by Jackson Ford
A shadow falls over me – no, two shadows. Annie and Africa. Oh good – they made it.
“Shit.” Annie’s voice is pinpoint-sharp, like it’s coming from inside my head. “That was…”
“Yaaw, Teggan, what did you do?” Africa doesn’t sound pissed. He sounds amazed. His eyes are wide, his shoulders and knees twitching. Annie too.
Looks like I’m not the only one who got a dose of the powdery meth. Although I think I got it a lot worse than they did.
I’m starting to get a headache. Building insistently at the back of my skull. Africa is still talking, the words coming in a rushing torrent. “When I see you lift the bridge, I try circle around to cut off the biking gang, you know, maybe make sure they do not spring a surprise, but then you throw them, yaaaaaa, like nothing, I never see you do that before. Hey, lotta people saw you, what you did, there gonna be all sorts of videos and Snapchat things out there, yaaw?”
Suddenly, he gets a look on his face. A horrified, disgusted look, as if he’s only now realising that we’re all high. And he’s probably thinking of Jeannette too. She’s clean now, but she’s relapsed before, something Africa refuses to talk about. Africa has had to chase her more than once, find her in the mess of Skid Row, go back to the world of homelessness and addiction that he thought he’d escaped.
“Relax,” I tell him. “I took care of the phones.”
I push myself to a sitting position, refusing to give into the thoughts – after all, it’s not like I did meth on purpose. All the same, there are… a lot of people out there now, on either side of the storm drain, pushed up against the chain link fence and gawking at me. Twenty, thirty, maybe more. And I just gave them the full Teagan experience, something I am explicitly not supposed to do. Ever. There won’t be video, no proof, but…
I may be in trouble.
Good thing the worried part of brain isn’t driving the bus. I tilt my head back, warbling at the sky in a fake-deep voice. “Smoke meth every day.”
“What you mean, smoke meth every day?” Africa goggles at me, horror spreading across his face. “That is a very bad idea.”
“No, dumb-dumb, it’s like the last line of the Dre song. “The Next Episode”? Nate Dogg telling you to smoke weed every day?”
Another giggle worms its way out of me. I should stop that.
“You know what would make this better?” I tell them. “Fried chicken. Annie? How ’bout it?”
And Annie does the oddest thing.
She drops to one knee and grabs hold of my shoulders. Like she’s about to start shaking me, yelling at me for revealing my ability. Except: she doesn’t. There’s no anger on her face. There’s just…
I don’t know what it is. There’s longing there. And fear. And worry. Exasperation. Desperation. Anger. All of it, buried in the lines around her eyes and the set of her mouth, the flare of her nostrils. It pushes through the high she must be feeling, something raw and red. I stare at her, unable to look away. Not knowing what to do.
Before I can figure it out, the look is gone. Annie pulls me to my feet, as if she was planning to do that all along.
“Ya,” Africa says, dazed. “Food is good.”
“Yay!” I throw my arms high, the weird moment with Annie forgotten. “Fried chicken for everyone!”
SIX
Reggie
Regina McCormick ends the call with Africa – she can barely understand what he’s saying at the best of times, even when he isn’t speaking at ten thousand miles an hour – and takes a long, shaky breath. Her diaphragm is even worse than usual today, and the sound that rolls out of her is weak and wheezy.
“What the hell?” she murmurs.
She doesn’t even know why she’s surprised any more. The insanity of what she saw on China Shop’s video feed before the pinhole cams cut out? The… whatever the hell it was that Teagan just did, at the Main Street Bridge? Or – lest we forget – the fact that someone knew about their mission, and tipped off the Legends?
Africa told her that Teagan thinks she took care of any cameras, but if she missed even one, revealed her ability to others, then they’re in trouble. Reggie quickly scans social media. There are a few people claiming they saw something… but no video, or photos. None at all.
Of course, if there were, Reggie would already have gotten a call from Moira Tanner. Not a pleasant one either. She glances at her cell, sitting in its slot on the right of her wheelchair. Reggie frowns, picking up the phone – it’s difficult, with the lack of mobility in her fingers, but the phone’s case has a specially designed ring on the back, slotting over her middle finger.
No missed calls. That’s good. As long as Moira isn’t calling, everything will be all right.
All the same… Damn it, Teagan. The girl could do a thousand jobs perfectly, using that insane ability of hers without a hitch, clean getaway. But when a job did go bad, it happened fast, it happened messy and Teagan somehow always ended up making it worse. There were definitely witnesses, even if they didn’t know what they were seeing, or get anything on tape. And what about the bikers? What will they do?
China Shop is going to need one hell of a debrief. They’ll get their story straight, figure out how to present this as a win to Moira. Reggie winces. Maybe she should call Africa back, get some real answers – or take him up on his offer to join them for a meal, something which exhausts her even thinking about. Then again, what good will it do? It’s all over, and anything Africa or Annie tell her – and it would have to be those two, because you can’t get a serious answer out of Teagan even on a good day – would only prompt more questions. Best she do it later, when she’s had a chance to do some actual research on her end.
Maybe she should go, meet up with the crew, demand some answers. No – it’s far more important to find out who it was that told the Legends about them, mid-mission. Or what if—
Hell. Maybe she should take a breath – ha – and get some tea. That’s what she should damn well do.
Reggie taps the joystick on her chair with the back of her right hand, reversing out of her Rig – the huge, six-screen setup she runs China Shop from. As always, she feels a tiny pang as she rolls away. Being locked into her Rig makes her feel like a pilot again.
As she manoeuvres her chair, the bag hanging on the back catches against the edge of the desk. It’s a bag Reggie loves, that she’s had on the back of her chair for ever – or since she visited Taos, anyway – made of multicoloured cloth in Native American patterns. It holds her tools and an extra scarf and a water bottle, and despite her limited mobility, she can reach round and pull it towards her. But she keeps catching it on the furniture in this new office, and she’s started to wonder if she should move it, or get a different one.
The earthquake destroyed China Shop’s old offices in Venice Beach. Their new setup is in an apartment block on West 228th Street in Torrance. A two-bed, two-bathroom new build that survived the big quake. Reggie works out of one bedroom, lives out of another – both are off a narrow, undecorated hall, which is itself off a larger living area. Moira paid the contractor a substantial fee to widen the doors for Reggie’s chair, raise the countertops, even build a special roll-in shower. Give the woman this: she’s a ruthless operator, but she has always looked after Reggie’s physical needs. After all, they go back a long way.
Of course, the gigantic payout from the Army after her accident certainly helped. It’s paid for Reggie’s physical rehab, her medicine and equipment. It’s paid for her carers over the years. It will probably continue to do so for the rest of her life. Reggie doesn’t know if the payout happened because of Moira’s involvement, and she never asked. Something tells her the woman would never admit to it.
The bright lights in the hall don’t Reggie’s mood. She can’t help glancing down at the hand on the joystick, at the small liver spots forming on the back, particularly the one behind the middle knuckle that looks like the state of Maine. She’d googled it of course – the liver spots, not the state of Main
e – because how could you not? Solar lentigines (as Google called them) are very common in adults older than fifty.
Reggie – a healthy forty-eight, thank you very much – had huffed when she read that and, aware that she was alone in her office, raised her right middle finger at the screen. As far as she could lift it from her useless hand, anyway.
She’d dropped it immediately, muttering “Drama queen,” under her breath, smiling at the words. When she wasn’t working with China Shop, Reggie spent some of her off hours working with an amateur theatre troupe in Anaheim – a disability-friendly crew that put on productions of Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, even a few original scripts. The playhouse is no more, of course. Damn quake. Reggie pushes the memory out of her mind. She’s got quite enough pain to deal with right now.
The living room is open-plan, with a small kitchenette, patches of sunlight from the windows gleaming off the chrome fixtures. Reggie heads in there now, eyes on the automatic tea-maker on a low shelf. Teagan bought it for her birthday, which touched Reggie no end, and it’s a marvel. She hardly needs to do more than lift a big-handled cup – her stack always has straws in it, something else Teagan makes a point to take care of – and stick it in the machine.
Reggie sips her chamomile, trying to quiet her mind. Ignore the fluttering in her diaphragm and the burning pain in her thighs. Above all, ignore the clusterbomb of the living room.
It’s where China Shop does the planning for their jobs, on a large whiteboard marked with savage scrawls. Stacks of paper, on both the low table and the floor. Empty mugs and takeout coffee cups, Post-it notes. Boxes of clothing, for when the team need to disguise themselves as city workers or security guards or cops. A flash of annoyance – those should be in the van, Africa should have taken care of that. Then again, did Reggie even mention it to him? Or is it another item on her to-do list that she hasn’t gotten to?
Of course it is.
Reggie never used to be in charge of clothing and paperwork and supplies. That was Paul’s job, when he was still alive. Paul Marino could be frustrating to work with, petty and pompous. But he was a superb logistics man, a former Navy quartermaster who lived and breathed details. He made China Shop work, doing all the things nobody else wanted to do.
Reggie misses him – and not just because of his professional skills. He was an ass sometimes, but he was a good man – and deeply good to Annie, with whom he’d formed a pretty unbelievable bond. Reggie sips her tea, hoping Annie’s doing better today. Hoping the job has distracted her from her grief.
The China Shop budget is generous. Their tools, vehicle, systems infrastructure, offices, all top-notch. Moira has always seen to it that Reggie is comfortable, and has everything she needs. Except for one, very deliberate thing.
She’s held off getting them a new logistics man, saying that she hadn’t found anyone she trusted to do the job, that a couple of qualified candidates fell through. On the face of it, the fact that she hadn’t replaced Paul is ridiculous. But that’s too simple. No, there was no logistics man because Moira is trying to send a message to Reggie: If you want to run China Shop so badly, then it’s all on you.
After the earthquake, Reggie had to stand up to Moira to keep her job. Which was right, dammit, because she was good at it. But it had been a close-run thing, and Moira clearly hadn’t been happy about it.
Reggie is a world-class hacker, and there’s not a system in the world that can keep her out. But when it comes to running a covert group of operatives, dealing with all the details, she doesn’t have it. No point bullshitting. Teagan and Annie and Africa help out, do their best, and they’ve certainly raised the lack of a new logistics guy before – well, Teagan and Africa anyway. Annie tends to leave the room whenever the subject comes up. But they’re not all that good at it either.
Since Paul died, their planning, logistics and supplies have been a disaster. And invoices! Reggie grimaces at the thought.
Reggie’s mother used to boast about her daughter. My Regina’s good at everything. Whatever she puts her mind to. Her mom was wrong about that – well, mostly wrong. Being good at things didn’t mean squat if you couldn’t do those things any more. No, her true skill, her real talent, was reinvention.
Being a high school track star was fine and well, but it didn’t mean squat when her times weren’t going to get her a scholarship, much less to the Olympics. She didn’t have the money for college; hardly anybody in Shreveport did. So Reggie joined the Army, and a secondment to the CIA as an analyst turned into a permanent post. After a year or two on the Baltics desk, they put her in the field, working out of Bosnia.
At the time, she’d been deeply worried that she’d never make it, and was pleasantly surprised at how well she adapted to the brutal strain of deep cover. When Bosnia went south, after what happened in Nemila, she’d put that gift for reinvention to good use. She’d gone back to the Army, retrained as a pilot. She was good enough at it that they let her fly Apache helicopters – one of the first black women to ever do so.
Of course, the true test of her gift came at the end of a Taliban RPG in Helmand. But she rose to it, remaking herself yet again: not just carving out a life for herself with no legs and barely any arm movement, but teaching herself how to code – and code damn well, thank you very much. Well enough to do it professionally for the US government, the only constant throughout her working life. Uncle Sam would always find a place for those who were willing to remake themselves.
A rueful smile sneaks across Reggie’s face. Moira wants to test her? See what Regina Gillian McCormick is made out of? Fine. Regina Gillian McCormick made it out of Shreveport, Louisiana. She wasn’t defeated by what happened in Nemila, she wasn’t defeated by a Taliban RPG and a busted C6 vertebra, and she is damn sure not going to let a pile of paperwork claim that particular honour.
Her phone rings. Well, there you go. Did she really think Moira wouldn’t find out about the way the job ended? Reggie sighs, putting the cup on the counter and fishing the phone out of its holder, already planning how she’s going to frame this.
Only, it’s not Moira. It’s a number Reggie doesn’t recognise.
She frowns, then her face clears – probably someone wanting some boxes shifted. China Shop still has a cover as a removals company, and after the quake, their services have been in demand.
“Answer call,” she says. There’s a beep as it connects. “China Shop Movers?”
The voice on the other end is confident, female. “May I speak to Regina McCormick?”
“This is she.”
“Oh hi, great, Regina. My name is Darcy Lorenzo. I’m calling from DCA Talent?”
“… I’m sorry, where?”
“DCA Talent. We manage actors in the industry. I wanted to talk to you about—”
“You manage actors.”
“Uh-huh. So listen, I saw you play Titania at the Roadhouse. I wasn’t actually supposed to be there that night – I work with actors all day, so I try to give myself a break.” Darcy Lorenzo laughs, a tinkling sound that puts an absurd image in Reggie’s mind of a champagne flute smashing to bits on a hard floor. Why on earth is this woman calling her? “But a friend of mine dragged me along. I have to say, you blew me away.”
“Um. Thank you?” It was months ago that Reggie played Titania, the fairy queen in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
“I’ve kind of kept you in the back of my mind,” Lorenzo says. “Just when we’re going through casting notes, you know. I wasn’t sure I’d find a role that’s right for you, you know, since…” For the first time, the woman sounds unsure.
“Since I’m in a chair,” Reggie says, a note of steel entering her voice.
“Right, yes, exactly.” Lorenzo actually sounds relieved. “As I said, I kept you in mind and… well, I think I’ve come across a role you’d be perfect for. I tracked down the folks who own the theatre you performed at, and got your number. Do you have an agent right now?”
“An agent?”
; “It’s totally fine if not. Actually, better than fine, because it gets me in on the Regina McCormick ground floor.” Another tinkly laugh.
Reggie clears her throat. “I’m not—”
Available. She was going to say, I’m not available.
And she isn’t! There’s way too much to do. She has to deal with the aftermath of what Teagan did, for one thing, and… God, so much else.
Lorenzo continues as if she hadn’t spoken. “Now as far as I know, this casting call is agency-only, but of course I’d be happy to submit it on your behalf. No commitment – we’d talk about that if they gave you a callback – but I speak for everyone here when I say we’d be delighted to represent you. Are you able to film an audition? On your phone is fine.”
“I… yes, I…”
“Outstanding. If you give me your email, I’ll send over the scene – I can’t say too much about what the project is right now, NDAs and all that, so don’t worry about putting it in context. Just hit us with your best shot.”
In a daze, Reggie gives the woman her personal email address. After they hang up, she spends a long time staring at her phone.
Reggie might not be from LA, but she’s an actress, and she has some idea of how these things work. And what just happened… shouldn’t happen. Agencies don’t even cold-approach actors with two good feet under them. Actors with disabilities? Reggie’s an optimist, but she’s never shied away from reality. She certainly isn’t going to start now. Hollywood can be brutal, and no casting director is going to go through the hassle of casting a quad or a para when they can just pick someone bankable and have them occupy a wheelchair on set. They did that with Denzel, didn’t they? Had him play a full quad on that old 90s movie, the serial killer thing with Angelina. The Bone Collector.
Except: just because it doesn’t usually happen, doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen.
