Con Job

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  “The point is,” a guy in a printed Mr. Spock t-shirt said, “you don’t own the rights. We don’t own the rights. It’s the creators’ call, and if they don’t want to share a show, they don’t have to.”

  “I totally agree with you about creators’ rights,” Sergio said, his voice terse, “absolutely, but the problem is, it’s not always the creators who are making that call.”

  “But—”

  “Let me use an example,” Sergio interrupted. “Let’s take Mr. Doobles as a case study. Has everyone heard of Mr. Doobles? It’s a cute little Japanese show about a bunch of kids who draw stories together, has a cult fandom probably beyond what it deserves, though I could get flamed in some circles for that. It was licensed for the US by Pop Culture, but when they started having money problems a few years ago they shelved most of their family-friendly stuff and bet on the Death March franchise to save them. Sound familiar, you with me? Well, it didn’t work, they went under, and last year MEGAN!ME acquired the Pop Culture catalog, including Mr. Doobles.”

  Heads bobbed around the room; a lot of the audience knew this story.

  “So internet explosion, hooray, Mr. Doobles is going to be released again! Because Pop Culture had been a few years behind the overseas releases and everyone wanted what they’d been missing. But MEGAN!ME didn’t release anything.”

  “Here he goes,” murmured Sam with a suppressed smile.

  “You tell ‘em, Sergio,” Jacob whispered back.

  “In fact, not only did they not release any of the backlogged Mr. Doobles, they put out a statement saying they had no plans to release any new Mr. Doobles material in the foreseeable future. But then they started issuing cease-and-desist letters to fans who were translating scripts of overseas releases.”

  “Yeah!” called someone from the front rows. “Like that show about the radio station, where they lied about the fan mail so they could cancel the show even though it was really popular.”

  “Or like Firefly got scuttled, though at least it got a DVD release.”

  Sergio nodded. “And MEGAN!ME isn’t making any money on Mr. Doobles, either, which means fans won’t get anything like it in the future and more creators won’t get picked up. So the TLDR is, some stuffy hateful exec kills a series, maybe just because of some personal reason, and everyone — fans, creators, everyone — gets screwed.”

  The room exploded into agreeing applause.

  Sergio pointed at the screen, probably referencing a slide which had been visible earlier. “I don’t like piracy. I have friends who are artists and writers, and I want them to get paid for their work. But rule number one of marketing is, Make it easy for people to give you their money, and right now it is legally impossible to give anyone money for Mr. Doobles. Honestly, getting the license dropped would be the best thing for Mr. Doobles, because then maybe some other company could pick it up and actually sell it to the people who want it.”

  More cheers and whistles. The guy who had protested earlier said something, but Jacob couldn’t hear it over the audience’s agreeing with Sergio.

  But Sergio had heard, and he shook his head. “That’s good in theory, but you know it’s not the only factor. You think there are no human personalities in the industry? No one ever gets a bee up his nose or a stick up his butt about a certain show or creator or whatever? And like he brought up about that radio show, if you can feed bad info to the board you can get whatever decision you want, maybe even get yourself a nice bonus for making them think you’re saving the company money. No, market demand is a big part of it, sure, but it’s not everything.”

  Someone stood and called, “So what do we do about it? You’re totally right — writing to MEGAN!ME doesn’t do anything, those letters don’t get passed on to the suits. And it’s not like the board of directors is actually reading all this on Twitter or Tumblr or anything. So what do we do?”

  Sergio grinned. “We find an exec, we slap him around until he’s willing to listen, we tell him to shut up and take our money, and if he isn’t cooperative we push him into a busy highway.” He laughed and shook his head. “Seriously, man, I don’t know. That’s the thing, we’re just screwed. They’re the gatekeepers, and as long as we have this stupid licensing system that makes it illegal to buy direct, we just have to wait for them to die off. Pop Culture did already; maybe MEGAN!ME will be next. We can only hope.”

  Someone beside the door signaled, and Sergio nodded. “Right, sorry, that’s time. Gotta tear down and get out for the next panel. Thanks for the talk, everyone!”

  “There’s a petition online about Mr. Doobles….” someone shouted over the shuffle of the audience rising and starting toward the door. Jacob and Samantha went along with the river of exiting attendees and then slid into an eddy beside the door.

  A few minutes later, Sergio came out, carrying a tablet and adapter. “Hey, guys! Good to see you!”

  “You too. Got a bit exciting in there?”

  “The Con Job crowd’s always a little more interested in the business side of things. That’s why I can even do an import and distribution talk here; wouldn’t fly at a lot of cons. You guys got dinner plans?”

  “Probably getting pizzas in the room. I’ll text you when we’re thinking about ordering.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Samantha snapped her fingers and pointed at a woman passing in the hall. “You! I’m sorry, I’ve been trying to think since I first saw you. Who are you playing?”

  The young woman in the blue suit fingered her Hello, my name is Laura badge. “To be fair, most people don’t remember the blue suit, and it’s from a book, so there wasn’t a really clear visual….”

  Jacob noticed her slicked hair was now a bit fuzzy, her corsage had been crushed, and she seemed to have rubbed her suit against something dusty. “You okay? I didn’t do that, did I?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m going to look just a bit more bedraggled each time you see me, because—”

  “Because you’re decaying!” Sam clapped her hands together and pointed. “You’re dead Laura, from American Gods!”

  “Yes!” Dead-Laura was clearly delighted to be recognized. “I’m doing her all weekend, and each time you see me I should look just a little more dead.” She popped open the small bag she carried to show a wallet, a squeeze bottle of some particulate, and an eyeshadow palette in greys and browns. “I figured most people wouldn’t get it, but I’ve always wanted to do it.”

  “I think it’s brilliant,” Sam said.

  “And you? Who are you?”

  Sam looked down at her costume. “Sister Rostia, from Season of the Dove. This is her first outfit, but I really want to do the Spellknight Arcane version as soon as I get some help sculpting for the armor resin casts—”

  “That’s enough,” Sergio said, holding up his hands. “In a minute she’ll be talking about wig wefts and Worbla, and I’m outta here before we get to that point. See you guys later.”

  “You’re just self-conscious about your lame black t-shirt!” Sam called after him, smiling. She looked at Dead-Laura. “He doesn’t really appreciate costumes. What a poser.” Her grin belied the taunt.

  “Are you really working with resin and Worbla? Can I ask you some questions about it? I just tried my first armor piece last week, and — well, I guess the tutorial I found left out a couple of steps I was supposed to know about.”

  “Sure! I’m not much of an expert, but I’ll tell you what I can, and I can point you toward some really good tutorials.”

  “That’d be great, thanks!” Dead-Laura drew out her phone. “How’d you like me to contact you?”

  Sam thumbed her phone. “What’s your number? I’ll text you to join us for dinner, if you want. We typically all chip in for pizza, and there will be a lot of costume nerds.”

  “Perfect! I’m CosBright.” She looked a little embarrassed. “It’s sort of a dumb name, but I started posting back when I first wanted to go to cons, and now too many people know me by that to
change it.”

  “Oh, I understand that.” They exchanged numbers. “It’ll be around nine or so, if that’s okay. Brittany and Andrew have to finish their costuming panel first.”

  “Brittany and Andrew? Like, Fish Face Costumes, with all that amazing leatherwork and beading?” CosBright’s eyes were wide. “Oh, I will so be there.”

  Jacob’s phone buzzed with an incoming text. Hey, could you volunteer a few hours with security? We had a couple of no-shows, various reasons, and I said you’d be a good guy.

  Jacob typed a reply. Sure, if you can schedule me around the Greg Hammer signing. My one goal this weekend is to see him and get an autograph.

  I can probably swing it so you’re his security. That work for you?

  It certainly did.

  Dead-Laura had moved on, and Sam was flipping through the con’s mobile app. “What next? There’s a panel on gender roles in sci-fi, and one on building magic systems for games and fiction, and one on hobbit genealogy.”

  “As much as hobbit genealogy intrigues me, I just said I’d check in and do some security shifts for the con. Daniel texted me, said some of their staff didn’t make it.”

  “Does that mean that you can tag my Glaive of Truth tomorrow even if it measures a quarter-inch over hall limit?”

  “We’ll see how nice you are to me.”

  Chapter Three

  Daniel had mocha skin, stood six feet even, and showed every one of his forty-two years. He looked good in an Imperial officer’s uniform from Star Wars, but he ruined the effect by grinning and waving as Jacob entered. “Hey, Jacob! Thanks, man.”

  “No problem, glad to help.”

  Daniel gestured to catch the attention of another man at a table with an energy drink. “Vince, this is Jacob. He’s going to help fill the gaps. I know him from the Academy.”

  Vince was the man who had been trying to placate the angry MEGAN!ME executive, Jacob recognized. “Glad you can help us out,” Vince said, extending a hand over the table. “You a cop too?” He didn’t seem to remember Jacob, which was fine by Jacob.

  “Not yet,” Jacob said. “Hope to get into the Academy soon. Actually, security will look good on my application next month.”

  “Con Aid,” corrected Vince. “Can’t say ‘security,’ gives us liability issues.”

  Daniel kicked a plastic tote toward Jacob. “Rummage through that and find a shirt your size.”

  “Excuse me.” A teenager in improbable armor leaned through the pass-through desk cut into the wall. “Can we get our props checked here?”

  “Sure.” Daniel went to the desk and took the long wand a girl handed him, trailing ribbons and glowing with custom LEDs. “This is pretty.” He held it against a dowel rod he took from the wall, and the ends matched perfectly. “Four feet, on the nose. Someone did her homework.”

  The costumed girl, wearing small translucent wings and radiant in sparkling makeup, smiled. “I had to grind the staff down so I could fit the finial under the limit. Can you tag it here—” she pointed to a handhold between two clusters of flowers and LEDs — “so I can cover it for photos?”

  “Sure thing.” Daniel fitted a zip tie around the staff where she had indicated and clipped the end. “Have a good con. Next?”

  The armored teen passed a gun through, and Daniel checked it. “No moving parts, no functional barrel, orange tip. You’re good to go.” He attached another zip tie and passed the prop back to the teen.

  Jacob selected a black and red shirt which read Con Job Con Aid. “When do you need me?”

  Daniel turned to a dry erase board marked into a schedule. “Let me see….”

  Another man came into the room and tossed two fake guns into another plastic bin. “No orange tips. Seriously, people, it’s not hard. Orange tips.” He looked at Daniel. “Is there a chance I can go off shift now? I think I got some bad tacos and trust me, it’s better for everyone if I can just stay in my room for a while.”

  Daniel looked at Jacob. “How about now?”

  Jacob pulled the shirt over his head, hooked the radio the other passed him to his waistband, and went to the table to add one of the Con Aid badges to his own. Daniel glanced down as he worked the badge holder snaps. “Put your full name right on your badge? That’s bold.”

  Jacob shook his head. “Data entry mistake. Apparently reg is hand-entering everything instead of using an automated system.”

  Vince gave a sad little half-smile. “Yeah, and they hate me for it.”

  “Hate you?” Jacob was pretty sure the registration department head had been a female name.

  “I’m the con chair.”

  Jacob didn’t know how to respond. “Uh, sorry.”

  Vince shrugged a single shoulder. “I know it’s a pain, and it figures there would be mistakes. Rita wants to use an online ticketing service like we’ve done before, but those things cost a bundle, and frankly the con can’t afford it.”

  Jacob swept his hand to indicate the hotel and convention center around them. “Not that I know anything about it, but this is a pretty good-sized con, and it’s not a start-up. From the little I know, you should be on your feet pretty soon, if not already.”

  “We were,” Vince said. “And then stuff happened.”

  The radio crackled, and Jacob felt for the volume knob as Daniel pulled an earpiece into place. “Go ahead.”

  Jacob couldn’t hear the call, but he saw Daniel go still. He got the volume up again in time to hear, “…last stall.”

  Daniel didn’t hesitate. “Empty and block the room. Stay in the doorway until I’m there. Don’t touch anything. I’m on my way.” He turned to Vince, who had sat up at the change in Daniel’s tone. “Call 911 and ask for an ambulance; we’ve got a girl down in the east corridor restroom. You can meet us there. Jacob? Come with me.”

  Jacob felt a little thrill — Daniel was taking him to the scene! — along with a darker guilt for being excited while someone was hurt.

  No, not hurt; Daniel had told whoever was at the other end of the radio to clear the room and not touch anything, and if the girl had been sick or injured he would have said to help her. They’d have to call an ambulance regardless. The “don’t touch anything” was the clincher. They were going to a body.

  Nothing really seemed to be wrong as they moved down the east corridor. It was a lower-traffic area, removed from the main hub of the convention. People moved through the hall, laughing and calling to friends or to costumes they recognized. The men’s room was open, and a few guys in jeans and black t-shirts exited, but a chair blocked the women’s door, and a college-aged man in a Con Aid shirt sat in it. Beside him stood a woman, slightly older, in a Sailor Moon costume.

  As they neared, two girls approached the door, and the Con Aid staffed extended an arm to block them. “Sorry, restroom’s closed. You’ll have to go to the lobby.”

  “I just want to touch up,” said one girl. “I think I smeared my eye.”

  “You want the lobby, trust me,” said the Sailor Moon cosplayer. “It’s a nasty backup. I’m only waiting because I left my phone in the back and I want the plumber to cross the puddle for it, not me.”

  The girls’ faces screwed up in revulsion. “Ugh. Okay, thanks for the warning.”

  Daniel and Jacob stepped in as the girls left. “What do we have?” asked Daniel.

  The Con Aid staffer looked at the Sailor Moon. “She found her.”

  “Woman in the last stall,” the cosplayer said. “I was in the next stall, noticed the legs next to me weren’t right. She was on the floor, mostly, kind of against the wall. I called to ask if she were all right, and when she didn’t answer, I crawled under the door.”

  Daniel nodded. “And she’s dead?”

  “I can’t declare that. But no respiration, no pulse, and she’s cooling.”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. “You an EMT?”

  “Not so much, just Ski Patrol. I have basics, and I know enough to know I can’t legally pronounce anything.” She
gave a tight, nervous smile. “So I stuck my head out here, and he was right close—” she indicated the Con Aid man — “and I figured I’d better stay long enough to answer any questions. Not that I know much, just, you know, I found her.”

  “You did right,” Daniel said. He looked at the Con Aid man. “She can stay with you, and no one goes in except me. An ambulance is en route, and you can point them in. But unless I give someone the okay or they’re wearing law enforcement badges, no one else.”

  He nodded, a little pale. Daniel glanced at Jacob. “Coming?”

  “Wait.” The Sailor Moon cosplayer licked her lips, but her voice was steady. “I think maybe no one else should go in except the police, right?”

  “Good thought. And I am police.” Daniel pulled a badge on a lanyard from the collar of his Imperial uniform. “Come on, Jacob.”

  The lack of urinals startled Jacob more than it should have. There were five stalls and three sinks, and the last stall door was closed. Jacob bent and saw a sprawl of legs in nude hose and sensible blue heels.

  Daniel inserted the stiff edge of his Con Aid badge into the outward side of the stall lock and turned it. The door swung open, and they looked down at the dead woman. She was fully dressed. She’d probably been facing the rear of the stall, perhaps leaning over the toilet, before she had fallen forward and slid between the stool and the restroom wall. One arm was beneath her, the other caught on the toilet seat, and her head was turned upward at an awkward angle.

  The distortion of her distressed expression and bloated face was disturbing enough to rock Jacob, but they didn’t keep him from recognizing her. It was the Dead-Laura cosplayer, looking more dead than ever.

  Chapter Four

  “She had a badge,” said the uniformed officer. “Surely there’s a way to find out who she is.”

  Vince Corleone shook his head. “Some cons number badges, we don’t have any reason to. If she didn’t have a custom name on the badge, there’s no way to track it in the system.” He shrugged, pushing his fingers through his hair. “They’re tickets, not identification.”