was black, totally black, without trace of white or iris. “As you can see,” Roger said with a wink before hiding the eye again, “Raven-stone is not just my stage name or my nom de ace,” He tapped the brim of his hat, “but also my nom de joker.”

Topper looked at his hat. “Nice hat,” she remarked. “Finchley’s Fifth Avenue?”

“Of course,” said Roger. “The classic magician’s hat. And a good old New York firm too.”

“May I see it? I collect hats.”

“You and Cameo should talk,” Paul remarked.

“Our costume designer,” Roger explained, doffing his hat to reveal a pair of small black horns. “She also collects. Though not just hats.” He handed his to Topper. “She found our costumes for the show.”

“Or made them,” Alec added. “Hard to find my size, even in Jokertown.”

“And she wouldn’t punch holes in a vintage number anyway,” Roger pointed out. “She’d consider it murder.” His eye flicked to Sam’s mangled hat. “I suggest you ask for a loaner, Sam. We may want to drag you on stage later and I can’t have my brother dressed like that.”

“On stage? Oh please.”

“You’re our cover artist. Take your bows.” He smirked. “Besides, we may need a backup singer, in case Alec suddenly gets hoarse…”

“Please God no…” said Alec.

Sam was in agreement. “I don’t sing that well, Roger.”

“Better than Alec would,” Roger said. “Besides, you know all the songs.”

“Thank you,” said Topper, returning Roger’s hat and saving Sam from further argument. “May I?” Jim and Paul showed her their hats as well, but Sam knew from her expression that theirs weren’t hers either. “Of course,” she added, “the hat thing is just a hobby. I was hoping you boys could help me with something else. I’m a private investigator, and I was looking for a woman you may have seen at Starfields-who incidentally also wears a top hat. Swash, could you show them your illustration?”

Sam took his cue and opened the sketchbook. The ink had smeared even more and the pages were almost glued together, bits of paper tearing off in little shreds, but at last he showed them the sketch of the Vinyl Vixen.

“I remember her,” said Jim. “Paul said she was totally hot too. But that made sense, ’cause she’s wearing all that latex.”

Paul blushed slightly. “So I’ve got a thing for rubber. Go figure.”

Roger shrugged. “If I recall, she stumbled into the waiter. Likely couldn’t see much with that mask. I helped her up and returned her hat, and last I saw, she ran off for the ladies room, presumably to wash off the Takisian margarita he’d spilled down her back.”

“Presumably,” Topper said.

“I bet she was a fan,” Alec said. “She kept looking at you, Roger, like she was thinking about asking for your autograph.”

“Roger was looking at you the same way,” Jim told Topper.

Roger gave Jim a withering look, then glanced to Topper. “Well, I’ll admit, I am a fan. Though mostly of your grandfather. The man was amazing.”

“So are a number of things,” Topper said, glancing to Roger, then Sam. “Joker-deuce brothers. The odds are what? One in a thousand? Ten thousand?”

“Somewhere in there.” Roger flashed his devilish smile. “Scarce as hen’s teeth and twice as weird.”

“Not that we’re complaining,” Sam added. “The Croyd outbreak killed our parents and left us infected and unadoptable. Same with lots of kids, actually. After I drew my card, I was afraid I was going to lose Roger. After all, look at the odds.”

“We survived. That’s what counts.” Roger stroked Lenore’s feathers. “And the same with some of our friends from the orphanage.” He nodded to Jim, Alec and Paul.

“We didn’t just survive-we’re freakin’ huge!” This last was said, without apparent irony, by Dirk Swenson, alias Atlas, drummer for the Jokertown Boys, who despite a face with delicate, almost Takisian, features, had shoulders about as wide as he was tall, with muscles to match. “I just carried Jim’s piano out on stage and snuck a peek through the curtains and you won’t believe how many girls are out there!”

“And let us not forget our loud friend from the New York School for the Arts…” Roger said in an aside to Topper.

Dirk was loud in more than one sense of the word. He’d swapped out of his custom tail coat and tux shirt and into a sun-burst tie-die, presumably for the set up, and Sam wondered if the rumors were true, that he was Starshine’s lovechild. Certainly they had the same fashion sense, thought that just might be due to the fact that the muscleboy had been raised following the Grateful Dead until Jerry Garcia died and Dirk’s mom had moved back to the Village to take over The Cosmic Pumpkin.

“I can’t freakin’ believe it!” Dirk boomed. “This is absolutely wild!”

Sam was in agreement, but from a slightly different angle, since ‘wild’ was a pretty accurate description of the nat girls they’d encountered out front.

“Dirk?” Roger said, getting his attention. “Allow me to introduce you to Topper, the famous ace conjurer. Topper, Dirk, our piano-lifting drummer. Dirk, I need you to get back into costume before we do a sound check, but before you do, Topper was wondering if you’d seen the woman in vinyl from the bar.” He pointed to Sam’s illustration.

“Oh, yeah, Bondage Girl,” said Dirk, looking at the illustration. “She was hot.”

“We’ve established that,” Topper said. “Do you know her? Did she by any chance say anything?”

“Nah,” said Dirk, “I think she was doing the mime trip. But I gave her one of the flyers Sam did for the show. I hope she gets in,” he added, “Chaos said it’s, like, going to be standing room only, and the shows around us’ll have to deal with our overflow.”

“The toilets are going to back up?” asked Jim.

“Nah,” said Dirk, “that’s theatre talk. Means girls who can’t get in will go to other clubs.”

Topper looked more than slightly alarmed at this, but only said, “Is that your coat and hat over there? Let me get them for you.”

“Cool. Thanks.” Dirk pulled of his tie-die, revealing musculature like a classical statue of Atlas reinterpreted by an eighties comic book artist, while Topper went to where his ordinary hat and incredibly huge shirt and jacket had been laid over an amp. She came back with them, but Sam could tell from her look that Dirk’s hat had been eliminated from the running as well.

“Here you go,” she said, handing him his clothes. “Mind if we go sneak a peek at the audience? I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many… girls… in one place ever before, and I’d like to see them all before the fire marshal turns anyone away.”