The Last Mayor Box Set

by Michael John Grist

  They were like him, really. Everyone had an engine inside, driving them on in a particular direction. And engines could break.

  "You ever think about Julio?" he asked.

  Amo snorted. "Not if I can help it."

  "No. I do, though."

  "And you want to talk about him now?"

  Cerulean shrugged. "I wonder, sometimes, what he was living for. I think for each of us, we can put a name to the reason. For you, it was Lara. For Anna it was her father. For me it was Anna. But Julio?"

  Amo stretched on his bench. "Who knows? He wanted respect, I remember that. Nobody ever respected him enough. He got it from Indira for a while, but when you and Masako split…"

  Cerulean nodded. "I know."

  They didn't talk about the atrocities any more: the things Julio had done, before they shot him and drove him out of New LA for good.

  "You're only hurting yourself with this," Amo said. "It pains me to see. You're not still thinking about diving, are you?"

  Cerulean smiled. That was a confession from the past; his desire to perform the greatest dive in history off a very tall building. Was it still there? It seemed so hotheaded now, something a young man would say. But then he was only thirty-three now, still young. There were many years left.

  "No," he answered, and surprised himself with the truth of it. "I don't want that. I'm kind of happy, like this."

  "In this misery?"

  He shrugged. "It's comfortable. Surrounded by memories, I suppose. You and me, me and Anna. We've had lots of good times."

  "We have that. And many more to come. Anna's on her way home, Robert. You've got all her growing up still to do. I'm sure she'll be a different person when she gets back. She's settled her pain. I only wish you could do the same."

  Cerulean snorted. "Settled my pain. Is there a pill for that? Drop it in water and it fizzes nicely."

  "I wish. I'd have dosed you years ago."

  "Yeah," Cerulean said slowly, drawing out the sound.

  "Anyway," Amo said. "You shouldn't sit out here alone. You know the rule."

  He did. Everyone did. Nobody was supposed to be out alone, at any time. It was a hangover from Julio's many security procedures, but one they'd kept. With all those cairns out around the world, you never knew who was going to come, or what they'd want.

  "I'm almost done moping, I promise."

  "Good," Amo said, "Lara's cooking up a hot pot, and they're all asking for you. The kids are waiting, and Ravi will want to sit next to you again, of course. Father of his prospective bride."

  Cerulean shrugged. Amo and Lara's kids were lovely, of course, but that just reminded him of how sweet Anna had once been. Ravi was a sweet boy too, two years older than Anna but way too ditzy for her, all looks and no brain. "It's not for me to give him permission."

  "Now that's just wallowing," Amo chided. "If the boy's traditional, let him be."

  Amo was right. That was enough.

  "Sorry," he said. "I just get this way, sometimes."

  "I know." Amo looked at the glowing display on his watch. "Look, old buddy, they're expecting me back. They're expecting you too. Come for hot pot. It'll make the kids squeal, and Ravi will be over the moon. He treats you like a father-in-law already."

  "The boy thinks with his ass."

  Amo laughed. "That's more like it. You should tell him that."

  "I'll come," Cerulean relented. "Give me a little longer and I'll come."

  "Great," said Amo and got up, though for a moment he remained, looking down. "Hang in there, brother, OK? You mean a lot to all of us. You know that."

  "I know. Thanks."

  Amo nodded, then strode away down the pier, his sandals slapping off the wood. Cerulean listened as the growl of his Porsche started up then faded into the distance, leaving him alone with the ocean, and the hole inside.

  Amo was a bandage too, like Anna. New LA was a bandage he'd wrapped himself up in, all these people with their light and noise and laughter, but none of them really filled the hole with a new purpose.

  He looked down into the dark water. It terrified and fascinated him. The demon that used to hold him under seemed a lot like Anna's red Jabberwocks, monsters that stalked Mongolia and turned people into creatures just like them.

  His demon was a kind of antique now, an artifact he brought out sometimes and studied like a scientist examining a fossil, looking for the origin of things, though he knew where things really changed.

  Julio.

  His death had changed New LA, cutting out the last threads to the world they'd lived in before, leaving a gap inside that was sheer and smooth and full of water. Nothing he'd done since had filled in that hole. He'd only boarded over it, so he could look down into its depths without any real fear of falling.

  Maybe that was what healing was.

  He laid his hands on the chair's wheels and started rolling back down the pier, thinking about the future and all the good people in New LA.

  The figure stepped in front of him on the Speedway running parallel to Venice Beach. It was all shadow back there, a dark and narrow road between hollow-mouthed condominiums. The figure was black and shadowy with shoulders that were uneven; the left lifted unnaturally high like a hump, with one arm extended, pointing toward Cerulean's chest.

  The chair stopped. The pit opened beneath Cerulean and filled up with rising, hungry tides. By glints of moonlight he could barely pick out the twisted face in the shadows; buckshot-scarred, leering, vacant.

  It looked like one of Anna's demons; eyes a raging red, body a contorted mass of muscle and angry flesh. His breath stopped up, his heart pounded manically in his chest, and before he could put his hands to the chair's wheels to attack or to flee, its arm bucked three times, BANG BANG BANG, and Cerulean felt the impacts burst in his gut.

  His body thumped back against the seat and down into the dark.

  1. 11 YEARS EARLIER

  The first time Robert 'Cerulean' saw the demon was the day that changed his young life forever. It was a Saturday, and it dawned gray, dreary and humid over Memphis. Robert lay in his narrow bed in his mother's basement, holding the too-thin covers that couldn't ward off the AC's drying chill, and looked up at the stained plaster ceiling. For years he'd been waiting for this moment. Most people his age still dreamed of becoming rap stars or gangsters, or they'd gone to college and were now starting careers in a far-off city.

  Not Robert.

  His first shot at serious diving had come at 14, only one or two years behind the most advanced in his state. He'd been selected for the national training camp, then his eldest sister Bethy had had a mental breakdown and he had to work doubles at the Yangtze fulfillment center in south Memphis to help pay the medical bills.

  Bad things like that happened every year after. He worked hard on his diving technique, Coach Willings encouraged him, then another disaster would strike. His other sister got arrested. His mom lost her job in layoffs and was unemployed for a year. Throughout most of it his grandmother's cancer just went on and on like a dog barking through the night, until they were all so sick of her croaky, desperate pleas for water that any one of them was likely to end it with a pillow.

  "Mom," he said softly, across the quiet room. She was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching him. In person alarm call, like she'd done for every meet before.

  "Yes, son," she answered.

  "If I get through today, I'm taking you to Disneyland."

  She chuckled. "You know I'd prefer Dollywood."

  Robert smiled. His mom's love for Dolly Parton had been a constant thorn in his side; leading to endless teasing from any schoolmate who came home and saw her dancing to 9 to 5.

  "Whatever you want," he said, and meant it. She'd been there throughout it all, suffering right by his side, encouraging him when she could, receiving his help when she couldn't.

  "I already booked tickets," she went on, "so you better make it. Now get up."

  He got up.

  In the kit
chen he picked at his eggs; already his stomach felt curdled like old milk. He'd barely slept, thinking about all the ways their life might change if he could just make the Olympic team. They'd get out of their Frayser duplex that was falling apart and go somewhere nice, somewhere far away from his old friends who'd joined gangs and now patrolled the neighborhood like little dictators, somewhere that listening to Dolly wasn't so laughable.

  It was 6am and the sky outside was gray slurry. The meet started at 11, with his dives listed from 1. He'd go alone, as ever; the process he needed to follow to get in the zone. His mom would come along later, sit quietly in the crowd; helping him through with her presence alone.

  "Thanks for breakfast," he said at the door.

  She smiled. Boyfriends hadn't been kind to her, so she had a few scars, but she was a strong woman still, proud in her buzzed Afro and pink dressing gown. "Good luck, sugar," she said, and kissed his cheek. "Focus and faith."

  Focus and faith.

  He got in the waiting taxi. It pulled away and he started his process; running over his dive list as they blustered down the highway in a flurry of rain. Ten dives, all of them easy except for the final one, an inward arm-stand. Nobody ever did that dive because it was considered to be physically impossible. It meant spinning inward toward the platform off a handstand jump, which was incredibly difficult on a falling, flicking arm-stand because arms couldn't 'jump' far enough from the platform edge. They weren't strong enough to get the clearance.

  People broke toes attempting it. One guy had broken a leg, someone else had cracked his skull open.

  Robert was different. Perhaps it was a freak of his physiology, gifting him with great upper body strength despite a lack of obvious, heavy bulk, or maybe it was technique. The first time he tried it, he'd skinned his forehead on the platform edge and Coach Willings told him never to try it again.

  The next time he broke two toes, and the time after that he half-knocked himself out with a solid impact. But the time after that he got it, and every time since, slipping past the platform edge by a whisker's margin. But a whisker was enough. If he could just pull it off today he'd be on the Olympic team for sure. They'd leave Frayser and Memphis behind forever.

  Outside the University swim hall the parking lot was buzzing with the mood of a festival, despite the sodden gray rain. There was a dive meet and a swim meet that day, and bustling beneath banners announcing the Olympic assessment were clustered families, parents, girlfriends, boyfriends and small children clamoring for popcorn.

  The taxi dropped Robert off in the thick of them and he overpaid to avoid waiting for change, rolling out smoothly with a hoodie drawn tight over his head and his gear bag on his back.

  "It's not a movie, honey, there's no popcorn," he heard as he joined the throng; a parent patiently explaining to his daughter.

  There was the smell of hot dogs on the air though, and greasy fried chicken from an early tailgate party in the lot, sheltered beneath one of the big sycamores. For some this event was all just good fun, with a friend's or a child's medal and position on the podium at stake. For others it was a moment where everything could change.

  For Robert it felt like life or death.

  He shuffled along in the thick of the crowd, letting it guide him through the sports center's airy lobby, beneath more festival bunting announcing the names of the Olympic hopefuls, his included. There actually was popcorn on a stand off to his right, filling the air with its rich salt and butter smell, making an odd combination with the ever-present fog of chlorine.

  He reached the sign-in desk and joined the line, keeping his head tucked low. Ahead there was a group of young, tall swimmers and he pressed up amongst them.

  "Hey, Robert," one of them said, and he mumbled a reply. They talked to him but he looked straight down until they tailed off. Focus was all that mattered to him now; saving his mom, himself, getting them out.

  The line progressed and he dripped with sweat inside his hoodie, almost at the front now.

  "Robert!" came a cheerful cry.

  It was Coach Willings. Robert looked up and saw him passing easily through the line as his many protégés parted like water. He patted Robert on the shoulder and peered into the depths of his hood.

  "What have you got that thing on for? It's sweltering in here." He flipped the hood off, and droplets of sweat flicked out. The Coach frowned. "God, Robert, you look half-dead. What's going on?"

  The hood was off and he felt exposed. His knees trembled. It had never been like this before, but then he'd never actually made it to the dive ledge before. There's always been something in the way. "Nerves, I guess."

  The Coach nodded. If anyone understood what Robert had been through, it was Coach Willings. He leaned in closer, pressing head almost to Robert's and talking low. "Look, get on the lower boards and run through your early list. Once you hit the water it'll all become clear."

  "Thanks, Coach."

  "You've got this," the Coach said, and gave him a meaningful look, a squeeze on the shoulder. "You've earned it."

  He headed off; plenty of other students to cheer on. If the Coach was lucky he'd place three athletes on the Olympic dive and swim teams today. A big day for them all.

  The line advanced up to the reception table.

  "Hi, let's get you signed in!"

  The girl at the desk smiled wide, and he mumbled through her bright small talk, enough to sign in, then let his legs carry him away. It felt like rolling on jelly. He passed through the crowds and into the changing rooms, ignoring any voices that called to him, intent on his focus.

  He came into the dive hall through a corridor in the bleachers. He took a deep breath by the water's edge and looked out over the hall. He'd only been training here for six months, after Coach Willings had gotten him membership in advance of the final Olympic trials. It was a cavernous space, like an airport hangar, with windows that ran floor to ceiling and offered a gorgeous view out over the university's green campus. To his left lay the deep blue dive pool, with all its lane marker buoys removed and bundled off to the side, its surface rippling under the lights. The dive tower loomed over it like some kind of religious icon, 33 feet tall in raw concrete with a single ladder leading up the back.

  Behind him and to the right the tall bleachers were already filling up with hundreds of dive fans, the judges and his Olympic agent.

  Everything was as it should be

  Something whacked against his back and he jerked away impulsively, almost toppling into the water.

  "Jeez, Robert, what's got into you?"

  It was Thomson, one of the swimmers up for a medal. They'd been friends for a while, before work at the Yangtze center had started taking up all his time.

  "Nothing," Robert said, "I'm fine."

  Thomson raised an eyebrow. "Big day today, I know that. I'm pulling for you, OK?"

  Robert nodded and mumbled thanks. His head wasn't working properly; hadn't been since waking up. He needed to do something to clear the fog.

  "Alright then," Thomson said awkwardly and started away.

  Focus.

  He shook himself and turned to the dive scoreboards. This was what he was here for. This had always been the only thing in his life he could control.

  He strode along the poolside toward the platform, hit the ladder for the medium board and climbed. The agent would be in the stands, watching how his potential Olympians responded to the pre-dive jitters. He'd gotten off to a rocky start, but screw that; this was his house.

  He reached the top and took to the board. Good flex, nice spring. He took a second to compose himself, letting the crowd fade into rustling pink and black smudges. Below was the water. Ahead was the flight, those precious instants of magic when the air took him. It wasn't falling, it was flight. The world centered and focus came.

  He took one step, one jump, then launched spinning into the air, doing one, two, three, four somersaults in a tight ball before straightening and punching into the water.

&nbs
p; When he curled back up to the surface there were no cheers, not yet, but of course he didn't expect any. This was where he wanted to be, after years of disaster had kept him away, finally in control of his own destiny in a place where the outside world couldn't do a damn thing.

  He made for the platform.

  2. THE DIVE

  Two hours in and the air fizzed like a shaken soda can. Robert's dives were about to start and the audience were settling in, with the odd klaxon firing to get the divers into line. The judges were at their desks.

  Someone ran over to his seat on the divers' row, pressed a printed paper into his damp hands, then scurried to the next diver in line. He looked down at it.

  It was his dive list; ten dives culminating in the inward arm-stand. He felt strong and limber, ready to perform, and there was a buzz growing from his middle where the curdled milk had been. He was ready to dive into it.

  He passed the list on, approved. He knew it by heart. Now Coach Willings was coming over. The big clock on the wall was drawing them inevitably closer on.

  "You look better," the Coach said. "Robert, I'm rooting for you. Make me proud."

  Robert nodded. The Coach moved on. He was the closest Robert had ever had to a father figure, and earning his pride, while repaying his faith over the long years of failure, was important.

  A speech was given over the PA system. People clapped and cheered. The Olympic agent was mentioned to more patriotic cheers, then somebody sang the anthem. Finally they called his name.

  His was the opening dive. His body moved without him telling it to, like in a dream, toward the medium board ladder. The announcer's voice read out the dive he'd be performing, a triple backflip with double twist. It was easy stuff, fodder for marks to pad up his score and build confidence in himself, in the judges, in the audience, and get some momentum rolling.