Nick and Tesla's Special Effects Spectacular
Page 13
“Looks like some sort of crumbs,” Cash said.
“What’s that smell?” Aunt Zoe said, sniffing cautiously at first and then taking a good long whiff. “Smells like, like …”
“Corn chips!” Cash Ashkinos shouted.
“Correct,” Tesla said. “Corn chips. Isn’t that right, Mr. Wiltrout?”
A murmur rippled through the old theater. All eyes turned toward Jack Wiltrout, who had jumped up from his seat. He opened his mouth to speak but found that he could not.
His mouth was full of corn chips.
He let the bag drop from his hand. “Nm hmm mmm hmm hmmm,” he mumbled. And then, after a few mighty chews that cleared his mouth, he said, “Now wait just a minute—”
Nick cleared his throat. “There was no itching powder. Just crumbs planted inside the costume. And that leaked video of Mr. Wilder’s conveniently timed temper tantrum didn’t come from a spy. It came from an accomplice who knew exactly when and where Mr. Wilder was going to make a scene.”
Just in case anyone couldn’t tell who was being accused, Nick threw a significant look in the direction of Jack Wiltrout, erasing any doubt.
“This is insane!” Wiltrout protested.
“Oh, come on!” Wilder cried. “Why would I put Fritos in my costume? Why would I want to humiliate myself on the Internet?”
“Why would you start behaving like a loon?” Ortmann added. “Why would you suddenly lose all your skill as an actor? Why would you antagonize two of the smartest, most talented, most professional people I’ve ever worked with?”
“Three words answer all those questions,” Aunt Zoe said. She turned toward the stage. “Tesla?”
“Pay or play,” Tesla said.
Zoe started nodding. And then Cash Ashkinos started nodding. Then Bob Ortmann and Matt Gore and Barbara the makeup lady started nodding. The camera crew, the P.A.s, everyone in the theater, everyone working on The Stupefying Metalman—they all knew those three words and why they explained everything.
“You get paid even if you’re fired,” Tesla said. “And if you’re fired, and you’re paid the millions you’d be owed, then you’d have the time and the money to go off and do your own play.”
“So you acted like a jerk and leaked your horrible performance and wrote yourself awful dialogue and pretended that you wanted Aunt Zoe and Mr. Ashkinos fired,” Nick said. “All because what you really wanted was for the studio to fire you.”
A startled silence fell over the crowd.
“Have you all lost your minds?” Wiltrout said incredulously. “You’re actually listening to this drivel? Where is security? I mean, this is nuts! Right, Damon? Right?”
When Wiltrout realized that his colleague wasn’t going to back him up, his face turned pale. “Oh, no,” he said. “Damon, don’t do it, man!”
But it was too late. Wiltrout knew what was coming. He knew that Wilder was an actor through and through. Which meant that he couldn’t pass up the chance to perform a time-honored role: that of the criminal caught in the act, one who must make a dramatic, scene-chewing, over-the-top confession.
“Yes! All right! I admit it!” Wilder proclaimed. “I never wanted to do this stupid movie! Do you know why I got the part? Because I look like the guy in the comic book! That’s it! That’s all it took! If my agent weren’t so good, I would’ve gotten chump change that I could walk away from. But five million bucks? Pay or play? How could I say no? But the second I put on that dumb costume, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. I almost went to Juilliard! I played Laertes at the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival! The New York Times named me Off-Off-Off-Broadway’s second-most promising male talent under thirty, two years in a row! I starred in three films shot entirely in black and white, and I made the cover of Indie Cred magazine. Twice! And what happens to me? A guest spot doing flying broomstick gags on The Witches of Greenwich Village followed by the chance to play the world’s lamest superhero. I mean, give me a break! Metalman? We all know he’s just an Iron Man rip-off, with a little Silver Surfer thrown in.”
“All right, Damon, that’s enough,” Cash Ashkinos said.
But Wilder wasn’t done. “And the script really is terrible!” he said. “No matter how good I might have been in this movie, it would have ruined me for the serious stage. So the only thing to do was not to be in it, but still get the money I needed to make my dream come true.”
“Damon,” Ashkinos said, his voice sharper now. “Enough.”
“You really should stop talking,” Wiltrout said gently. He threw a look at the audience watching intently from their seats. “Witnesses, man. And later—lawyers.”
Wilder crossed his arms. “Damon Wilder has said his piece.”
“What’s going on?” someone called out from back of the room. “I heard there was trouble.”
It was Dalasia, the security guard.
“No trouble. Everything’s under control … now,” Ortmann called back. “Still, just to be safe, why don’t you escort Mr. Wilder and Mr. Wiltrout from the set?”
Looking confused but resolute, Dalasia came down the aisle toward the men. They left with her without resisting. Ortmann trailed after them. “I’ve gotta call the studio!” he said, pulling out his cell phone and frantically hitting the numbers.
“Lucky for us it took so long for security to get here,” DeMarco said.
“Maybe not luck,” Tesla said, tilting her head toward the back of the theater. “There’s the guy who went to get the security guard.” It was their friend the Teamster. He was grinning, and then he raised his hands and gave the kids two thumbs-up.
As Wilder and Wiltrout were escorted out, a pair of hands slapped together. Then another. And then another. The rhythm of the clapping was slow at first, but it grew faster and louder as it spread throughout the theater.
Aunt Zoe and Cash Ashkinos and Matt Gore and the others weren’t applauding the exit of their (soon-to-be former) star, though.
They were applauding the four young people who had just put on the greatest performance any of them had ever seen.
Uncle Newt and his kinda-sorta girlfriend, Hiroko, were in the dining room when Nick and Tesla finally got home.
Hiroko was seated at the dining room table. Uncle Newt was hanging over it.
Apparently, Uncle Newt had decided (as he did from time to time) to eat “astronaut style.” That is, suspended from the ceiling via a harness and straps.
“Hey, kids!” he said. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” grunted Tesla.
“Okay,” grunted Nick.
“Did you get to visit that movie set like you’d hoped?” asked Hiroko.
“Yeah,” grunted Tesla.
“Umm-hmm,” grunted Nick.
“And how was it?” said Uncle Newt.
“Fine,” grunted Tesla.
“Okay,” grunted Nick.
They usually weren’t so impolite, but it really had been a looong day.
“Well, we’ll have dinner in about an hour, as soon as I finish my snack and do some tests down in the lab. You can tell us all about it over some yummy bread and water,” Uncle Newt said.
“And macaroni and asparagus,” Hiroko added.
“Oh, yeah,” Uncle Newt added. “And some stuff Hiroko brought over.”
“Sound good?”
“Yeah,” grunted Tesla.
“Umm-hmm,” grunted Nick.
Then they trudged up the stairs, separating when they reached the top. Tesla heading to the bathroom, Nick to the bedroom.
Tesla knew exactly what her brother was going to do. The Stoplite program must have turned itself off by now, which meant that Nick could finally turn on the laptop and get back to his cyber-sleuthing. Tesla reached for the soap.
“Tez! Come here! Quick!” Nick called out frantically.
Tesla spun on her heel and ran down the hall. She skidded to a stop in the doorway of the bedroom she shared with her brother.
There was Nick, sitting on the floor, hunche
d over the laptop, just as she had expected.
What she hadn’t expected—what she couldn’t have anticipated—was the message she saw flashing on the screen:
OPEN THIS FILE IF YOU WANT
TO SAVE YOUR PARENTS … .
OPEN THIS FILE IF YOU WANT
TO SAVE YOUR PARENTS … .
OPEN THIS FILE IF YOU WANT
TO SAVE YOUR PARENTS … .
Nick reached for the keyboard.
“Wait,” said Tesla. “We don’t know who sent that or what it is. It could be spam, or it could have a virus, or it could be some kind of trick …”
“Why would a spammer send that message? And if we don’t read it, we’ll never know if it’s a trick or not.”
“Okay, but let’s at least get Uncle Newt to look at it. He must have some scanning software that can check it out—”
“Tez! I’m the cautious one, remember? And I say we open it.” Nick reached for the keyboard as Tesla lunged to pull the laptop away. His finger poked at the Enter key …
And then there was a muffled boom.
And the whole house seemed to lift about a half inch before slamming down again.
And the lights flickered.
And then everything went black. Including the laptop screen.
From somewhere downstairs, Uncle Newt’s voice rang out:
“I’m all right!” he shouted, followed by, “It’s a surprise!”
About the Authors
“SCIENCE BOB” PFLUGFELDER is an award-winning elementary school science teacher. His fun and informative approach to science has led to television appearances on the History Channel and Access Hollywood. He is also a regular guest on Jimmy Kimmel Live, The Dr. Oz Show, and Live with Kelly & Michael. Articles on Bob’s experiments have appeared in People, Nickelodeon magazine, Popular Science, Disney’s Family Fun, and Wired. He lives in Watertown, Massachusetts.
STEVE HOCKENSMITH is the author of the Edgar-nominated Holmes on the Range mystery series. His other books include the New York Times best seller Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls and the short-story collection Naughty: Nine Tales of Christmas Crime. He lives with his wife and two children about forty minutes from Half Moon Bay, California.
At Quirk, our strikingly unconventional titles include best-selling fiction, award-winning craft books and cookbooks, irreverent reference guides, wall-enhancing poster books, and plenty of titles in a category all their own (you try to explain The Resurrectionist). But we’re not just book creators, we’re also a community of book lovers. Join us for literary pub crawl suggestions, Worst Case Wednesday survival advice, love letters to libraries, plus announcements about contests, giveaways, book release events, and author signings. We’re seekers of all thing awesome, and since you are awesome, isn’t it time we talked?
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