Busted Flush wc-19

by George R. R. Martin

  Flanking the boys is their manager, who reminds me a lot of my manager. BlackBerry in hand, headphone in his ear, a too-sharp suit and a too-sharp face, and a phalanx of security guards. Female arms thrust through the closing door, and hysterical soprano voices call out to the various band members. A broad, tall guard gets the door closed and turns with a look like a contented bull. There’s not enough Plague for every groupie. Some of them will doubtless fuck the guards in hope of getting closer to a band member next time.

  I work the cork out of the champagne just as they enter, and the explosive pop stops them all. Most of the men gawk. Black leather pants, silver halter top, and spiked heels will work every time. One rent-a-cop reaches for his hip as if expecting to find a pistol.

  “Hello, Michael.” I pour champagne into a glass. “Thirsty?” He’s incredibly tall, so I have to throw my head back to see his face. He ignores the glass, takes the bottle in one of his six hands, and drains it. I rescue the glass and take a sip. It’s not bad.

  “Committee business?” he asks and the unseen Voice makes himself heard with an audible snort followed by—

  “Oh, shit, not now. We’re in the middle of the tour.”

  “Fuck off,” he says to the room at large. “You knew this was the deal when you booked the tour.”

  There is grumbling between Shivers and S’Live, but they move away to gather up their street clothes. The manager continues to hover.

  “The girls are gonna want to see you,” he whines.

  “Tell them he’s got a girl,” I say. An odd range of emotions cross Drummer Boy’s face. For an instant there is naked lust (good), followed by grim resolve and a subtle physical retreat (not good).

  The peanut gallery gives us some space. I take another sip of champagne. “Why are you here?” The tone is challenging, not encouraging.

  I move in on him again. “I’ve always wanted to see Denver. Rocky Mountain high and all that. And . . .” I drop my lashes to veil my eyes, and allow my hair to fall over my shoulder and brush across one of his hands. “I wanted to see you and tell you . . .”

  “Tell me what?”

  I inch closer. This time he doesn’t retreat. “That you did a good job in India.” His breath increases in tempo and flutters across the top of my head. I drift away and pick up another of the twenty champagne bottles. “Why don’t we take this to a nicer venue?”

  “Are you trying to pick me up?”

  I decide to match directness with bluntness. “No, I’m trying to fuck you.”

  “You’re sleeping with Lohengrin.”

  “Does that mean I belong to him? How very antiquated of you. And you a rock and roll star. I thought you’d be more broad-minded.”

  He looks over toward the row of sinks and the mirrors set above them. He is frowning at his image. “That kind of thing can tear a group apart.” Three of his hands are drumming nervously at the tympanic plates that cover his immensely long torso. It’s like a strange syncopated heartbeat echoing off the concrete walls.

  “And you care. How sweet.” I move up next to him and lean against his side.

  “I think the Committee is important. We do good work.”

  “You do good work. In fact, you seem to do more than anyone else. Except for me, of course. Taxi Girl.”

  One side of his mouth twists up in a reluctant smile. I run a hand up his shoulder, noting the elaborate colors and designs of the tattoos, and cup the nape of his neck. A gentle tug and his head drops. I match it by going on tiptoes and press my lips on his. I can’t risk tongue, but I keep my lips soft and parted, inviting him in. For an instant I can taste and feel the mounting passion, then he pulls back, coughs, and asks in a too-casual tone. “What about our Fearless Leader?”

  “Oh, Fortune’s very good at photo ops and press conferences.” DB gives a bark of laughter. “So, do you want to sleep together or not?”

  He cocks his head to one side. The light glints off his multiple piercings. “You always use the crudest, most distancing phrases—fuck, sleep together. You never say ‘make love.’ Why do you do that?”

  It’s strange, but the question takes me aback, and leaves me feeling naked. I fall back on flippancy. “I don’t believe in love?”

  “I do.”

  I point toward the door. “You have an army of groupies waiting out there.”

  “Yeah, but they’re different from an ace.”

  The champagne bottle hits the ice with a crash as I drop it back into the bucket. “Curveball is sleeping with John Fortune. Why reject what I’m offering?”

  “I love her.”

  “My God, you’re a hopeless romantic. What? You think you’re going to win her by limiting your fucking to nats?” His expression darkens and I realize I’ve allowed my disdain to show. How to recover? My mind flits over the past year and the things DB has done, and I see it. Dad was right, there’s something to the Bible. “Though I doubt you’ll live long enough.”

  One of his hands closes around my upper arm and turns me around to face him. I’ll have bruises tomorrow. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You seem to draw all the most dangerous assignments. You never just hand out food aid or deliver medical supplies.”

  “Yeah? So? I’ve got a lot of power. As I showed in Egypt.”

  “Do you read the Bible, Michael?”

  “What? What the fuck?”

  “Of course it’s mostly fairy tales, but those old prophets were pretty perceptive about human nature. It hasn’t changed much in three thousand years. Take the story of David and Bathsheba. Such a romantic story. What people forget is that she had a husband. ‘Set Uriah in the forefront of the hottest battle, that he may be smitten, and die.’ ”

  Our eyes lock, and we hold the stare for a long, long time. “He wouldn’t,” DB finally forces past lips gone stiff with anger.

  “If you say so. I’m sure he’s your very good friend.”

  DB turns away, his broad, powerful shoulders hunch as if he’s trying to protect himself. “I wish you hadn’t come here.”

  “Me, too. It’s going to be a lonely night.” And I prepare, visualize home, and teleport away. As I travel the Between I think it’s been a good night’s work.

  Just Cause: Part II

  Carrie Vaughn

  NEW YORK CITY

  KATE AND ANA RUSHED to catch the subway. Dinner at Stellar, the posh restaurant at the top of the Empire State Building, was one thing, but a cab ride during a fuel shortage was too much of an extravagance. They rode standing, holding on to one of the bars, talking in hushed voices about this and that, phone calls home, how Ana’s brother was applying to the University of New Mexico and how Kate’s parents were still upset that she’d dropped out of college. They got stares. They always got stares, and a few whispers, “Is that really them? It couldn’t be . . . They look so much like . . .”

  Street level was quiet. Perpetually gridlocked traffic had vanished. A few government vehicles, a few cabs, and very few private cars were active. Fifth Avenue might have been a street in any small town. The air actually smelled decent.

  As soon as they turned the corner, shouted questions began from the group of reporters waiting outside the Empire State Building. Kate and Ana stood shoulder to shoulder and prepared to run the gauntlet.

  “Curveball! Earth Witch! Who’s your pick on the new season of American Hero?”

  Be nice, Kate reminded herself. Keep the press on your side. Those were the rules from American Hero, and they still worked. She shrugged and smiled her sweetheart smile. Cameras flashed. “I don’t know, I’m not really watching.”

  “We’ve been a little busy,” Ana added.

  More questions. Kate couldn’t make them all out.

  “Earth Witch! Reports say you collapsed from exhaustion in Ec ua dor. Is it true? How’s your health?”

  Ana’s face was a mask, the smile frozen in place. “I’m fine,” she said.

  Someone pushed her way to the front and stuck a digital
recorder out. “Is the Committee going to intervene to stop the genocide in Nigeria?”

  Amid the way-too-personal questions about romances, diets, and clothes, the political ones struck like bolts of lightning.

  Kate’s sweetheart smile turned apologetic. “No comment. I’m sorry.”

  With the doorman helping to clear the way, they slipped inside, leaving the reporters crowded on the sidewalk.

  Ana let out a sigh.

  “You okay?” Kate asked.

  “I’m sick of people asking me that,” Ana said.

  “We’re just worried—”

  “I’m fine,” Ana said, her smile tight. It was what they all said. They were all so tough.

  They took the express elevator to the restaurant. They were nearly the last to arrive.

  John turned to the elevator when it opened; his face brightened. “Kate! Wow, you look great!” She beamed back at him. She’d been hoping for that reaction. She wore a silky, floral halter dress with heels, and her hair was up. That alone made her look about five years older and a ton more sophisticated.

  “You don’t look too shabby yourself.” He wore a suit with a band collar shirt, giving him sophisticated polish. Definitely his mother’s son. She reached for him, and they joined hands to pull each other into a kiss.

  “You two are, as ever, awfully cute,” Bugsy said. “But I’d like to point out that Ana looks fabulous.”

  Ana wore a black wraparound dress with a low-cut neck and flowing, knee-length skirt that clung and flattered in all the right places. Add her long black hair, dangly gold earrings, and ever-present St. Barbara medallion, and she looked exotic. And now, she was blushing. But smiling, too.

  “We went shopping today,” Kate said. “It called to me from the store window,” Ana said. The two of them giggled.

  Bugsy said, “What a surprise, we all clean up pretty good.”

  “Maybe someday People will stop picking on how I dress,” Kate said.

  “They named you best dressed at that UNICEF fundraiser last month,” Ana argued.

  “Only because John’s mother picked out the dress.”

  John got a dreamy look in his eyes. “That was a great dress.”

  It had been a great dress, with enough architecture to give even Kate cleavage. A picture of the two of them from that night ended up on the cover of Aces! They were arm in arm, looking at something off to the side, smiling. They’d looked like royalty.

  The Committee: Rusty, wearing a big grin, waved from the far corner, where he was talking with Bubbles and Holy Roller; Gardener was pointing out something on a potted fern to Toad Man and Brave Hawk; the Lama (from Nepal, who was able to turn insubstantial) and the Llama (from Bolivia, who was almost a joker, with a foot-long neck and fuzzy gray hair, and who could spit a gooey venom incredible distances) were glaring at each other across the foyer. Both had refused to change their ace name to avoid confusion. And Lilith, the British teleporter, standing with Lohengrin and surveying the room critically, like this was all beneath her. She wore an amazing gown, V-neck coming to a point between her breasts, slit in the skirt climbing to her waist, the diaphanous black material deceptively translucent. All the guys were stealing glances—and Lilith knew it.

  Being America’s ace sweetheart didn’t count for a whole lot sometimes, thought Kate, in her cute and completely boring dress.

  The absent member was obvious: at seven feet, DB dominated any room he was in.

  “Where’s Michael?” she asked.

  John frowned. “In Chicago wrapping up his concert tour, I think. Let’s make the introductions,” he said, turning their attention to the two women Kate didn’t know. Even more new members. “From Canada, this is Simone Duplaix, aka Snowblind, and Barbara Baden, the Translator, from Israel.”

  Simone had dyed magenta hair that screamed look at me. She wore a black miniskirt, crop top, and a nose stud, and glared like she expected someone to challenge her on the dress code. Also in her twenties, Barbara was a little more upscale, with a clingy, midnight blue cocktail dress. She kept her hands folded in front of her and was a picture of calm.

  “Simone, Barbara, this is Kate Brandt and Ana Cortez.” Handshakes all around.

  “There’s hardly a need for introductions,” Barbara said. “Everyone knows who you are.”

  “Introductions are more polite,” Kate said.

  Tinker came in from the next room, holding one of his gadgets, a gunmetal gray box that looked like a cross between a TV remote and an eggbeater.

  “What’s that?” Ana asked.

  “Bug detector,” he said cheerfully in his thick Aussie accent. “John wanted the place swept. Can’t have spies now, right?”

  “How do you know it even works?” Kate said.

  He pointed it at Bugsy, and the device let out a high-pitched squeal that left them all wincing.

  “Well,” Bugsy said, glaring at the thing. “My confidence is truly won over.”

  Tinker huffed. “I built it to track down covert listening devices. I think you got a few of those on you, eh, mate?”

  For the punch line, a small green wasp crawled out of the pocket of Tinker’s suit jacket.

  “Hey!” Tinker swatted the bug, and it crunched. Bugsy winced. “Don’t you ever get tired of that trick?”

  “I have another one, but you wouldn’t like it any better.”

  The center of the next room had been cleared to make way for a long table draped in white linen. The arrangement lent a somber weight to the evening. This felt like a state dinner. And here, in this luxurious setting, on the eighty-sixth floor, Kate really felt on top of the world.

  In keeping with its location, Stellar had a neo/retro art deco motif, with muted colors like pale grays, soft blues, streamlined chrome fixtures with inset lighting, ferns pouring from silver planters. The chairs and tables were mahogany and modernist. Movie stars of the 1930s in tuxedos and ball gowns might have come sweeping past at any moment. It was romantic, especially the balcony overlooking the Manhattan skyline.

  “This place is amazing,” Kate said, taking a chair between John and Ana near the head of the table.

  John gazed around, smiling. “This used to be a different restaurant. Aces High. All the big aces used to hang out here, and the owner did this aces-only dinner every year on Wild Card Day. Mom met my father there.

  My real father, I mean. She says it’s the only reason she comes here, since Hiram retired. I guess I thought it’d be cool to come back. Start some new traditions now that aces are heroes again.”

  He wore a wistful look, like he gazed through a window into that bygone time when everything was bigger, flashier, better. The woman he knew as his mother had been a different person then. And his father was dead.

  Dinner first, meeting after. The staff brought out course after course of gourmet dishes: perfect breads, exotic pâtés, oysters with caviar, salmon, quail, and more. Maybe not more food than Kate had ever seen in one place, but certainly more different kinds of food. No holds barred. John ordered champagne, and they drank a toast to friends old and new, to jobs well done. And, as had become tradition, a toast to the friends who were missing. They’d lost people. They wanted to remember.

  They relaxed into conversation and gossip.

  “Guess who called me yesterday,” Kate said.

  People threw out names, movie stars and pop singers, and she shook her head for each one. “Apparently, Michael Berman is looking for someone for the rogue ace challenge on American Hero.”

  Groans greeted the name of the network executive who rode herd on the show.

  Rusty said, “You actually talked to him?”

  “God, no. He left like five messages. But I’m warning you—you all may be next.”

  Ana said, “Depends on how desperate he gets.”

  Kate wanted to argue, but she was probably right. Berman wouldn’t be calling her. Ana wasn’t considered as photogenic as the more conventionally sexy women who’d been on the show. Didn’t m
atter, because she could still kick all their asses with her power.

  Kate rolled her eyes. “The guy’s an ass. I mean, have you seen who they picked for this season? Space Cadette? What’s up with that?”

  “I thought you weren’t watching,” John said. Kate huffed.

  They were finishing the main course when the restaurant doors slammed open. Drummer Boy appeared, lining all six hands on his hips.

  “Hey,” he called in a booming voice. “Am I too late? No? Good.”

  He had to duck to enter the room. He was bald, shirtless, showing off not only his impressive canvas of tattoos, but the tympanic membranes on his torso—his namesake.

  John frowned, and Kate tensed. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Chicago?” John said.

  “Not tonight. Had a little extra time so I thought I’d drop by. This meeting is for the whole Committee, right?”

  Bugsy tried to divert the tension, opening a space by the table near him. “DB, pull up a chair. Meet the newbies. Simone, Barbara, DB.”

  DB didn’t cooperate. “Ladies,” he said, nodding a minimum polite greeting, then grabbing a spare chair from another table and pulling it next to Kate. He couldn’t squeeze himself between her and Ana, so he remained behind them. Turning the chair backward to sit on it, he leaned one set of arms on the backs of Kate and Ana’s chairs, crossed another set, and Kate lost track of the third. Now, Kate had John on her left, DB on her right, and the two of them were glaring at each other over her head.

  Ana, thank God, distracted him. “How’s the tour going?”

  “It’s been fucking amazing. We’re playing stadiums. Hell, we’re not a stadium band! We started out punk in two-bit bars. Now here we are.” That third set of arms spread in a gesture of offering.