Davy closely examined the incoming guests, too.
“Do you think one of them will recognize us?” Penelope said in a whisper.
“Doubt it,” Davy said. “All the Hoarders we’ve tried, we’ve killed, so they never got the chance to speak out about our identity. And these people know the Water-Thieves were behind it.”
“We’re the Water-Thieves, David.”
“Look at us. They’re going to think we’re a couple of punk kids. Not some brilliant thieves.”
Solas turned his attention on a rustling black palm trees outside the fences. Then he focused on the shore on the opposite end, on each wave that crashed onto it. He cringed at the spitting water which the sand absorbed.
Davy looked over at Penelope. She fought a grin.
“Looks like I won’t need to convince him much that Vendicatore is coming for his head.”
She pinched her nose. “He smells like cigars. It’s so windy, but I can still smell him from here.”
Davy watched Solas again and turned away. He pulled his hair back with his hands, fixing it, and took a deep breath. Penelope, unsatisfied, licked her palms; she fixed his hair herself.
“Stay here for a second,” Davy said. “I’ll try to make him have a second mental breakdown before midnight.”
Penelope laughed. “Go whet his appetite.”
Davy smiled at her—he wished he could talk like this with Namiane. He turned to the direction of Solas, taking a deep breath.
“Please be careful, David. He’s unhinged.”
Davy winked at her, and he walked to the old man.
“On guard for thieves, Mr. Solas?”
Solas jumped with a shriek. His binoculars leaped ten feet in the air. He juggled them like a hot potato. After catching them he turned his head to see a shadow approaching him.
“Who? What?”
Davy pinched his nose the closer he got. The old man smelled of a thousand harsh cigars, which likely came from deep inside the fibers of his tuxedo. Decades of smoking. Solas, though rich, wasn’t the type of man to waste water washing his clothes.
Davy looked at Solas. The old man seemed to have aged a century since Davy saw him last. The final black hairs of his mustache had joined the gray parade; his wrinkles doubled on his face, and he now wore a wig (the wig had flown away, and he was bald at this moment). He lost a few inches in height—look at that terrible posture! Had he slept a day? The bags under his eyes were black.
But he had snappy energy, given his shrieks and the constant jerking of his fat head. This energy he possessed alone would have been enough to power this “wind generator” he thought existed in the desert. He was overtired. The source of his energy, then? That would be the dash of white powder on his nose.
“It’s me. Davy Bay. You remember?”
Solas squinted at Davy, who still appeared as a black shadow to him. But a strobing red light brushed by Davy’s face, and Solas saw his punk-like smirk. He sighed of relief and grabbed his chest.
“Boy. Trying to give an old man a heart attack, I see.”
“You’re doing that to yourself.”
Solas thrust the binoculars back into his eyeballs. The wrong side—he flipped it over and returned to focusing on the waves. “How can I not?” he muttered. “Don’t distract me.”
“It’s a party. Your party. You need to relax. Have some fun.”
Solas pulled the binoculars away and eyed Davy. “Fun? Fun in the end times? Oh, Davy, my boy. You’re so young and naive. Please, go back to the party. Have your ‘fun’ while I take care of business.” And it was back to the water. “Fun,” he murmured. “If I had fun, I’d be dead already.”
“Take care of business? What, stopping the wind?”
Solas laughed, but it was forced—he hated mockery. He turned to Davy with an even colder face.
“Precisely. I’m curious—tell me what you think about this wind, yourself. I’ve never seen such wind in my life. And you think it’s a coincidence it’s pushing my reservoir away from me? I’m sure you do. You’re probably in on it. Everyone here is likely in on it. It’s not a coincidence I throw this party and the wind picks up like, like a godforsaken hurricane in the Atlantic!”
The wind hit again, and the waves picked up.
“Damn it!” Solas studied the beach over the railing. “My water is being pushed away under my nose. Coincidence, sure!”
What a complete madman, Davy thought.
“You should’ve stored it underground,” Davy said, “like all the rest of the smart folks here.”
Solas snickered. “Ah. Yes. Like your father did?”
A not-so-subtle insult. Davy’s face curled with anger. “Well, he’d be alive if he did.”
This assertion made Solas more uncomfortable, making Davy smile.
“I’m not putting my baby underground,” Solas said. “She’s too beautiful for such treatment.”
Davy smiled. Phase one of the fear-ingraining was complete. Solas appeared more uncomfortable than before Davy talked to him.
Now it was time to get deeper. To touch the core of his fears.
“So, I’m in on it, about this wind?” Davy said. “With who? God Himself?”
“Don’t mock me, boy.”
“Sorry.”
“And don’t you dare say his name, if that’s what you’re trying to get at.”
“His name? Vendicatore—?”
“DON’T SAY HIS NAME.” Solas coughed hysterically.
“You think I’m spying for Vendicatore, Mr. Solas? I imagine there being spies, but I’m not one of them. I take great offense to that.”
“Shut up, boy,” Solas whispered. His eyes flickered in a million directions. “He can hear us.”
“I would rather die than join the man who killed my father.”
“Quiet!”
“What?”
Solas pointed toward the desert, the pure blackness. Davy looked, confused.
“Trees. Something. Listening.”
Davy looked again and saw a silhouette of palm trees swaying to the wind.
“You’re crazy, old man.”
“You would be nutso, too. But you got nothing to protect.”
Davy sighed. “Yeah. Not anymore.”
“Anymore! As if your father bothered to protect his property. Boy, he got mighty complacent. He deserved what happened to him. He deserved it. There. I said it. I have no pity. None.”
If Davy’s eyes could kill, Solas would be dead right about now.
“And because of your father’s carelessness,” Solas continued, avoiding Davy’s glare, “Vendicatore has more power. Now I need to sit here, looking like an absolute madman, trying to explain my insanity to the likes of you—punks!”
“Complacent?” Davy said. “My father asked you for your help. He begged for it. He knew Vendicatore was on the way. And you laughed to his face.”
Davy saw Solas get irritated, now. He took a step back. Focus on the task. Don’t allow yourself to get offended.
“So, about this wind . . .”
Solas huffed. He glued his eyes back into his binoculars as the wind blew again, looking at the waves. “How am I crazy? Look at this wind. You’re telling me that dictator has nothing to do with it? Nothing? You’re not one of one of his useful idiots, are you? You voted for him. You believe he’s going to save you from this drought. Let me guess!”
“No. Of course not. I wouldn’t be here if I sided with Vendicatore. I’m on your side. I came to stand with you against him.” Davy looked around the compound. “What you’ve got here is a thing of hope. It’s the final symbol of freedom, of life itself.”
Solas looked at Davy. He loved compliments. “Really?”
“I would hate for you to lose it. You know, Vendicatore definitely has got something to do with this wind. It’s strange, for sure.”
Solas dropped his binoculars. He crouched to pick them up. Rising, he hit the back of his head on the railing. He let out a nervous chuckle. “Why
you think that?”
“Well,” Davy said, “he’s got all sorts of technology. I’m sure you’re aware of what he used to suck my father’s lake.”
“No. What?”
“I had never seen anything like it—this giant vacuum thing. Who knows what else he’s got. A giant fan in the middle of the desert? To blow your reservoir away from you, one wave at a time, until it’s delivered to gates of his palace? It’s possible. Who knows, these days?”
Solas failed to understand Davy’s clear mockery of him. He was susceptible to believing any and all conspiracy theories about Vendicatore. So, he entertained Davy’s words; his face turned red. In the dark, it was hard for Davy to see it. But with the swiping of the strobing lights, Davy saw the tinge on his wrinkly cheeks.
Implanting fear of Vendicatore. It was working. Just as Davy’s father said it would. It seemed Solas already had a fear of him; Davy reinforced it. Solas would surely blame Vendicatore if he awakened to an empty reservoir, Davy thought. All according to the script.
As a jerking of the wind hit again, Solas bit into his fist, turned, and motioned for a second guard. He yelled at him, “I want you exploring the desert in the morning with all the others. Find me a giant fan.”
“Yes, Mr. Solas.”
Davy watched the guard disappear in the darkness.
The “others.” Davy did not see any other guards, besides the one of the ballroom doors, the two of the gates, who escorted guests inside, and the pair of watchdogs on the ballroom rooftop. But if there were guards wandering in the desert, Davy’s men would take care of them, if they hadn’t already, he was certain.
“Why’d I throw this party? Why?” Solas said. He shook his head and walked off.
Penelope called for Davy. Solas heard her soft whisper and halted in his steps. He twisted his head in a fit of paranoia, blurting, “Who is it? Who is it?”
Penelope still stood her distance by the railing, shyly waving at Solas.
“This is Penelope,” Davy said.
“What happened to the other girl?” Solas said. “What was her name . . . Namoona, something-other?”
“Namiane,” Davy corrected, with a harsh tone.
“Well?”
Davy hesitated. “The drought killed her.”
“Oh. Well, then! It seems death follows you around like flies on shit, doesn’t it?” Solas snickered. “Should I be worried?”
Davy made a fist and glared. “Welcome to South California, Solas. It’s not all an oasis, like you live in. It’s pure death and fire outside of your wet bubble here.”
Solas brushed this off. He studied Penelope. “Well, at least you traded up with Pamela here.”
“Penelope,” Penelope corrected.
Solas watched as more people entered the ballroom. He called out to the other guard of the gates at the bottom of the hill, ordering him to receive no more guests.
Davy and Penelope stood silent together, waiting for Solas to leave them alone. But the old man stayed, keeping it awkward, for a few moments. He stared them down in silence.
“You going to the party, or staying to drool at my puddle?”
The pair exchanged looks.
“Party, of course,” Davy said.
“Yes,” Penelope said.
Solas showed them the path to the ballroom with his hand. “Then shall we?”
The pair followed the path created by the old man’s hand. Solas trailed them. Before the guard opened the doors, Solas grabbed Davy’s shoulder. He whispered into his ear: “You best take advantage of this night, boy. That’s why I gave in to your nonstop begging, to invite you out here.”
Davy stood, and peeked his eyes at the crusty hand clasping his shoulder; his face soured at it.
“I pity you, Davy. I didn’t pity your father, but I pity you. I wanted to give you this opportunity to schmooze around for a night. You begged for it. Here it is. Don’t blow it!”
Davy turned his head around his shoulder to stare, wide-eyed, into Solas’ eyes. He tried not to laugh. If only the old fool knew why he really wanted to come.
“Opportunity to schmooze?” Davy said. “Well, thank you. I need all the help I can get before Vendicatore strikes again.”
This made Solas cringe and his eyes widen.
And the ballroom doors opened for them as the classical music flooded out. The glisten of the white chandeliers with the shiny wood floor blinded them. They covered their eyes to see tables upon tables which seated in total no fewer than a hundred old men and women of South California’s wealthiest. Most of them were downing their third glass of wine. They laughed, loosening, talking, spilling the drinks, itching to dance. Servers in gold-colored vests and black bowties pushed carts all about; they placed steamy dishes on the tables. They uncovered the dishes of trout, mashed potatoes, and long, steamed carrots. The receivers of the meals sharpened their knives with mouths dripping drool.
Hesitant, Davy and Penelope stood at the frame of the doors, observing. The cold wind burst inside. Solas pushed them in, and the doors slammed shut behind them from the wind.
The scent of all the food made Davy almost forgot why he was there. His stomach growled.
But he remembered his mission; he gulped saliva. Saliva would hold him over, he thought. He had to avoid eating any food Solas would soon offer him. Solas was a paranoid man. A smart man. But so was Davy. Davy would not allow himself to get drugged—he wouldn’t put it past Solas to take such preemptive measures against his guests every weekend in his (reasonable) paranoia.
Penelope gripped Davy’s hand. He gave her a look and tried to free his hand, but she tightened the grip.
“We need to be a couple, stupid,” she whispered. “Be convincing.”
Solas escorted the pair and all the old guests noticed them. All the hundred-or-so of them, all at once, stared. They stared down the smoothness of their youthful skin. Who was this greasy, long-haired punk? The girl with lips of black makeup? The room became silent, save for the lingering clink of a recent toast. No one spoke. They were curious, likely because the youngest person in attendance, besides Davy and Penelope, was in their late fifties.
“Act cool,” Penelope said in Davy’s ear. Their knotted hands generated sweat. “Just stare back at them and smile.”
Solas noticed all the staring heads. In the silence, he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen! I thank you for taking refuge with me, here, in my humble orchard for yet another weekend. Now, this weekend I have invited a young couple, who have both smartly accepted my invitation. I hope you will make them feel welcome, helping them with all you can in their youthful, dire need.” He moved aside and gestured to Davy and Penelope. “Here I present to you, the son of the late-great Wesley Bay, and his lady, Pamela!”
And the old people gasped at the name-drop of Davy’s father; they now understood why this kid was there. They stood and clapped.
Davy smiled, but he hated the attention. He felt mocked—his father became a laughingstock of the water-elite circle, the Hoarders, after what happened.
“Look at how pretty they are!” Solas said through the clapping. Solas awaited silence. “These are the faces of the children of South California. We wouldn’t want Vendicatore’s drought to kill more of our children, would we?”
The people clapped more. Davy waved, and Penelope did, as well. The old people stopped the ovation and dropped back into their seats to drink more wine. They ceased their stares and talked amongst themselves again.
Solas brought Davy and Penelope to a table near the rear by a piano, at which a few old couples already sat. There were handshakes and greetings, and condescending looks.
“Davy, these are the descendants of the Hollywood folks in Old America. Once upon a time, their grandparents had the power to make people famous. As time passed, a hundred earthquakes and a few droughts later, these stars became irrelevant. Nowadays, fame is based on, what, owning a mere dropper of water?”
One of the old men corrected: “Rather, infamy!”
“Nice to meet you all,” Davy said. He cringed at the fakery of it all.
The old people gave Solas an odd look. But then Solas declared to them, for they did not hear the announcement in the front: “He’s the son of the late-great Wesley Bay.”
And their faces changed. Upon hearing this, they let out a gasp and their disingenuous condolences. Davy put on a face, and mingled, accepting the role of victim. Underestimation—it would benefit him.
CHAPTER 3
The Big Dipper shined bright later that night, tracing itself on the ballroom window. Not a one person of the party was sober enough to spot its reflection and its ominous warning. Davy, it seemed, was the only one sober. Solas had guzzled wine down everyone’s throat, but Davy pretended to drink. So, he got to see the Big Dipper, which knocked on the window again, while sitting with Penelope in a corner by the doors. It called for him. He grew paranoid of its glare and fixed his hair—he remembered that “camera” comment Namiane had made before he left. It did feel as though the constellation watched him, how it perfectly aligned with the window, angled at him.
Who was more paranoid? Davy or Solas?
Davy and Penelope had managed to break away from the party. They were outcasts. From where they sat, Davy kept a watchful eye on Solas, who sat smoking a cigar in the back.
Solas had avoided his own party as he continued to scan the guests with his binoculars. With them, he studied all the faces of his fellow Hoarders as they danced. It seemed Davy had successfully planted fear in him. If he were to catch one person with even the faintest smirk . . . they would have been damned.
Perhaps he was searching for Governor Vendicatore in disguise—drunk and choking on laughter with his hoarse voice—amongst the dancers?
After noticing the Big Dipper calling for him again, Davy fought his own urge to smirk. That up-to-no-good grin was tough to resist—he was nervous. He covered his mouth; he turned his sudden, inappropriate smiles into yawns. He clenched his jaw to avoid the suspicious crease of his lips.
The Water Thief Page 3
