George R. R. Marrin, Bantam/Spectra 1988. § WildCards I Sitting shade-clad in a booth at Vito’s Italian, odd-hour and quiet, lowering a mound of linguini and the level in a straw-bound bottle—black hair stiff with spray or tonic—the place’s only patron had drawn attention from the staff in the form of several wagers, in that this was his seventh entree, when a towering civilian with a hand like a club came in off the street and stood near, watching, also, through bloodshot eyes. The man continued to stare at the diner, who finally swung his mirror lenses toward him. “You the one I’m looking for?” the newcomer asked. “Maybe so,” the diner replied, lowering his fork, “if it involves money and certain special skills.” The big man smiled. Then he raised his right hand and dropped it. It struck the edge of the table, removed the corner, shredded the tablecloth, and jerked it forward.
