George R.R. Martin - [Wild Cards 18] (23 page)

Jamal has bounced back enough that his leg no longer bothers him, though his shoulder will be a gooey mess for hours yet. He easily out-distances Wild Fox and Rustbelt in the race to the vehicles. But Tiffani is ahead of him, Tiffani is pulling out, right behind an
American Hero
Humvee and its camera crew. Jamal reaches his own wheels—Art and his camera operator are already inside. Clearly they expect to record his frustration at losing to Tiffani.

It isn’t until he is on the road, zipping through traffic heading south from the zoo, that Jamal begins to wonder just what he hopes to accomplish. “How are the other contests going?”

“I hear the shopping is taking too long.” Art glances over his shoulder at the camera operator, who snickers. “Brave Hawk whupped up on Jetman. He’s already back with his idol.”

So Brave Hawk would live to fight another day. Jamal really needs to win, if only so he can spare himself a boatload of condescension from the Apache ace. This assumes, of course, that Jamal isn’t voted out.

It won’t be for lack of high-speed driving. Jamal has been trained, and while doing spins and turns in a controlled environment like a movie location is far easier than simply going fast, running lights and driving on the shoulder… he has the skills, and the two yokels behind him do not.

He catches Tiffani at the turn east onto Los Feliz, pulling abreast of her. For a moment she isn’t aware of him—too distracted by the stares, shouts, and gestures she is getting from
the cars behind and in front of her. Then she glances to her right—and Jamal has the pleasure of seeing true surprise on her face.

“There’s nothing you can do, Jamal!” She isn’t saying it to be mean, he thinks. And for a moment he feels bad, because he has realized how to get the idol from her.

But only for a moment. The other aces like Tiffani. She won’t be voted off. Jamal, however, is on the bubble.

He can’t make the move here, not on Los Feliz, with three lanes of midday L.A. traffic surging, then slowing, like gobs of sludge in a fat man’s bloodstream.

Suddenly he sees an opening on the right. Tiffani’s car is stuck behind the Humvee in the middle lane, but there is room to pass on the right, where, insanely, cars are parked. Zip to the right, then zip back before creaming himself on a BMW. He shoots a tight—Tiffani and the
American Hero
team are now a good minute behind. Now he’s able to turn onto Vermont and stop. “Get out,” he tells Art and the camera guy.

“What the hell are you doing, Jamal?”

“Get the fuck out of here so you don’t get hurt!”

Fortunately, Art is one of those people who reacts quickly. Maybe it’s the look in Jamal’s eyes. The producer and camera operator pile out of the Humvee. Jamal has it in motion before the doors slam.

He looks in the rearview mirror. The camera Humvee is just now making the turn, fifty yards back.

Faster, faster. He needs more time.

Past the golf course, whipping to the left. Up the hill. The glistening dome of the observatory flashes past like a rising sun.

Here! A turnout just around the edge of the hill. He slews the car around, frantic, get ready. He blinks sweat out of his eyes. This is genuinely nuts. He wants to be anywhere but here. Big Bill is right—he doesn’t have the mentality for competition.

Tiffani’s Humvee drives past. And without making a conscious decision, Jamal guns his vehicle right into the side of Tiffani’s car, neatly T-boning it off the ledge.

Jamal feels himself go weightless, like a drop on Space Mountain or that awful, awful fall on the Nic Deladrier project.
The impact of car on rock, then on Tiffani’s car, is like being slammed into a brick the size of a garage door.

He is hanging in the air, in his lap and chest belt, nothing new broken, but definitely in pain, especially with his rubbery shoulder. He has smacked the side of his face, too. But the massive Humvee is intact—he is able to open the door and pull himself out.

He can smell smoke and feels dust in his throat. The light is so brilliant his eyes hurt. A breeze is starting to swirl up the canyon, a Santa Ana driven by the differing temperatures of desert to the north and ocean to the south. The only sounds are distant voices, school kids at play on fields far below, their shouts amplified by the surrounding hills.

The slope is steep. He has to hold onto the car to keep from slipping down. His legs aren’t good, but he can already feel them bouncing back. Tiffani’s car is ten yards farther down the slope, upright, but its body crunched, as if squeezed in a giant’s fist.

And Tiffani is still strapped into the front seat—her glittering diamondlike surface smudged with dust. She is frantically trying to free herself, a process complicated by her need to scream at Jamal. “You stupid son of a bitch!” It actually takes her several seconds and deep breaths to get the words out. Jamal merely slides to the passenger side of her vehicle and—absorbing three first-rate punches—plucks the foot-tall, rust-colored Jetboy out of the wheel well.

“You could have killed me! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Winning.” He sees how trapped she is. “When I get to the top, I’ll make sure they come for you.”

He jams the idol inside his shirt because he needs both hands to get up the slope.

Bounceback is working for him—he has jogged two hundred yards up the road, one turn short of the observatory lot and the finish line, before he sees—strangely—a beautiful, naked woman standing just up the hill, like Hugh Hefner’s vision of
Eden. It’s Jade Blossom! His dream girl with the saucy mouth and amazing breasts.…

He trips, his feet tangled in a rope. As he hits, he lands on Jetboy. More pain. Rolling on his side, struggling to free himself with one good hand, Jamal sees Jade Blossom transform back into Wild Fox.

Of course.

Not only have Wild Fox and Rustbelt caught him, they have help. Drummer Boy is here, too, and Rosa Loteria—which would explain the caballero reeling in the lasso that tripped him up. Adding to the fun, there is a camera crew with Rustbelt—Art and Diaz.

Jamal looks up the road. The camera Humvee has backtracked. Then the
whump-whumping
of helicopter blades causes everyone to turn. The aerial camera from the flying challenge is back now, too.

Jamal feels as though he has become Will Smith. He is the action-movie star, and this is his big finish. This is like
Bad Aces II.
Helicopters, Santa Anas stirring dust, afternoon light. All he needs is theme music.

“Come on, tough guy,” Drummer Boy shouts, easily blocking the mountain road with his flailing arms. He looks like a Hindu god on crack. As the chopper swoops south toward Sunset Boulevard and Thai Town to make a turn, Jamal hears the crunch of steps behind him. He bolts, and dodges a blow from Rustbelt.

He is surrounded. And outnumbered.

The only safe thing is to keep moving. He’s faster and more mobile than his opponents. All he has to do is reach the damned finish line.

Drummer Boy picks up a rock and flings it. Jamal sees it, dodges, but here comes another one. Fuck! Without thinking, he ducks, hauls Jetboy out of his shirt—stands like A-Rod at the plate and smacks the next projectile. The impact is jarring, like hitting a baseball on a cold day.

But what takes the sting away is seeing that projectile smack Drummer Boy in the forehead. All of the ace’s arms flutter like tree limbs in a gentle breeze, and he sinks to the cracked pavement. Jamal retrieves Jetboy and sprints past him. Rosa Loteria has transformed back into herself and is
madly shuffling her magic cards. Using Jetboy like a club, Jamal smacks the deck out of her hands, and hears her gasp as the cards go flying. Then his path is blocked by a snarling tiger. He runs right through it, knocking Wild Fox back on his shit-smeared tail.

He can see the observatory building ahead of him. Lining the railings, half a dozen aces—Brave Hawk’s pseudo wings fluttering in the breeze, Dragon Girl, Pop Tart.

And Berman, the network guy, off to one side.

It’s as if the world is ganging up on Jamal.

A hundred yards to go. The camera truck is behind him. The chopper above.

For a moment, he wishes he could get to the building itself. What a perfect spot to replay the knife fight from
Joker Without a Cause!

Jamal is hit from behind. It is the most surprising blindside tackle he has ever felt. He hits the pavement hard—chin scraped, hands raw. Jetboy flies out of his hands. Rustbelt rolls past, upset by his own momentum, his bolts sparking on the pavement. Jamal scrambles after the idol.

He and Rustbelt grab it at the same time.

For an instant they are eye to eye. “It’s mine.”

“Mine, now,” Rustbelt says.

Both of them know that Jamal can’t win a tug-of-war. His wild card—never especially helpful except on a movie stage—is completely useless here. But what had Tiffani taught him? He has other weapons. Especially when he hears Rustbelt say, “That’s what you get for being a—”

The word is lost in the roar of rotor noise from the hovering chopper.

Jamal lets go of the idol. He points at Rustbelt and screams as loudly as he can, right in front of all the cameras,
“Did you hear what he called me?
What kind of racist shit is that?”

“It took you long enough.”

It is early the next morning. Clubs Lair is quiet. Jamal sees Michael Berman emerging from the breakfast nook.
Astonishingly, he is still dressed in his black suit and tie. The only signs that he has been up all night are a faint beard stubble that shows a surprising amount of gray, and the loosened knot of his tie.

“Didn’t know we were meeting.”

“You’re not that stupid.”

Jamal removes the carafe from the coffeemaker—still dirty. He smashes it into Berman’s face, hearing the crunch of it, but it doesn’t break.…

No, no need for that. Hear the man out.

He empties the old coffee into the disposal as Berman, strangely, opens the exact cabinet where the coffee is kept. “You didn’t expect to drop that little bomb on us without experiencing a little fallout, did you?”

Jamal feels a tight smile forming. Fallout. Bounceback, oh yes. The look on everyone’s face when he shouted that Rustbelt had called him “nigger.” The rusted Jetboy idol never made it to the finish line. The whole scene fell apart, aces herded into their vehicles like witnesses to a crime. Sullen, confused silence at the Lair that night.

Silence, that is, except for Brave Hawk, who offered a pat on the shoulder. “Told you.”

Now Berman removes the carafe from Jamal’s hands and wipes it dry with a paper towel. He goes to the Sparkletts dispenser in the corner and fills it. “What proportions do you use?”

“Excuse me?” Jamal is still in bounceback, never his best mode, and suddenly feels unsure. What is this man doing here? What is he talking about?

“What proportion of coffee to water?” Berman’s expression suggests this is the most natural question in the world.

“Two to one. I mean, one to two. One coffee to two water.”

“Me, too.” With two quick moves, Berman gets the coffee-maker started.

“So,” Jamal says, “where’s the camera crew?”

“This conversation doesn’t exist.”

“Fine.”

“Neither, I suspect, did that word. It can’t be heard on the tapes.”

Jamal lets that statement hang in the air. “Which doesn’t mean it wasn’t said. Just like this conversation—no record, but real, right?”

“That would be an interesting public debate, wouldn’t it? Your word against Rustbelt’s.” Berman shakes his head. “Poor Wally. Of all the people to pick on—he’s as black as you.”

“He’s iron, Mr. Berman. He’s not
black”
Jamal hears these words come out of his mouth. Where did he learn to be militant? Certainly not from Big Bill. “Is that what you want? A public argument between me and Rustbelt?”

“We’ve had enough of that already.” True, before the Clubs had even returned to the lair after the scavenger hunt, the blogosphere had inflated with the news of Jamal’s accusation.

“So, where does that leave us?” Jamal says. “Where does that leave me?”

Berman picks up the Jetboy idol. “You seem to have gained a new kind of immunity. It will be impossible for anyone to vote you out of
American Hero
.”