But Jerry Jeff would know, and he’d ask the reason, and then Robin would have to come clean. He didn’t mind not having money. He didn’t mind leaving public life. But every time he tried to explain himself, it came out all screwy. How could Jerry Jeff just assume he’d pick up the tab at the steak place? How could Robin have just accepted, as if of course it wouldn’t be a problem?
Dr. Nelson kept reminding him: Don’t obsess over your mistakes. You made them, or you didn’t. Play the ball as it lies.
He needed, roughly, four hundred dollars.
Where to find it?
Another teacher? Fat chance. Especially since he didn’t know when he’d be able to pay back the loan. The travel had maxed his credit card for the month—the school district would reimburse him, eventually, but that didn’t help now.
Maybe Rusty or Ms. Pond could help—they were both higher-profile than anyone Robin was in close contact with these days. But Robin had just met them this trip, since their kids were both solid performers and neither of them old enough to think about college yet. He didn’t want to spoil whatever good impression he hoped he’d made by asking for a loan.
Calling one of his other buddies from the American Hero days would just make things worse. Which left …
Well, it was worth a shot.
The protesters had thinned out over lunch, and those that remained had settled in for the long haul, resting their gross signs against their lawn chairs and drinking cheap beer from blue dew-slick coolers. The beer, Robin noticed, came from Our Beloved Corporate Sponsors, selling to both sides of the aisle.
A skinny wild-haired man wearing very short shorts and drinking an Our Beloved Corporate Sponsor tallboy shouted, “Jokers go home!” in a squashed hoarse voice. Robin shoved the revolving doors, entered the arctic chill of the now blissfully empty Gunter lobby, dug the Nokia from his pocket, and smashed buttons until he found the number he, to be honest, didn’t exactly want to call.
He closed his eyes, and pondered the depths of desperation one had to plumb before asking one’s landlord for a loan.
Then he pushed the green phone button twice. (The acid bath, again.) It didn’t work, so he pushed it a third time.
The phone rang.
Jan, hi, something strange has come up and I was hoping … No, that was a warning flag conversation.
It rang again.
Jan, hi, I need four hundred dollars. Hm. A bit direct.
Ring number three.
Jan, I know this is a long shot, but …
The phone clicked. “Hey, Rob**, t**** * ****** ***** *******,” the speaker hissed. He shook the phone. Something rattled inside.
“Jan? Jan, sorry, do you happen to, could you say that again?”
“******——$$$—&#%.”
“Sorry, my phone’s being worse than usual—”
“I said,” came the voice he expected, clear as crystal, and right behind him, “speak up. I can’t hear you.”
“Jan?”
Jan grinned, and little lightning bolts danced between her teeth. “Howdy!” Her faint Brooklyn accent and affected drawl mixed like oil and napalm, and whatever effect she meant her souvenir cowboy hat to have, it wasn’t. “I need your help.”
“I,” Robin said, too late as usual. Then: “Wait. What?”
“You’re good with kids, right? That’s your job?”
“Can you loan me four hundred dollars?”
The words rushed out all at once, and once they were said, he wished he could have unsaid them. Not because Jan looked hurt. Because she was grinning.
He scrambled to cover. “I know I’m behind on the rent, I know it’s a lot of money, but it would be a huge help, something big has come up, and I’ll repay you next month—you can just add it to my bill.”
“Oh,” Jan said, “I think we can come to an arrangement. Follow me.”
He hadn’t expected to recognize Jan’s niece, but the girl wearing the Detonators shirt and the bright silver cross, perched at the bar drinking a Sprite and looking deeply uncomfortable, was the same one who’d napped in the lobby earlier.
Jan jumped onto a barstool and leaned back against the lacquered wood. “Robin, meet Vicky. Vicky, meet Robin Ruttiger. He’s an ace. A hero. A TV star. He’ll help you out.”
“I’m,” he said, remembered the terms of the deal, and squashed his impulse to argue on general principle. “I’m helping your aunt look for the ghost.”
“Devil,” Vicky said.
“Devil,” Jan said. “Devil, ghost, whatever.”
Robin frowned. “Weren’t you trying to convince me that there were different kinds of black helicopters just yesterday?”
“You can tell them apart by albedo. But that’s not the point! Those things are—” Jan cut herself off. “Tell him, Vicky.”
“It’s okay, Aunt Jan. I know you don’t think devils are real. But they are. One knocked over the luggage cart Mr. Ruttiger was wheeling into the hotel.” Her dark eyes were large and frank. “You saw it, didn’t you? You heard it.”
“I saw a big red smile. And I heard a laugh. I don’t know what it was.”
“A devil.”
“My point is,” Jan said, “the hotel claims it’s haunted. Devils don’t haunt things. Ghosts do.”
Vicky shook her head. “Either way, I can’t stay here. Not with that … thing running around. It could hurt kids. Tempt us to evil.”
“There are other explanations,” Robin said, uncertain whether this would improve matters.
“Aliens,” Jan supplied, ticking them off on her fingers, “secret government conspiracies, men in black, reptoids, higher-dimensional beings, renegade Majestic program subjects—”
“A practical joker,” Robin cut in. “Or an ace, for that matter. Someone who drew a telekinetic card, or who can make people hallucinate. Lots of things might be happening, none particularly supernatural.” What exactly supernatural meant when a miracle could be “just” another card, he didn’t know, and no preacher had ever explained to his satisfaction, but he doubted that observation would be useful at the moment.
Jan swung in to fill the silence. “The point is, there are lots of things it could be other than a ghost or a devil. I felt it when it showed up—like a buzzing in the back of my head. So it’s electromagnetic somehow. Are demons electromagnetic?”
Vicky stared at her aunt. Robin couldn’t read her expression. She said, “I don’t know.”
“So here’s what we’re going to do.” Jan laid out the plan: “You go up to your hotel room and get some rest. Robin here, he’s a big-time hero, real experience, he’s been on television and everything. He and your aunt Jan, we’re going to hunt down this demon, bring it to you, and show you it’s…” She frowned. Robin imagined she had been about to say it’s not real, which wasn’t exactly the point. “Show you it’s nothing to worry about. How’s that sound?”
If supernatural forces were real, one of them probably would have answered Robin’s prayer and shut Jan up. “Do you feel unsafe?” he asked.
Vicky shook her head.
“If you do, go to Jan, or me, or to your teachers. We’re all here to help.”
“Can you find the devil?”
Jan’s eyes drilled into him, and he remembered the handshake. Four hundred dollars for a ghost hunt, on delivery of said ghost. Half in advance.
“We’ll find it,” he said. After the mixer, he thought. I promised Sharon I’d be back for the mixer. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”
If he kept saying that, maybe he’d believe himself.
Bubbles and the Band Trip
Part 3
“WHAT CAN I GET you, Mrs. Bubbles?” the bartender said with a Texas twang. Whut kin ah git yew, Miziz Bubbles? He was a particular breed of pretty boy—blond with perfectly symmetrical, pleasing features corked by a glib easy smile. He had a lean, yet well-muscled, body. The mixer wasn’t exactly going well, and Michelle was on her second drink. And a non-alcoholic one to boot.
“We’ve got soda, water, ice tea, and more soda. Just so you know, I’m a huge fan of yours,” he said, practically fluttering his long eyelashes. “Name’s Billy Rainbow, and it’s a pure honor to meet you.”
That southern charm might work on some girls, but Michelle wasn’t one of them. A bad girl might work on her, but a pretty boy, not so much.
“I’ll have Coke.” Michelle scanned the room.
“Here you go,” Billy Rainbow said, setting it on the bar. “You’re right pretty, Mrs. Bubbles. I expect you’re just about the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen.”
Michelle gave him her very best are-you-freaking-kidding-me? look. He didn’t seem in the least deterred.
“You do know I’m famously gay, right?” she asked. “Never been confused about that my entire life. Also, it’s Ms. Bubbles. Not Mrs.” Mrs. Bubbles? Really. Really?! Do I look like a Mrs. Bubbles?
Billy’s smile grew even wider and he opened his hands, turning his palms up. Small, sparkly rainbows appeared in them. He was looking at her intently. “Why, I expect you’d help a poor boy like me out, wouldn’t you? I’m pretty broke.”
Michelle stared at the pretty rainbows for a few seconds. Then she looked up at him with a scowl on her face.
“Does this ever work for you?” she asked, dropping two golf ball–sized bubbles into his hands. “Because if you think some My Pretty Pony deuce power and junior hypnosis is going to make me your bitch, you are sorely mistaken. And really, in this crowd it might not be the smartest thing showing off like that.”
Billy Rainbow looked flummoxed and dropped the bubbles to the floor. Michelle let them pop. “But, but…”
“There’s only one way in which I’m suggestible and, believe me, you are not the kind of person who can do that. Don’t try that crap on anyone else.”
He jammed his hands into his pants pockets then shrugged his shoulders. “It’s just a parlor trick,” he said dejectedly. “Those rainbows are so pretty, and I kinda like showing them off.”
“I wouldn’t,” Michelle said. “Because that’s not the brightest thing in the world.” I’m guessing no one has ever accused him of being bright, Michelle thought.
“And don’t go flirting with the girls or trying to get money from people. I’m keeping an eye on you.”
Michelle took her Coke then walked to the nearest window. It overlooked Houston Street and she had a view straight up and down the street. Across from the Gunter, the Majestic Theatre’s marquee was lit up with that evening’s entertainment: Phantom of the Opera. It was an old movie palace that hadn’t been torn down. She hoped she’d get a chance to see the inside of it before they went back to New York.
“What’re you looking at?” Rusty asked. She turned to face him.
“Oh, just that cool theater across the way.”
Wally smiled, his hinges pulling up. He was dressed in overalls and a short-sleeved plaid shirt. The overalls were new and looked pretty spiffy.
The Gunter Terrace Room jutted out from the second floor of the hotel. It wrapped around two sides of the building, forming a portico over the sidewalk. The walls were made of glass and curved up to the ceiling. A busy, burgundy-and-navy-blue Victorian-patterned carpet covered the floor. The room was crowded with band members, chaperones, judges, and some of the kids’ parents. The mixer was supposed to be in full swing, but, at the moment, each band was clumped together, looking nervously around the room. The adults just looked frazzled.
“Well, this isn’t awkward at all,” Michelle said.
Sharon whistled in agreement. Then she signed,
“Why don’t you go talk to that Kimmie girl?” Michelle asked Adesina. “She’s nice.”
Adesina shrugged and jammed her hands into the pockets of her faded black jeans. Her vestigial legs gave a little twitch. “I don’t know, Mom,” she said, casting a wary glance at Kimmie. “She’s in the Plano Originals, and now we know they’re hella a-holes. They really seem to have a hate on for jokers.”
“But Kimmie liked you. And she was nice to all of the other kids in the band.” Michelle caught Kimmie’s eye and smiled at her. Kimmie smiled back, but it was tremulous. A tall boy with short blond hair and an athlete’s body leaned down and whispered something in Kimmie’s ear. Kimmie frowned and then glared up at him. She turned on her heel and marched across the room toward the Mob.
“Hey Kimmie.” Segway zipped around Michelle and intercepted her. Kimmie’s face lit up and she gave him a sweet smile.
“Hey there, Peter,” she replied. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’m glad we get another chance to talk. I’m sorry about how rude the Originals were at orientation. They’re all a lot like Jax, that blond guy in the pink polo shirt. He’s such an idiot. Anyway, he thinks having the Mob in the competition is a publicity stunt.”
What the six degrees of hell? Michelle thought. “The Mob got in here same as everyone else!” she said. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. They itched to bubble. Remember Kazakhstan? Stop thinking that way. Blowing someone up isn’t a good problem-solving choice in a room full of high schoolers. Defeating an elder god from a different dimension, yes. Killing a privileged punk from Plano, not so much.
Kimmie held up her hands. “Ms. Pond,” she said quickly, “I don’t agree. The Plano Originals are, well, they’re morons. They’re almost as bad as my moth—”
“Kimberly Coldwater!”
This time Michelle didn’t know the imperious voice, but it appeared as if Kimmie did. Her shoulders came up as she tried to make herself smaller. Her bright smile faded.
“Why on the Good Lord’s green earth are you speaking to these … these … creatures?” A woman dressed like a pastel tornado came barreling across the room. She wore heels almost as high as Jade Blossom would. Even so, she was only a few inches taller than Kimmie. But her presence made it feel as if she was more imposing than that.
She was impeccably attired. A perfectly tailored azalea-colored St. John suit matched her towering heels. Her long nails were lacquered a deep red. She had big hair. It was long with blond streaks and back-combed with a perfect flip at the ends. It was big hair. It was upscale Dallas hair. None of that low-class height, but plenty of volume. A red Hermès bag that matched her nails was slung across her arm.
Holy shit! A real Dallas matriarch! Michelle thought.
“What are you doing to my daughter?” the woman demanded.
“Pretty sure nothing,” Michelle replied. The room had grown quiet again. “But you never know. We’re diabolical like that.”
Kimmie looked miserable. “Mom, please,” she said. “This is Michelle Pond.” Kimmie was trying to do the right thing. Michelle was impressed. Even if her mother was horrible, the daughter had been raised to be polite. “Ms. Pond, this is my mother, Bambi Coldwater.”
“I know that name,” Michelle said, reflexively sticking her hand out. “Hold on, aren’t you the woman who brought the suit to prevent kids with wild cards from playing in competitions like this one?” She pulled her hand away.
Bambi positively preened. “Yes, I am. And I’m proud of it. The members of your band have an unfair advantage. Who knows what special abilities your freaks have? It isn’t fair to the normal children who’ve worked hard to be here.”
“The Fifth Circuit Court said it was,” said Michelle.
Bambi waved her hand as if shooing away a fly. “We’re taking that case to the Supreme Court. Thank Jesus we have conservative justices who will make things right.” She smiled in a way that sent chills down Michelle’s back. How could sweet Kimmie be related to this nightmare?
“Kimmie, come.” Bambi turned on her stiletto heels and marched toward the Plano Originals without looking back. Kimmie turned toward the Mob and mouthed, “Sorry.” Then she followed her mother.
“This is not off to a great start,” Michelle said to Wally. “And speaking of trouble, look. Jade Blossom is here.”
Rusty t
urned to look. Michelle suspected that his own memories of Haley Mok were no fonder than hers. “Gosh,” he said, and then, “Maybe she’s changed.”
Michelle gave a sigh. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
Jade Blossom’s Brew
by William F. Wu
WHEN JADE BLOSSOM HEARD Dr. Amelia Smith announce her name, she tossed back her long, glistening black hair, put on her pouty catwalk smile, and sashayed into the Gunter Terrace Room.
Applause, cheers, and a few gasps welcomed her as she walked forward in her aqua, canary-yellow, and teal gown by Aquilano Rimondi. Her tiny silver Coach handbag, on a slender strap hanging from her shoulder, swung at the side of her slender frame. The four-slit skirt of Italian silk fluttered around her legs with her stride in silver Jimmy Choo sandals with five-inch heels. She had no interest in high school kids, but here she was.
“Hi, everybody,” Jade Blossom called out, raising her right hand to give a pageant-style wave as the applause and cheers continued. At six feet tall plus the silver sandals, she was able to glance throughout the room. It was jammed with students, staff members, and chaperones, but she spotted a familiar face near a shiny, black grand piano near the center and worked her way toward it.
Ethan Bach, a slender, twenty-something guy in a black silk shirt, gave her a cheerful nod as he waited for her by the piano. He had come to represent Paramount Studios at the competition, which really meant reporting back on how she handled herself. With her personal assistant, Elaine, he constituted the other half of her minor entourage. Elaine was already in the crowd, ready to step up to Jade Blossom’s elbow to obey her slightest whim.
Jade Blossom’s duty at the event was to promote her upcoming film by making some introductory remarks and meeting a high school boy who would be her date for the evening. He would receive this honor by virtue of having written an award-winning essay that had been chosen by the staff members.
The kids parted before her like fish avoiding a shark until she arrived at the piano.
“Look at her,” one girl shrieked with excitement. The giggles of high school girls and the cheers of boys followed.
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