Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel (39 page)

Michael felt a surprising pang of guilt. He had been kind of hard on the kid; Franny wasn’t that much older than Sandip. Children, all of them, playing at being men. And Franny had a massive stack of papers in front of him; that couldn’t be fun.

“Hey—you want a hand with that?” Maybe it was time for a peace offering. They were supposed to be partners, and the truth was, it was Michael’s job to watch over the kid, help him out.

But Franny just spat out a brusque, “I can handle it.”

Not even a thanks in there. Fine. If Franny was determined to drown in paperwork, Michael didn’t need to extend a helping hand. He already had one kid to rescue. When he got off this shift, he’d go hit the streets again. Someone had to know where Sandip had disappeared to. Jokertown wasn’t big enough to hide a kid forever.

They’d canceled dinner with his parents last Saturday; this week, Minal had decided to invite Michael’s parents over to their place instead. She said it was time the parents met, that since Kavitha’s parents were here, they might as well take advantage. Get some good out of the situation. Neither Michael nor Kavitha were enthused about the idea, but Minal was insistent.

There wouldn’t have been room to seat everyone, but Kavitha’s sisters and their husbands had finally decamped this morning, pleading jobs and other commitments. Her middle sister was just getting to the uncomfortable stage of pregnancy, and had sounded relieved to go home and sleep in a real bed again, instead of bunking on an air mattress on the floor. Kavitha’s father was making noises about work responsibilities as well, but so far, her mother had held firm. And so here they were, waiting uncomfortably for Michael’s parents to arrive. Minal, busy in the kitchen, had banished everyone from her domain, and so they sat, awkwardly, in the living room. Thank God for Isai.

She had started part-shifting lately—just enough to sprout feathers on her head and arms, to turn her nose into a beak. Michael worried that her nose was turning more beak-like with every day, even when she wasn’t shifted—if she transformed too often, would the changes become permanent? But try to tell a five-year-old not to do something fun; it was impossible. And no one had the heart to discipline Isai right now in any case.

“Ammama! I can’t find the birdie!” She leaned against her grandmother on the sofa, book in hand. Isai’s current obsession was hidden picture puzzles, and Kavitha’s mother was remarkably good at them. She could find any hidden object with just a glance—she was equally good at finding dust. The one thing she couldn’t find was her missing son.

The phone rang, shrill and loud. Had someone turned the ringer up? The sound made Michael’s head ache. Kavitha jumped up and grabbed an extension. “Hello?” Hope in her voice—not that any of them really expected Sandip to call, but you never knew. But then she just walked away, out of the room, listening to whomever was on the other end of the line. Apparently not Sandip.

And then another ring—the doorbell. Michael’s turn to jump up, this time to open the door. His mother bustled into the room, dripping rain from her coat. He turned to help her with it, but she ignored him, heading straight for Kavitha’s mother, who had risen to greet her. His mother’s wet bulk engulfed Maya in a huge embrace. “I am so sorry,” she said, her voice thick with its Korean accent, but even thicker with sympathy. And Maya’s stiff formality broke down completely; the tiny woman was sobbing now, in his mother’s vast arms. Hugely muscled, from long hours over decades of wrestling wet clothes at her laundromat. Strong and warm, the kind of arms that could hold you up when you were drowning.

Michael’s heart was aching now, along with his head, but Minal had been right to invite his parents here. His dad was slipping off his own coat, closing the door behind him. And even though Michael couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged his father, in this moment, it seemed natural to rest a hand on the old man’s back, to feel the warmth of skin under the thin shirt, as he ushered his father into the room. Michael knew in that moment that if he were the one missing, even as a grown man, his dad wouldn’t rest until he found him again. He had to work harder to find Sandip. Maybe after dinner, he’d go out again, talk to some more people.

Kavitha came out of the hall, the phone still in her hand, to see her mother straightening up out of his mother’s embrace, tears still running down her face. Kavitha’s face was stricken, and thank God for Isai, bewildered Isai, who asked loudly, “Is it crying time?” And his father scooped her up and leaned his head against hers, saying, “No, sweetheart, baby girl. Crying time is done for now. Now it’s hugging time, okay? And as soon as your Mama Minnie tells us all that yummy-smelling food is ready, it’s gonna be eating time. Sound good?”

Isai loudly agreed. Michael took his mother’s wet coat that she was finally shrugging out of; Kavitha pulled herself together enough to explain that the studio had called to remind her that she only had one more week of rehearsal time before her show was due to start. She had to get back to work tomorrow morning, for at least a few hours. That started her father talking about business again; import/export problems, ever-higher taxes, lying and cheating employees. It was never pleasant listening to Kavitha’s father complain about his work, and Michael caught Kavitha wincing at a few of the worst comments. But it was still a relief to talk about something normal, and at least his mother was happy to join in, commiserating on the travails of the small business owner.

Somehow, the mundane details carried them through to dinnertime, when Minal’s food on the table and their faces around it seemed like a blessing. Michael had never expected to see his parents and Kavitha’s together, not really. But they got along surprisingly well—Kavitha’s mother even laughed at a few of his father’s wry jokes. If they got married, maybe this would be normal, would happen often. That might actually be nice.

He just had to find Sandip first.

Galahad in Blue

Part Six

AS HE’D EXPECTED THERE
had been a long, tense, and unpleasant conversation with Deputy Inspector Maseryk about the death of a prisoner while in custody. After it was over Franny returned to his desk and went through all his notes on the joker kidnappings. Another person had been reported missing. A schoolteacher named Philip Richardson. The kidnappers were no longer taking just the lost, the discarded, and forgotten.

His now almost constant headache was back, pounding in his temples and behind his eyes. He closed his eyes, but all he could see were images from the fight club
DVD
s. The blood, the fists, the contorted faces of the men fighting in that arena. There had to be something he’d overlooked, a thread that might lead to the taken.

Michael came in at one point. His eyes were sunken and he looked exhausted. Franny opened his mouth to ask if his partner was all right, but Michael seemed to just look right through him, and he walked past without even a grudging hello, and headed straight to Slim Jim’s desk. Franny swallowed the words.

Adding to his misery was the fact that tonight he’d agreed to have dinner with Apsara and her parents. He’d started to head to the file room about ten times to cancel, but then he’d think about the shitstorm that would cause and he’d return to his desk unable to face one more person who was pissed at him. Apsara had wanted him to go with her to the Hyatt to collect her parents but Franny refused. He would meet them at the restaurant. That would give him another hour to work.

Norwood still hadn’t called back. The agent probably wasn’t going to follow up on the
American Hero
thing. Why would a fed do something to help a local? Franny’s sense of being abused deepened. He decided he was being stupid and paranoid. Jamal had gotten him the info on the Russian thugs.

He slumped in his squeaking, broken-down chair.
So much
American Hero
—Curveball and Earth Witch and Drummer Boy, Peregrine’s son, and of course Jamal, the first season winner, and the tapes …

Various Wikis listed all the contestants who had actually made it onto the show. There were some jokers—the preponderance were aces, and why not? Hollywood liked attractive people, most jokers weren’t very attractive. He watched an online video showing some of the humiliating tryouts.
Tryouts
. He checked his watch. It was only four o’clock on the West Coast. He called the studio that made
American Hero,
and after only a minimum amount of runaround he was connected with an efficient assistant who e-mailed him the full list of everyone who had ever auditioned for the show. He ran down the list. Nearly every one of the missing had auditioned for the show.

He put in another call to the
SCARE
agent. “Jamal, found another link with
American Hero
. Most of the victims auditioned for the show. There’s got to be a connection. Please call me once you’ve talked to Berman.”

Starfields was one of Manhattan’s better restaurants, and it didn’t hurt its caché that the owner, Hastet, was a real live alien, a woman from Takis. Actually she was now the only alien on Earth, since Dr. Tachyon had departed. The menu was eclectic and rather than the traditional large plates of food served in most American eateries, Hastet specialized in what Franny thought of as Takisian dim sum. Small plates, exotically spiced and unfailingly delicious. You ended up ordering a lot of them to fill up, and were presented with a large bill at the end of the meal. That wasn’t something he was looking forward to. It was unworthy of him, but he was really hoping that Apsara’s dad would pick up the check. Then he wondered if
he
ought to offer to buy dinner? Ugly thought.

Franny was waiting in the lobby when the elevator doors opened to reveal the trio. Apsara’s mother was an older version of her daughter and just as beautiful. Her father was bald, with a slight paunch, but neither condition detracted from his strong, powerful features. Apsara looked adorable in her police uniform. Franny suppressed a sigh. He stepped forward to meet them, and felt gigantic. At five foot ten he towered over all three.

Introductions were made, hands were shaken, and they moved from the lobby into the restaurant proper. Franny paused for an instant before stepping in and scanned the people in the restaurant. He mentally assessed and dismissed the patrons as any kind of threat. He then took a good look at his surroundings. The ceiling was painted space-black and gold and silver stars twinkled against the dark background. Hastet herself, looking neat as a pin and dressed in traditional Takisian clothes, escorted them to a booth.

He’d read that at one time the waiters had dressed in colorful and flamboyant styles in imitation of Tachyon, but the Takisian doctor had been gone for almost two decades and that affectation had ended. Now the waiters wore black pants and white shirts with bow ties. Hastet supplied them with menus, while a waiter filled water glasses, and another shook out napkins and laid them in their laps.

Mrs. Chiangmai looked at him over the top of a menu and said in her softly accented voice, “Detective Black.”