Texas Hold'em

by Wild Cards Trust

  “And you must be Jillian,” I said, as she marched up with rage kindling in her sky-blue eyes. “I know we’re gonna be great friends.”

  She paid me no mind. “Mindy-Lou, you selfish bitch!” she screamed in Mindy-Lou’s face. “We played for shit and we lost and all because of you!”

  Beside me, I heard Candace utter a growl that wouldn’t have sounded out of place coming out of Blood’s throat. I touched her arm gently with two fingertips. More would have been impolite without invitation. Also I didn’t want her gutting me with her hideout knife.

  Mindy-Lou blinked, scowled, and decked Jillian with an overhand right.

  Neither her bandmates nor the other bystanders hustled forward to help the stricken girl. She gave Mindy-Lou a look like a cat I’d once seen who’d found himself confronting an escaped coatimundi—long story; no animals harmed, etc.—and burst into tears. “This could be bad,” Candace muttered to me across a sudden silence.

  “Not our problem,” I said.

  “So what now?” Candace asked.

  I shrugged. “Billy’s in the breeze. Our girl’s back. We got paid.”

  “Well, you got paid.”

  “Yeah. But Mindy-Lou’s parents don’t know about you.” Neither did my abuela. And boy, did I plan on keeping it that way. Though I had to suspect she’d find in Candace the Darkness a kindred spirit.

  “Anyway, I meant what now for us.”

  “Umm—”

  “Not like that!”

  “Nothing could be further from my mind.” It was true. Almost. I mean, she was pretty good-looking. But so is a sidewinder, from a certain point of view. Like a herpetologist’s. Or a boy sidewinder’s.

  Candace leaned back on her elbows and looked up at me. “For such a nice, naive country boy, you are a sneaky little shit.”

  “Thank you kindly for the vote of confidence, Ms. Darkness. But I don’t need compliments. I’m only in it for the money.”

  “Merde.”

  “¿Mande?”

  “Underneath the rough shitkicker exterior you are mush. A true Quixote.”

  “If you say so. Although some of these windmills turned out to be actual giants.”

  “Indeed. And we bested them, did we not?”

  I had to allow that was true.

  “We seem to work well together.”

  “But you’re a hardened criminal. And I’m a piss-poor junior-grade detective, now retired.”

  “As it happens, I find myself at loose ends for employment. And so do you.”

  “There’s always chunking bales of hay into the back of my uncle’s Ram.”

  “You are not meant for such a life. You need adventure. Why else would you take up riding wild bulls?”

  “I—” They’re not wild. Fact is, in their way they’re as much professionals as we are. But I didn’t have the energy to explain.“—Guess so.”

  Because … well, good question, ¿que no?

  “You’re not meant to be a ranch hand. You said it bores you. I think you’re an ace detective.”

  “When I’m not getting my car stolen by shady women? And almost getting us killed?”

  “Let us not speak of the car again. We each—underestimated the other. Besides, all ended well. Mindy-Lou’s family will even pay for your Uber ride.”

  “Durn tootin’.”

  “What I meant was, you’re an ace, who is also a detective. And do rather well at it, like it or not. We are both aces. So was Billy. Do the police always give proper attention to wild card–related crimes or disappearances in this country?”

  “Some try. And there’s the Feds. SCARE.”

  “So. We could … take the cases they will not.”

  “Nah,” I said.

  She laughed. “You won’t dismiss it so easily once you think about it a while.”

  “Bet I won’t even think of it again.”

  But I already was.

  FRIDAY

  Bubbles and the Band Trip

  Part 11

  “MY BASS IS STILL missing, and so is Peter’s trumpet,” Adesina said. She was pulling on her shoes. Her side of the hotel room was a disaster. She’s only been here since Thursday. How is this even possible? Michelle thought.

  “I know, but I bet Mr. Robins will let you borrow his instrument again. And Jan’s niece will let Peter borrow her trumpet again. She seemed to think he was nice.”

  “Mom,” Adesina said with an exaggerated patience. “Peter is hella cute, super-nice, and really popular. Of course she liked him. So, did you really like the movie we watched last night? I was kinda surprised.”

  “Movie?” Michelle replied. She moved the bass case into the closet so she would stop tripping over it.

  “You know, that old black-and-white one. The one with the giant gorilla. And the one you watched later, you know, the one with the lady with the cool hair who was a witch.”

  Michelle looked at Adesina blankly. Then she realized that Creighton must have been watching something on TCM. It was the only station she knew that ran old black-and-white movies.

  Well, shit, she thought. He might have mentioned that he was watching stuff with Adesina.

  “Yes,” Michelle replied, lying smoothly. “It was a lot of fun. Didn’t think I’d like anything like that, but you know, hair.”

  “Right.” Adesina smiled at her. Then she hummed a little bit of a song: “Da da da de da. Da da da de—”

  “You ready to go?” Michelle asked. She didn’t like Adesina’s smile. It was too sunny. And what was the deal with the song? It didn’t sound like the kind of thing Adesina would go for.

  Both Michelle’s and Adesina’s text message tones went off at the same time. They pulled their phones from their pockets and simultaneously looked at their messages.

  “OMG!” they said together.

  “We made it to the finals!” Adesina said with wonder.

  The Plano Originals, the Lubbock High School Jazz Band, and the Mob stood backstage waiting to perform.

  Sharon signed.

  “I know,” Michelle said. “I don’t know much about jazz, but I do know they really seemed to struggle.”

  The high-drama return of Mindy-Lou Gutiérrez created quite the shitstorm backstage. Michelle was just happy Mindy-Lou was back safe and sound—and that she hadn’t been the chaperone to lose a player. And apparently Mindy-Lou was now in the possession of a wicked overhand right.

  But none of those other chaperones had to deal with rattlesnakes, so she figured she was ahead in the whole who’s-having-the-MOST-fun-chaperoning game.

  “You ready?” Michelle asked. Adesina nodded and smoothed her skirt. It was below the knee, black, tight. Her shirt was a white halter top that left her wings unencumbered. Her vestigial legs peeped out from slits in the front of the blouse. A black-and-white ensemble. It was the normal uniform for performance.

  “Go out there and show those Plano jerks how we do it in Jokertown. Kick their … bottoms.”

  “Except Kimmie,” Ghost piped in. “She’s really nice.”

  “Okay, kick everyone except Kimmie,” Michelle said.

  “Well, since she’s an ace, we have to like her,” Sean said. “I think that’s why she was hanging out with us so much.”

  Michelle was baffled. “What do you mean, she’s an ace?”

  “I think she’s a deuce,” Antonia said with a laugh. “I mean, not having to breathe so your flute solos can go on forever? That’s pretty deucey.”

  “What if she can hold her breath forever underwater, huh? That would be a great ace power,” Sean replied indignantly. “Who knows what her power can do?”

  “We should totes check it out after everything’s done,” Adesina said earnestly. Her vestigial arms curled in and out. “She’s been hella nice to us when she didn’t have to. I mean, no one in her band knows. Her mother, obvs, doesn’t know. Just being arou
nd them would be scary.”

  “Yeah,” Peter allowed. “I don’t know how I never twigged to it.”

  The rest of the band looked at him with a collective Dude, please expression.

  Slowly, he looked around the circle. Then he flushed red up to his hairline. “Oh, never mind,” he said. Michelle would have laughed, but she was afraid it would make Peter feel bad. And she really liked him.

  And she was a little embarrassed that she’d never noticed Kimmie’s power, but then she didn’t know much of anything about jazz.

  Now that it was down to three bands, each performed a song in one of the styles they’d chosen for the competition.

  The Plano band did a hot and spicy rendition of “Bonga” by Duke Ellington. Both the Mob and Lubbock had chosen bebop as their special style. The Mob played “Ain’t Got No Jokertown Baby” by Mysterious Shades fast and light. And Lubbock did “Scrapple from the Apple” by Charlie Parker, which was pretty much a no-brainer.

  Creighton looking like Creighton tapped Michelle on the shoulder while the Mob was playing.

  She spun around, startled, a bubble forming in her hand. “Jesus!” she hissed. “You scared the hell out of me. You do know I could have…” She held the bubble out. He went pale.

  “Is that your immediate reaction to everything?” he asked with a quiver in his voice. “Because that’s a little peculiar.”

  Michelle tilted her head to one side and stared at him. He grew fidgety, then finally said, “Okay, I have some new information for you.”

  “Well, not now,” Michelle whispered. The bubble popped silently in her hand. “My kids are playing.”

  “Yeah, I see,” he replied. He gave a little smile, then turned his attention to the stage. There was a wistful expression on his face. “They sure are good, aren’t they?”

  Michelle nodded. “Yes, they are.”

  The final three bands stood onstage, fidgeting nervously.

  “How long do you think it’s going to be before they announce the winners?” Robin whispered.

  Michelle saw that Yerodin was rocking back and forth heel to toe. Toe to heel. The other kids looked equally nervous. Michelle looked over at Wally and he was biting his lip. It sounded like a pepper grinder.

  “Dr. Smith is coming out,” Wally whispered. “We’ll know soon enough, you betcha.”

  A wave of whispers ran through the audience. Tension fairly hummed in the air.

  Michelle saw Adesina and Peter holding hands and Adesina holding hands with Ghost. Most of the Mob had grabbed the hand of the person next to them. Tentacles wrapped around fuzzy peach fingers. Marissa’s blocky hand was enclosed by Sean’s shifting-colored hand. Robin took Michelle’s hand and her fingers sank into his rubbery grip.

  Dr. Smith cleared her throat and then leaned into the mic. “I just want to say that all the bands in the competition have been exceedingly good this year. You’re all most exceptional.” She looked around the room and beamed. You’d never know that there had been one disruption after another during the proceedings. Or that there was a world of controversy swirling outside the doors to the auditorium.

  She looked down at her card, then said, “In third place, the Lubbock High School Jazz Band.” The Mob looked at one another then dropped hands and started clapping. Michelle knew what they were thinking. They had a chance to win.

  The Lubbock band stepped forward and took their trophy. A skinny, dark-haired boy stepped up to the mic. “Bacho,” Michelle heard Antonia whisper. “He’s been hanging out with Jax and Darryl. Which is weird because he seems so nice.”

  “We’re proud to have been part of the competition and we don’t feel as if we’ve lost. We feel like we won because we got here at all. Thanks so much for this and for the awesome week.”

  There was warm applause as he stepped back in line with his band. The Mob joined hands again. Dr. Smith didn’t look at her card. She just stepped to the mic and said, “In second place, the Xavier Desmond High School Jazz Band.” The Originals looked at one another and did silent cheers and clapped each other on the back. Some of them did fist bumps.

  The Mob accepted their second-place trophy. They didn’t seem very sad. They actually looked happy.

  Peter rolled up to the mic. “I know that it’s been an, er, interesting time. But we’ve met a lot of cool people who didn’t treat us like freaks and we really appreciate it.” He smiled at the audience. “I know some of you still don’t like us, but we hope you respect us as musicians. Thank you again.”

  The Originals stepped up, accepting the first-place trophy as if it were their due. “It’s awesome to be here and finally win! It was a tough year,” Jax said. “We just want to thank everyone.”

  The audience started applauding, then, after a few seconds, stood. The top three bands began intermingling, congratulating one another on placing. Except Plano, who didn’t shake hands—or tentacles—with anyone from the Mob.

  After a few minutes, the applause died down and the audience took their seats again.

  “Thank y’all again for a wonderful competition. The rest of the afternoon and evening are free! Remember, we have the showcase tomorrow! I expect everyone to be here ready to play at noon.”

  Creighton had asked Michelle to come to his suite now that the competition was over. His suite was cold. Hanging-meat cold. Michelle was glad she’d put on some fat by jumping out of her window—it helped some. There didn’t seem to be a time of year when Texas buildings weren’t cooled to hypothermia. Even now when the weather was delightful during the day and pleasantly cool at night as it was right now.

  Michelle was staring out the window looking out at the downtown San Antonio lights because Creighton had asked her to turn her back as he was changing into someone else. She obliged because … ew. Behind her, there was an electric pop as if a circuit breaker had blown.

  When he said it was okay to turn around, she saw he’d changed himself to look like Bambi Coldwater. He wore towering heels and a crimson “ladies who lunch” dress. There was a black Louis Vuitton Pont-Neuf Mini in his hand. His hair was a little bigger than Bambi’s usually was, but it looked magnificent.

  “You look incredibly well-turned-out,” Michelle said. She was impressed with the outfit.

  “I went to Neiman’s and told them what I needed,” Creighton said. “Can you help me with this?” He held out a makeup bag. Michelle took it and looked inside.

  “Yeah, this is suboptimal, but I think I can make it work. But these are not Bambi’s colors.”

  Creighton looked at himself in the mirror. “You did a great job,” he said.

  “Ya think?” Michelle said with a laugh. “It’s almost like I’ve worked in the field of making things beautiful before.”

  “I thought you had people who did your makeup.”

  “Well, they’re not around 24/7. Sometimes you have to do the heavy lifting yourself.” Michelle gave him a once-over. “So, when do you want me to come up tomorrow?”

  “You need to be here at eight thirty tomorrow morning.” Jerry preened a little in the mirror. “I think I’m going to enjoy this.” He grabbed his purse and waltzed out the door.

  Drop City

  by David Anthony Durham

  BACHO STOOD IN THE bustling hotel lobby. Waiting. He hated waiting. It always made him feel awkward when he had to do it in public. He checked his phone. It was fifteen minutes past the agreed-upon meeting time and a full twenty-five minutes since he’d been waiting. It was stupid, but not only did he hate being late, he tended to end up being early because of it. He’d agreed to meet Jax and Darryl in the lobby and to walk with them over to the Hard Rock Cafe to meet a bunch of the other band members. He should’ve known they were going to be late. He’d only known them for a few days, but he’d noticed Jax seemed to get some perverse pleasure out of pushing people’s buttons.

  Dude, Bacho thought, you really should try being cooler. He focused again on the blank screen of his phone, for connection, for validation. Any
new e-mails or texts? Nope. He texted Jax. Where you at? I’m waiting.

  That done, he looked around the lobby again. He leaned an elbow on the glass shelves that wrapped around one of the tall light pillars, trying to looking nonchalant. This place was way too fancy for him. He worried it showed. He and his mom were more Econo Lodge types, and that only on rare road trips to his grandmother in Colorado. Even after a few days here, he still felt out of place, an impostor somebody was going to discover and chuck out any minute now. It only made the waiting worse.

  He wore jeans and his Walking Dead T-shirt, the one with joker-zombie Carl staring out from beneath his sheriff’s hat, snarling. He thought it was cool, and he was glad to be able to wear something other than his band clothes. He wished again that Jax and Darryl would show up. Maybe that was part of the reason he’d started hanging out with them. They certainly felt at home here. They acted like they owned the place, actually.

  In all the motion of people coming and going, it was the girl’s stillness that made her stand out. She lounged on one of the plush chairs not far from the main entrance. She sat with her legs crossed, leaning back into the cushions, looking bored. She held a phone propped up on one hand, absently rotating it around with her fingers. Bored, yeah, but also about as at ease and self-assured as possible, which Bacho found a little strange. She wasn’t your average Texas fancy hotel–looking girl. Her short skirt was black. Her boots were bright orange. She wore two loose tank tops, white over black. And her hair was long enough on the crown of her head that it hung down her shoulder and onto her chest. That was just the top; the sides and back were shaved to the skin. She didn’t look like she belonged here either, but she didn’t seem to know that. Or maybe it was more that she just didn’t seem to care.

  “Hey Lurker, someone should call the cops on you.” Jax, suddenly there right beside him. He grabbed hold of Bacho’s ear and twisted it until he pulled away. When Bacho slapped, ineffectively, at his hand, Jax put on an offended pout, a look of insult and unfairness. It was one of his signature features. With his blue eyes, pert little nose, and that flare of blond hair that would’ve made Kevin Bacon green with envy … well, he could get away with it. To Bacho, it seemed like Jax could get away with most anything. Even if he didn’t exactly like him, there was something about his confidence and privilege that drew you in.