by Rick Goeld
Smith ignored the question. “So, you like mix?”
Blackburn swallowed another mouthful. “It’s pretty good. Very good, actually. First time I ever had it.”
“You’ve never had mix before?”
“Nope. Never.”
Smith smiled. “Great stuff. It’s got everything you need.”
“Everything?” Blackburn’s curiosity was aroused. “What do you mean?”
“It’s got all the right proteins, fats, vitamins … you name it.”
Blackburn tried to recall what his mother had told him, maybe a thousand times, about eating a balanced diet. “So how do they get all of that out of wheat and beans and … whatever else they use?”
Smith leaned back and took another swig of beer. “That’s all soy you’re eating, my friend. All soy.”
My friend? Blackburn stared into his bowl. “I thought it was …”
“Nope. It’s all soy.” Smith wore a satisfied look, but frowned when he saw confusion on Blackburn’s face. “Didn’t you know that?”
“No,” Blackburn replied, shaking his head. “I guess I didn’t.”
“Synthetic food—mix made out of all kinds of stuff—has been around for a few years. But this is the first ‘all soy’ mix restaurant in the state.”
“No shit?” Blackburn used his spoon to poke at his mix.
“No shit, but, hey, don’t worry about it. It’s genetically engineered. I eat it all the time. Look at me. Strong like bull!” Smith raised a fist in the air.
Strong like bull? There aren’t that many bulls left. Blackburn brought a tiny spoonful of mix to his lips, sniffed it, placed it on his tongue, and finally, carefully, mouthed and swallowed it.
“Good, right?” Smith grinned.
“Well, yeah,” Blackburn nodded. “It tastes great. I just didn’t realize it was all soy.”
“Yup, all soy.” The smug look was back on Smith’s face.
“Hmm.” He’d have to ask his mother about this “all soy” mix. Blackburn’s mind wandered before finally landing back on software. “So,” he said, picking up the conversation where they’d left it a few minutes ago, “what kind of software do you write?”
Smith looked surprised, but answered quickly. “Oh, I don’t actually write software.”
“No?”
“No. I just do some of the systems designs.”
“What kind of systems?”
“Uh, financial.”
Blackburn watched Smith stuff another heaping spoonful of mix into his mouth. “Financial … that doesn’t tell me much.”
Smith swallowed the mix, then gulped more beer. “Systems that look at trends in financial transactions. Does that tell you enough?”
“Trends. Is that a market research kind of thing?” Blackburn was always on the lookout for interesting new fields of study.
“Something like that.”
“So, what brings you up here?” Blackburn said, suddenly realizing that he was asking a lot of questions. He felt hot blood rush to his cheeks. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that we’re a long way from Oak Hill.” Eight miles? Ten?
Smith swallowed more mix. “My sister. She’s a student at UT. I’m meeting her here.” Smith flicked his wrist and his cuff dropped an inch, exposing an implanted display. He glanced at it. “She’s already late.”
Blackburn’s eyes lit up. “Nice. May I take a look?”
Smith unbuttoned his cuff, pushed the sleeve up, and extended his arm, palm up. The flexible display extended from his wrist almost to his elbow. The time, date, GPS locator, and an array of icons shone through a thin layer of skin. Blackburn whistled softly, then gazed at Smith’s face, focusing on his eyes and ears, looking for telltale signs of other implants.
“You can’t see them,” Smith said, scraping purple mix from the sides of his bowl. “The other implants, I mean.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to …”
“It’s okay. Natural curiosity. The main transceiver is behind my ponytail.”
Blackburn nodded. That was the most common location for the transceiver; shielding material and skull protected the brain, and enzymes bonded to the transceiver’s surface took care of any reaction to the microwaves. Blackburn had wanted an implanted computer since before puberty. But good implants were a privilege of the rich and famous. “What about voice and sound?”
Smith tapped his jawbone just beneath his ear.
Wow. Three implants. Top of the line. Blackburn thought he might ask Smith if he had a video eye implant, but thought better of it. “If you don’t mind my asking, how’d you pay for it?”
“The lab sprang for it. I need it for my work.”
A girl—a woman—was suddenly standing behind Smith.
“Got room for one more?”
Smith turned his head. “You’re late,” he said, pulling a chair closer.
She tossed a paper bag onto the table, and slithered into the chair.
“Manta,” Smith said, “this is Bill Blackburn. Blackie. Blackie, this is my sister, Manta Ray.”
Blackburn’s eyes got wider.
Wow. Tall, and muscular, and wiry, and curvy … all at the same time. Light coffee skin. Must be a heavy dose of Latino in her gene pool. Tight-fitting black leather vest. “Butterfly” body art. Lots of metal: ear jewelry, a forehead weave (the latest thing!), and some other stuff. Shades perched on her head. She’s nothing like her brother.
“I love your … your whole look,” Blackburn said, immediately feeling like a fool.
Smith leaned back and closed his eyes. He was either praying, Blackburn thought, or perhaps contemplating the absurdity of Blackburn’s statement. Manta smiled and slid something out of the paper bag. A burrito. Seconds later, Manta was chewing, and chili sauce was dripping down her chin.
“Don’t you like mix?” Blackburn asked her.
“Not when I can get this.” She took another bite.
The jukebox shuffled, and seconds later, guitar music rocked the room.
“Barracuda” … Heart … the Wilson sisters. Blackburn took a deep breath. The aroma of beef and chili was intoxicating. People sitting near them began glancing at Manta.
“Will you cool it, Manta? You’re making a scene with that”—Smith nodded at the burrito—“that thing.”
“Fuck you, Charley.” She held the burrito high over her head. Gobs of sauce went flying. The scent of beef, chili and onions filled the air.
Smith was now thoroughly pissed off. “Manta, wrap that fucking thing up.”
Blackburn was confused. “Charley?”
Manta reached over, grabbed her brother’s beer, and took a sip. “That’s his name—Charley.”
Smith retrieved his beer. “It’s Charles Nelson Smith.”
“Yeah, after you changed it,” Manta snorted.
Changed it? Blackburn looked at Manta, who had noticed people pointing at her and was wrapping the burrito in a large paper napkin. “Is that real?” he asked her. “I mean, real beef?”
“Yes, it’s real beef.”
Real beef costs a fortune. “Where’d you get it? The black market?”
“Yeah. A bootlegger I know.” She took another bite, this time keeping the burrito covered and her head down.
Smith smirked. “You mean ‘A bootlegger I blow,’ don’t you?”
“Fuck you again.”
“I hope you rinsed your mouth out after you did him.” Smith grinned and gulped a large spoonful of mix.
Manta ignored her brother, but Blackburn could see her blinking away tears. He decided to change the subject. “Your brother told me you were at UT. What are you studying?”
Manta took a couple of deep breaths and regained her composure. “I’m pre-law.”
“Pre-law. Impressive.”
“Yeah, but I may drop out.” She grinned wickedly. “I’m thinking of becoming an exotic dancer.”
“Bullshit, Manta,” Smith said. “You couldn’t dance if your feet were on fire.”
/> “Fuck you for the third time.”
Open warfare. Blackburn’s eyes flicked back and forth between brother and sister. Smith had a satisfied look on his face, grinning as he shoveled more mix into his mouth. Manta looked like she might actually shed some tears. She put her half-eaten burrito down and wiped her eyes with a clean napkin.
“And I thought my sister and I didn’t get along,” he said, attempting to lighten the mood.
Manta sniffed a few times, and finally blew her nose into the napkin. “You’re right,” she said, attempting a smile. “I guess I started it. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. We were both out of line.” He leaned over and kissed Manta’s cheek. She made a face and laughed.
Smith glanced at his wrist display. “I’ve got to go meet someone.” He stood and offered his hand. “See you around, Blackie?”
Blackburn stood. “Uh, yeah, sure.” He shook Smith’s hand.
Smith looked at Manta. “See you tonight?”
She nodded. Blackburn watched as Smith walked through the patio, under another Spanish-style archway, crossed the street, and headed south toward downtown Austin.
“Do you want the rest of this?” Manta asked.
“The burrito?” Blackburn’s eyes got wider.
“Yes, the burrito. What else is there?”
He tried to remember the last time he had eaten real beef. His sister had occasionally brought home leftovers from one of her political “power dinners.” He tried to remember what it tasted like. He couldn’t. “Are you sure?”
“Sure. Go ahead.” She pushed the half-eaten burrito across the table.
Blackburn picked it up, careful not to spill its precious contents. He brought it to his mouth and took a small bite, closed his eyes, and chewed. Chunks of beef, hard to break, but once broken, flaky and tender, delighted his taste buds. With onions and peppers, in a thick red sauce … Heaven … I’m in heaven.
She smiled. He took another bite and started to fall in love.
Blackburn set two cups of coffee on the table: hers with artificial sweetener and whitener; his “black” befitting his self-proclaimed nickname. “Always on My Mind” played softly on the jukebox. Willie Nelson, a Texas legend. “So,” he said, sitting down opposite her, “do you and your brother always fight like that?”
She smiled. “Only when he acts like a piece of shit.”
Play it cool, Blackie. “Which is how often?”
“Most of the time.”
“Hmm. Sounds like me and my sister.”
“You have a sister?”
“Yeah. Vicki. Victoria Blackburn. Ever heard of her?”
A puzzled look. “No. Why? Who is she?”
“She’s a state senator.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of her. I don’t know much about politics.”
“Mmm.” Blackburn sipped his coffee. “You mind if I ask you a personal question?”
She shrugged.
“You and your brother. You’re so … different.”
“Yeah.” Manta lowered her eyes, raised her cup, and sipped her coffee. “People mention that sometimes.”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
She looked him straight in the eye. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. Same mother, different fathers.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Charley is pure WASP. I’m … I am what I am: half white, half Mexican. With some Chinese. Maybe some other stuff, too.”
He smiled at her. Yeah. I can see the Chinese in your eyes. “How’d you get your name?”
She laughed out loud. “My mother had a thing for fish.”
“Manta Ray … it’s, well, unique.” I guess it could have been worse. “So, where’s your mother now?”
“In Waco. In a commune with a bunch of other ‘free thinkers.’”
Waco … a haven for wackos. “And your father?”
“Never met the man,” she shrugged.
He hesitated. “Do you have any problem with …”
“With what?”
“Prejudice?”
“Prejudice?” She sneered. “Is that the politically correct term for it now?”
“You know what I mean,” he said, his face reddening. Texas was one of the hottest, fiercest battlegrounds in the underground campaign against Latinos.
“Yeah. I know what you mean. No, it’s not a problem. Other than the odd nasty remark I get on campus.”
“Hmm.” He saw that Manta had finished her coffee, and his cup, still half-full, was cold. “How about more coffee?”
“You know, I’d really like a glass of wine.”
He glanced at his ten-dollar plastic watch: one-thirty. He had a class at three. Fuck it. “We could walk back to the university. There are a couple of wine bars on the way.”
She tapped on the edge of her coffee mug. “You have any wine at your place?”
My place? The broken-down apartment I share with my roommate? “Uh, no. No wine.”
“Well,”—she gave him a look that he couldn’t decipher—“we could go to my place.”
“Your place?” Sweat dampened Blackburn’s armpits.
“Yeah. The house I share with my brother. Have you got a car?”
“No, no car.” Damn. “You’ve got wine at your place?” Dumb question.
“Yeah. It’s not far. We can walk.”
“What kind of wine?” Damn, Blackie, pull yourself together. “I mean, I’m kind of particular about what I drink.” He smiled at her.
“Right.” She smiled back at him as she stood. “Well, I’m sure there’s something there that you’ll like.”
He took another good look at her. Yeah, you might say that.
Minutes later, Blackburn was sitting in an armchair, sweating, as he watched her strip while standing on the coffee table. She attempted some kind of exotic dance, but she was no dancer—not that it mattered to him. She peeled off her vest and jeans. No bra. Her breasts were small, firm, and pierced with nipple rings. Butterflies, in a range of colors, adorned her body. Her plain black thong undulated inches from his face. Then she jumped off the coffee table and headed down a hallway. Blackburn followed.
Once in bed, he peeled off the thong. Her pussy was draped with metal—more metal than he’d ever seen—and the situation deteriorated rapidly.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Uh … I don’t know. This has never happened to me before.”
“What—shit, are you a virgin or something?”
“Hell no. I’ve had plenty of girls.” Another lie. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe … I’ve just never seen that much … jewelry.”
“It’s just some pussy rings and love chains.”
“Yeah, but …”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she grumbled, jumping out of bed and moving over to a dresser. Putting one leg up, she reached down, unclipped the chains, and dropped them on the floor.
“Think you can handle it now?” she smirked, climbing back into bed.
Soon he was inside her, pushing for all he was worth.
Chapter 2: Victoria Blackburn
Blackie: vick? u on-line
Vicki: Yes, little brother. I’m in my office, on my computer. Just what I need … an interruption. Are you texting?
Blackie: yeah. whassup
Vicki: Whassup? I thought you outgrew that stuff years ago.
Blackie: never underestimate power of immaturity
Vicki: Duly noted.
Blackie: met girl today
Vicki: Good for you. Masturbation must be getting old.
Blackie: lol. seriously, pre-law @ ut, sizzling hot
Vicki: Of legal age, I hope?
Blackie: will ask when i c her sat
Vicki: A date? This must be serious.
Blackie: only time will tell
Vicki: What else? I’m busy. After all, I am a state senator.
Blackie: pass any good bills late
ly
Vicki: Actually, my committee … remember I’m the youngest ever committee chair?
Blackie: thx 4 reminding me
Vicki: Anyhow, we’re about to start hearings on a new soy bill. That’s taking most of my time.
Blackie: u hate soy. gonna recluse urself
Vicki: Recluse? Do you mean recuse?
Blackie: whatever
Vicki: No, I’m not going to recuse myself. I can be objective about anything. Remember, I’m fighting the good fight for the people of Texas.
Blackie: bullshit
Vicki: Again, you’re wasting my time. My four-fifteen should be arriving any minute.
Blackie: going home 2nite. wanna come? score free meal. nada like mom’s cooking
Vicki: True, but like I said, I’m busy. And don’t you work tonight?
Blackie: don’t work wed. when last time u saw folks
Vicki: A month ago? Two? Let me check my calendar.
Blackie: if gotta check, been 2 long
Vicki: In our family, I thought Mom was the official purveyor of guilt.
Blackie: u know what i’m saying. btw, thumbs wearing out
Vicki: I can’t come tonight.
Blackie: promise you’ll go next week. i’ll b ur guilt deflector
Vicki: Let me check my calendar … OK … tentatively.
Blackie: wut a sweetheart
Vicki: Suck yourself. My four-fifteen just walked in.
Blackie: if only I cud
Vicki: If men could suck their own dicks … you finish the sentence … gotta go.
“Thanks for meeting with me, Senator.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Gage.” My God, he’s gorgeous. “Please have a seat.”
Victoria Blackburn glided behind her desk—a monument of black oak, trimmed with gold leaf—and perched on her custom-made black leather chair. Her office was a testament to centuries of Texas political power. Behind her, a mahogany-paneled wall featured photos of famous Texans—mostly deceased—and oil paintings depicting great moments in Texas history. Another wall featured an array of news screens. A plush burgundy sofa, a coffee table, and a pair of end tables stacked with old copies of Texas Monthly dominated a third wall.
