“Sorry, I don’t do those.” He then paused a moment before adding, “But a bet’s a bet. Go ahead. But be gentle. This is my first time.”
The crowd responded with warm laughter.
She slowly reached to grasp the temples of his sunglasses, hesitated, then said, “Last chance.”
When he didn’t respond, she cautiously removed them, causing him to shade his eyes from the light as he lowered his head. Placing a finger below his chin, she eased it back up, gasped then gushed, “You look fine!”
The side screens showed a tight shot of his face as he turned, the pupil of his left eye completely eclipsing the iris, the right one frozen at about half the diameter of the other. The audience went berserk then began chanting, “An-dy Po-lan-ski! An-dy Po-lan-ski! An-dy Po-lan-ski!” as all of the musicians on the stage clapped and cheered.
He stared blankly at adulation for a moment, then began to smile, then smiled more as he placed his palms in a prayer position and bowed slightly in different directions, then finally to Loveland. As a tear trickled from his left eye, she quickly banished its track with kisses to his cheek.
“I’m gonna need some shade here!” he laughed. “Where’s my hat?”
Lera spied it on the floor behind him, grabbed it then stepped to his partner, whispering into his ear before planting it on his head. After adjusting it Polanski said, “Okay. Where are we in the program?”
Lera leaned into his mic then advised, “I believe we’ve got an encore to perform, Bright Eyes. Care to count it out?”
Polanski chuckled then shouted, “One, two, three, four!”
Combined Forces and Friends launched into the ELO classic All Over The World, Lera, Loveland, Watts and Polanski taking the background vocals as the individual Friends alternated singing one line each through the four original verses plus a pair of new ones written for the occasion, along with adding variations to the choruses. Then as the song concluded, a batch of streamers, confetti and balloons bigger than the first blanketed the auditorium and all of the performers moved to the front of the stage to absorb the shock waves, soon joined by Potcheck and Walbee, arm-and-arm on either side of King.
“Jip? Care to comment?”
“I’ll… Nah.”
“Coming up, we’ll be showing some highlights from the amazing concert you’ve just seen… ”
“Highlights?”
“By which I believe I mean the entire concert.”
They both laughed then Scanlan added, “And just as a reminder, we’ll be back tomorrow for the final No Time For Change drawings including the announcement of one lucky 25 million dollar recipient, followed by the fourth and final match of the one hundred million dollar World Standoff! Tournament, exclusively here on Fox. Until then, happy New Year to all of you. I’m Connie Scanlan.”
“And I’m Jip Spotswood. See you then.”
Chapter Fourteen
Denny gasped then grabbed Spotswood’s arm as the pair entered the Wisconsin Bar. “I thought I’d seen it all,” she chuckled. “I was wrong.” He nodded in agreement. While he’d attended many posh parties from private awards show bashes to celebrity birthdays to album and film launches, this one was no doubt going to prove to be asterisk-worthy.
The first things that caught his attention were the images on the numerous flat screens displaying Maccarone’s mastery of the medium with each separate feed configured as a triptych of sorts. The closest panel to him showed in its center Katy Perry performing I Kissed A Girl with a cutaway of Polanski on the left and a close-up of Jimbeau Walsh’s drumming to the right. The screen ahead of that one featured Taylor Swift belting out I Knew You Were Trouble with cutaways of Billi and Christie providing backup vocals while the next in line was Carrie Underwood delivering Before He Cheats along with footage of DJ Wingrove laying down the bass line and Harry Hansen providing rhythm guitar. After perhaps thirty or forty seconds the closest screen switched to Stef Germanotta’s Paparazzi as the previous videos moved ahead clockwise to the next closest adjacent panels.
And then there were the guests. Taking Denny’s hand, he moved to a small gazebo a few yards away and climbed the three steps to get a better view.
A-List wasn’t sufficient to describe the crowd but that was the first expression that came to mind. The Hollywood and Silicon Valley elite—many of them older and probably Potcheck favorites—were everywhere, some chatting in groups of five or six as if attending a casual Sunday barbeque. Sports stars weren’t lacking, nor high-ranking politicians and government officials. Many of the evening’s performers had already arrived, the Specials mostly dressed as they’d been on stage while all of Combined Forces had abandoned their uniforms for fresh apparel. All except for Mick Stanton who, Camilla at his side, was engaged in an animated exchange with Jimbeau Walsh and Pam Watts. Other faces seemed familiar and it took him a moment to realize some of them were the security guards he’d seen in the rehearsal room that afternoon.
Most surprising was the presence of the notoriously private Jett Jennings, by far the wealthiest single individual the world had ever known, perched on a high stool at one of the bars and sharing a confidence with her closest confidants, Jan and Stevie Keneedia. Upon the untimely death of her parents when she was 16 years of age, the couple had taken on not only the heiress’s personal affairs but also the reins of the Jennings Foundation, the beneficiary of ninety percent of the stock of Jennings Fusion, then valued at a shade over two trillion dollars though now worth more than twice that amount. Following the example set by her parents, the couple saw to it that Jett lived as normal a life as possible for a youngster with a then-personal fortune in excess of $200 billion. On her eighteenth birthday when the whole shebang fell to her control, instead of jumping into the deep end of the pool she opted for keeping the Keneedias at the helm of the philanthropy as co-Chairs and created for herself the fanciful position of Senior Executive Advisor for Grants and Other Stuff.
The main attraction, however, seemed to be Billi Blair who stood near the center of the room wearing a striking crimson dress which extended from mid-bust line to mid-thigh, surrounded by a bevy of admirers clearly enthralled with every comment she made.
The Final Four and their entourages were keeping their distances from each other, Kerensky speaking to Richie Levenfeld while Phil Schuster had the ear of Sarah Easton. Prism Princesses dotted the landscape along with assorted friends, lovers and/or partners of those who’d received the invitations. There wasn’t a bad looking person in the lot except for the man approaching him.
“Hey, hombre!” he slurred. “How you hittin’ ‘em?”
Stevie Choke Santagomez. Former front man of Choke The Cobras. Former soon-to-be star turned superstar. Former face on the cover of Rolling Stone. Former most vicious guitarist on the circuit, snapper of the necks of his fragile instruments and rejected suitor of Christie Cramer. Current session man when he got the call. Current watcher from the sidelines. Current celebrity on the basis of being a former celebrity.
“How you doing, Choke?”
“Pretty drift so far. Want to do a little dariole with me? I got some of the best you’ll ever ’ject. Primo shit, man.”
“No thanks.”
“When the last time I saw you, man?”
“Alliance. Few years ago. I was at the concert the night you and Harry were doing that blowout on, uh, Right Down Your Block. Dallas, Texas maybe?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah. Primo show. I remember now,” he replied. “And I gotta say gracias for putting me in that funny story you wrote in that Pinkie thing. That one about the guitar pick? Primo shit, hombre.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
“Who this niña bonita you got with you?” Santagomez asked, pointing.
“Denny? Stevie Gomez. Stevie? This is Denny.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Jip cranking you on a regular basis?”
She looked to Spotswood for a translation. “We’re just friends,” he said.
“
Actually I’m his girl, not his friend,” she chuckled, and after a beat Spotswood grinned and nodded, “Well, maybe for tonight.”
“So what’cha think of old Billi-Baby over there?” Santagomez asked, motioning to Blair.
“Put on a great concert.”
“Fuck the concert, hombre. I always knew he was maricon.”
“I don’t know that… ”
“Fucking maricon, man. He always been a fucking queer.” He downed his drink. “I’ll get that Christie now. I’ll show her what a real man is. I’ll crank her all day and all of the night,” he laughed, looking around the room. “She talked to me on her trans man, I’m telling you not an hour before they went on with Billi Maricon. And she said to me, she said Stevie? I want you to meet me at the party tonight; I want you to be with me when I have to stand around with all those ass-ho-les then I want to take you back to my room and we’ll do all of your dariole and a whole lotta other shit.”
Spotswood shrugged, knowing the story was fabricated. Probably.
“Fucking right, man. She sick of all this fuckin’ maricon bullshit from that fucking queer over there,” Santagomez continued, motioning again. “I’ll make her tonight. She real pissed off, man. She told me some other jerkoff was supposed to have her tonight but then he decided he got something better to do. Dig that? A pussy who passes Christie, don’t want no action from her? How a man gonna do better than gettin’ into her pants?
“Hey, Jipster! Come on down!” Spotswood heard somebody call. Looking across he saw Stanton and Cam standing beside Blair and beckoning with a wave.
“Nice seeing you again, Stevie. Catch you in another few years… hombre.” Then he and Denny headed for the center of the room.
After making the tricky traverse through the throng, Blair held her arms open for hug which, after hesitating, Spotswood accepted. “I’ll give you my first long-form interview, Jip,” she whispered to his ear. “Plus a special treat I think you might enjoy.” Easing away, he nodded and replied, “I’ll look forward to both, Ms. Blair.”
Then Polanski and Loveland joined the group. He appeared to be in the same outfit he’d worn at the beginning of the Battle except for a fresh gray shirt swapped out for the used one while she’d changed into a flattering blouse-skirt-heels combination. Following congratulations to both of them on their performances and Laura in turn offering she’d heard his hosting duties had been spectacular, Spotswood noticed the look on her face wasn’t that of a conquering heroine but rather that of a smitten high-schooler who’d miraculously wrangled a date to the homecoming dance with the captain of the football team, an arm wrapped around one of his held in place by her left hand locked onto her right wrist. They’d only been conversing a minute or so when Santagomez began edging his way in, removing one of his many necklaces and toying with its medallion that Spotswood realized was a folded, ivory-gripped straight razor. “Hey Billi-Baby Blair? I got something for you,” he snarled.
She stepped in front of the intruder, reaching to fuss with his tie, looking him straight in the eye. “Stevie. Baby. Don’t cause a big headache for everyone, okay?”
“Maricon,” he spit. “You just lucky I don’t beat on women, if that’s what you are.”
“You know, Choke Boy,” Polanski interrupted. “You gotta get some manners. I don’t give a shit what you do on your own time, but there are,” he paused, looking around, “three ladies here, one of which is one of my troops, one of which is the wife of my drummer and one of which is my… ”
“Girl,” Loveland said.
“Girl,” Polanski repeated. “And you know I am very intolerant of either ladies or my troops or my skirt being screwed around with. Now you think about taking a stroll or I am personally gonna see to it you walk out of here uglier than you already are.”
“Oh, big man Andy Polanski,” Santagomez countered. “El hombre grande. You gonna do me like you did that little reporter boy in `Frisco?” Then he opened the razor and made to strop it on his jeans. Most everyone else moved away, forming a circle around the pair.
Polanski reached into the right pocket of his jacket, removed his turquoise Kershaw and sprung the blade as three security men moved in but stopped when he made the same hand motion he had when he’d stepped onto the Oasis stage. “No, little man Stevie Santagomez. You’ll look a lot worse.”
“Oh? Big man Andy Polanski gotta defend maricon Billi Blair? You got to cover her ass?”
Then from the left pocket he withdrew a pair of red dice and shook them gently in his outstretched palm. “I’m feeling lucky tonight, Choke. I ain’t leaving the pass line for nobody.” Tossing them, they settled at the attacker’s feet who looked at them with amazement.
Seven.
“They’re loaded, Stevie.” He paused. “Just like you.”
No reply.
“What’cha think, Bill?” Polanski asked, turning to Blair. “You want him or you want me to do it?”
“Lemme try,” she responded.
“You just lucky I don’t beat on women, if that’s what you are,” Santagomez repeated.
“Well, I guess most of me is now,” she purred. “But I still got a few of the old licks in me.”
“What you talking about?”
“For one,” she said, her right hand slowly sliding down to his crotch. “I still remember what feels good and what feels bad.”
She squeezed hard with her right hand, her left wrapping his tie around once, yanking his face to within inches of hers. “Now get lost or I’ll kick your punk ass back to Guadalajara.” She pulled the tie again. “You understand me?”
“I gotta go,” Santagomez smiled as she released him. “I got things to attend.”
As he began to leave, Polanski raised his chin to the guards then motioned with his head to the troublemaker. They jumped him quickly, one grabbing the razor, another putting him in a headlock and the third giving him a blast in the chest with a taser just for drill.
The assembled burst into cheers and applause. Then as they quieted down, Spotswood heard a voice call from behind, “Honey? The time has come.” He didn’t need to look. He knew it was Cassie.
As he began to turn, all of the background noise faded into a purring rumble and time seemed to grind almost to a stop just as is had when he’d watched the F-35A flying outside the window on Friday’s flight. She was no more than 30 feet distant, dressed in a Prism Princess uniform and glaring purposely toward him. Her right hand, stretched to behind her back, removed the pistol from hiding and began to take aim. He heard Denny yell “No!” then saw her body with arms extended float into his field of vision between them. He heard the explosion of the bullet being fired then almost instantly saw a spray of bright red droplets fill the air as Denny fell to the floor. As if watching a slow motion split screen replay, he examined the hate in Cassie’s eyes and her thumb cocking the hammer of the gun as she aimed it sideways, but he felt no fear because he could see the round brass handle of Reynolds’ walking stick descending in an arc perfectly in line to intersect the weapon. He heard the crack of the bones in her hand shattering as the orb found its mark, like someone snapping dry kindling before tossing it into a hearth. Then the second discharge and the action movie-like ricochet ping after the bullet struck the floor.
Then his perceptions reverted to real time. There was lots of movement and panicky shouting, but none as loud as his assailant’s anguished screams as she cradled the crushed hand in her other. After Reynolds motioned for his men to take charge of Cassie, one slammed a knee into her spine to keep her in place as a second fastened the cuffs and a third retrieved the weapon. Then he moved to the motionless Denny and crouching to one knee carefully eased the jacket away from her chest, leaning to speak into her ear.
Oh shit oh fuck oh no! he thought then knelt on her opposite side, gazing at the loosely closed eyes and blood-splattered, expressionless face of the woman who might have just saved his life. Beginning to tremble, he groaned then said, “You’ll be my girl forever, Denny.
”
Her eyes suddenly popped open and she asked, “Can I have that in writing?” Then boosting herself up supported by one palm, she raised a finger to touch the now pancake-flat round imbedded in her bustier, saying to her boss, “Damn Kevlar falsies worked pretty good, huh?”
“You should have seen how that squib blew. Really sharp.” He glanced about. “I hope the sec cams caught it.”
All Spotswood could summon was, “Squib?”
Denny held up a hand for him to help her to her feet. “One of those gizmos they use in movies. Fake blood, transmitter, compressed air, nozzle.” She looked to Reynolds. “D’you activate it?”
“Huh-uh.”
“Then it must have fired by… ” She paused, examining the squashed bullet again then the hole in her jacket which was now soaked with the red liquid. “Ah, crap. Best tailor and dry cleaner around won’t be able to fix this sorry mess.”
Reynolds cuffed her on the shoulder. “I’ll get you a new one. Promise.”
She turned back to Spotswood and extended her arms wide. “Do I look as awful as I think I do?”
He couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Nothing a hot shower and a change of clothes wouldn’t fix.”
She raised an eyebrow to Reynolds.
“How about if I give you the rest of the evening off,” he said.
She smiled, nodded slowly then made to leave, but stopped and turned back. “Eyes? You were right on top of it. How did you know it was her?”
He tapped the handle of the walking stick a few times in his palm then grinned, “We can cover that in your debriefing tomorrow morning, say… nine-thirty?” He glanced at Spotswood. “Just in case you’re up late tonight.”
After thanking him she said, “I’ll be back in a bit, Jip, so don’t get any ideas about finding a replacement, okay?” He nodded and she headed for the elevators.
In less than five minutes the guests had calmed down as if nothing unusual had transpired. Polanski suggested, “Jip? You look like you could use a drink,” gesturing him to come with he and Loveland. Though the bar was only 50 feet away, it took them five minutes to arrive, their passage interrupted along the way by a dozen well-wishers offering congratulations on their respective performances, making queries about small details of the broadcast or concert, and generally behaving like the celebrities they were.
Weekend at Prism Page 29
