(continued from part2)
briar patch «
Wil started drafting a fable about Briar Pig just before Falk's first visit (which Wil no longer recalled) after Zé begged him to put something in writing. How could Wil refuse? So Wil began his tale when the wolf gets a telegram, because starting at the beginning was so old hat. Let readers figure it out, Wil decided, skipping ahead to enter when the fun begins.
Zé wanted some anachronistic time detail if possible, and Wil was glad to oblige. So this first draft had more weird parts than Wil might normally add.
The seventh little pig—the last survivor of seven brothers—built his house in a briar patch. All houses built by his brothers, weak or strong, had fallen eventually. So Ira no longer put his faith in a single strategy, and fully expected to be found by the two remaining wolves, Sly and Teo. The first wolf, Al, was killed by simple trickery and a pot of boiling hot water; Al’s brothers Sly and Teo declared a feud, hunting the pigs. Only Ira remained: all his brothers had been killed. In hiding, Ira planned and prepared to be discovered, training and guarding against stealthy attack.
The wolf reached Moe’s barbershop at 8:30 sharp with a telegram in his pocket and a big smile on his face, flipping his lucky coin: a slightly bent liberty half dollar that saved his life in the war. It was a beautiful April morning, but any morning would be fine, given his mood. An old fashioned calendar in Moe’s shop read Wednesday, April 16, 1947. Sly’s lucky day: barbecued pork day.
Sly stopped to admire his zoot suit in the plate glass outside before entering. “Damn, I look good,” Sly told himself, then paused to whistle at a nice pair of passing gams. Ordinarily Sly would give chase to ask her out, but he had a date in a briar patch he hated to break. In Sly’s pocket was a telegram he received today by general delivery at Western Union, which read:
Sly did indeed know what to do; his reflection’s fangs gleamed in early sunlight. Today he packed a matching pair of Browning M1911 automatic pistols with full clips of .45 ACP ammo. Sly was a superb marksman, but it didn’t matter today for close and personal work. He was briefly tempted to fetch a tommy gun—he didn’t pack one in his BMW 328 roadster—but Sly wanted to look in Ira’s eye when he pulled the trigger. Following a haircut and shoeshine, Sly was off to the briar patch to whack the pig—right after some recreational bone breaking Ira had coming.
“The usual?” Moe asked Sly as he entered. Moe was a heavyset bulldog with a rheumy eye and scary five o’clock shadow, but was smarter than he looked at first. Often Moe’s racing tips were good, but he refused to reveal his sources, and Sly liked that.
Sly snapped his fingers and pointed. “That’s right,” he sang in a cool hep cat tone. “Gonna settle a score with a pig who got my kid brother before the war. Where’s that idiot nephew of yours? I need a shoeshine, too. Pa said never do business with scuffed shoes.”
“Wally?” Moe shook his head with a lopsided grimace. “He’s not an idiot. He just likes shining shoes. I promised my sister I’d look after him. This pig—someone I know?”
Sly shook his head with a smile. “Very unlikely. Forget about it.”
Moe cut Sly’s hair and talked about baseball. Moe pointed at Sly’s shoes when Wally arrived, and Wally set to work with a grin. Sly decided it was the floppy black ears and round spectacles that made Wally look so dumb. Dogs are simply outclassed by wolves.
“Who do you like for the pennant this year, kid?” Sly asked Wally with a smile.
“The Dodgers,” Wally said with certainty, working Sly’s shoes. “Jackie Robinson’s going to be Rookie of the Year. But I don’t have the final score yet.”
Moe coughed loudly and tried to change the subject. “Did you read about those tornadoes last week? Over 150 dead.” Moe’s voice betrayed him with a quaver.
“Actually 181, just like I said,” Wally corrected with a whine.
Sly’s smile slowly fell as he looked back and forth between Wally and Moe. “Are you serious?” Sly asked Moe. “The kid actually calls the games?” Sly could see they believed it was true. In Sly’s line of work, you got good at reading eyes, or you were dead.
Moe thought about all the money Sly lost to Moe in friendly sports bets over the years, hoping Sly didn’t think of it too. Moe’s face vacillated between a half smile and a fearful cringe, wanting to put on a friendly face, but worrying it might seem insolent.
“That’s very interesting,” Sly decided, pulling his chin, smile slowly returning, to Moe’s great relief. “Yes, indeed. I can make a lot of money with this, yeah... Hey, relax, I’m not gonna cut off your tail, or anything, Moe. But don’t tell anyone else. Okay? Right kid?”
Moe mimed locking his lips with a key; Wally nodded, peeking at Sly out of the corner of one eye. “Sorry,” Wally apologized to Moe. “It just kinda slipped out.”
“What else can you see, kid?” Sly asked Wally with a casual tone. “Did you see those tornadoes before they happened? How about fires?”
“Sometimes,” Wally cast a pleading glance at Moe that said: get him off me.
“Forget it,” Sly assured with a big, hearty smile: Wally was his new buddy. “I won’t bug you. Just keep me in mind. Hey, can you tell my fortune?”
“Not right now, I can’t,” Wally shook his head, perplexed. “The explosion wipes out everything else that happens afterward, for now.”
“Explosion?” Sly prompted with a worried look. “What explosion?”
Wally looked at the clock, which read ten minutes to nine. “In twenty minutes,” Wally explained, “seventeen million pounds of ammonium nitrate on the SS Grancamp explodes, in Texas City, and hundreds will be killed—and thousands injured. There’s a small fire aboard now. The force of the blast is like a small atomic bomb.” Wally’s eyes rolled up.
Sly’s mouth hung open, his eyes staring open wide. Then he shook himself and looked at Moe who shrugged to say this is all news to me. Trying to sound calm, Sly asked, “Where is Texas City? Nowhere near here, I hope?”
“In Texas, of course,” Wally said with a snide look, like Sly did poorly in geography. “Between Houston and Galveston on the coast, I think. Many whole city blocks are simply obliterated. I’m trying not to think about it.” Wally’s eyes started to tear. “It’s horrible.”
“Does obliterated mean destroyed?” Sly wondered, wishing he read more. But then he’d be a loser like this kid, who didn’t see all the money in this. “Damn, there’s no way to make money off this now. If I say something to anyone, they’ll think I was involved.”
Wally gazed at Sly with an expression Sly couldn’t read because it implied an idea Sly refused to grasp about himself, even from another’s view. Sly guessed it was related to the you’re a monster look he sometimes got when he said too much. Whatever. After Sly showed the kid how to rake in the dough, he’d finally see the light. Until then, maybe Sly should beef up his image. After all, the kid might be able to give him useful warnings.
albino poodles «
Over the next ten minutes Wally muttered facts about the impending disaster, getting more anxious. Sly was impressed by windows breaking forty miles away in Houston. Moe wondered if they should do something. Maybe someone could stop the blast?
Wally looked far away and shook his head. “Someone is trying, but it’s too late,” Wally claimed. “They really should have gone back earlier. Maybe they’ll try again.” Wally screwed up his face in puzzled concentration, chewed his lip, then looked at Sly. “Who are those guys?”
Sly took a step back and shot a look at Moe saying: the kid’s losing it. “Look, I gotta go,” Sly begged off, suddenly mindful of business, pulling cash to pay and tip handsomely. “I’ll catch the rest on the radio, but I’ll be back after a big meeting.” Sly winked at Moe.
“In the briar patch?” Wally scratched at a flea. “But I just shined your shoes.”
“Who said anything about the briar patch, kid?” Sly squinted suspiciously.
Wally looked out front like something happened, but Sly saw no one there. Wally turned to Sly and asked, “Do you know two tall albino poodles? They’re waiting by your roadster with guns.”
“Oh crap!” Sly moaned. “It must be Raph and Vern!”
“You should really pay back that money you borrowed,” Moe suggested casually, sweeping up hair trimmings. “I hear they filed their teeth down to points.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sly dismissed. Then to Wally: “Thanks, I owe you one, kid.”
Cutting over two blocks, Sly crept down a side alley until he could peek around a corner, and there they were: a couple vicious, lanky goons taller than Sly, with broad-brimmed fedoras pulled firmly over puffy white hair. Normally Sly didn’t give dogs time of day, but these two pink-eyed lunatics were crazy.
After Sly left the barber shop, Moe gave Wally a nudge to get his attention: “Why did you warn him, anyway? It was an opportunity. Now we have to deal with him later.”
With two minutes to go, Wally had paws over both ears and his eyes closed tightly, apparently hoping to shut out the distant blast only he could hear from here. Wally opened one eye to answer.
“The pig knows Sly is coming,” Wally said simply, his wet nose shining darkly.
Soon Sly’s roadster screamed down the road with just one new bullet hole in the passenger side door. “That was a lot easier than I expected,” Sly growled to himself in satisfaction. The two poodles were so aggressive they were totally predictable, and gave chase almost exactly like Sly expected. Then he circled—fast!— in a flank maneuver to his roadster. Easy, except for the gunfire.
Sly had an uneasy feeling—like he was missing something related to his trip to the briar patch, but couldn’t quite pin it down. Could Ira flank him? Nah, that wasn’t it. What the hell: the morning sun was glorious. Sly enjoyed the drive immensely. In his mind’s eye, Sly played Tex Ritter, the singing cowboy, riding a fine horse through a beautiful Arizona morning, composing a song to perform later. Sly couldn’t sing, except in his imagination, where he had a voice like an angel. For some reason, Sly always played a good guy in his daydreams. Tex Ritter was his hero, except for Tex’s duds—so Sly always pictured Tex in a zoot suit. Sly usually pretended his automatic pistols were cowboy sixguns when he drew them.
fable flashback «
Zé had a chat with Wil about his Briar Pig fable after the first couple parts, before Wil closed the deal with Sly and Ira in the briar patch, to get a handle on where Wil was going, and to offer advice if Wil needed any. A couple weeks after everything changed, when Istar gave Zé the ring, Zé looked back on this conversation for clues, since it seemed Finch may have timed things in part by Wil starting his tale. Finch asked about Briar Pig in particular—perhaps to see if Wil was on track as she saw things.
As near as Zé could tell—since Finch only replied to some questions in a very oblique manner—avoiding a paradox was hard if you did one of two things. First, you must avoid stopping a person from doing a thing you knew affected culture in your history. It could be done, but it was dicey. Second, you must avoid giving a person an idea before they'd have had it on their own accord, indirectly undercutting related ideas that might matter; new spin is also dicey.
All this assumed Finch was what she implied, and not one of a half dozen plausible but weird alternatives.
"I like strange parts of your pig fable, Wil," Zé began pleasantly.
"What a surprise," Wil nodded slightly.
"But you know what I don't like?" Zé raised his eyebrows, then continued before Wil could interrupt: "I wish I knew your characters already, instead of jumping in cold. I was hoping you'd work in appearances by—you know—us, or alternative versions of us: our little gang."
Wil nodded vigorously. "Yeah, that did seem a problem. I was sorta planning to rewrite what I have, by inserting a dialog in the middle, maybe between me and Eli—he might make good foil. I can lace argument about a tale inside that tale, at risk of weakening cohesion. Does that sound awful?"
"What am I? Chopped liver?" Zé objected. "Why can't I appear in a dialog? I make a good foil, don't I?"
"Not really," Wil disagreed. "It's more like I'm your foil, since you ask leading questions so much. But I'll think about it. Any other remarks?"
Zé cleared his throat. "What's the moral of your fable?" he asked.
"Don't set millions of pounds of ammonium nitrate on fire?" Wil laughed. "Why does a fable have to be about just one thing? Maybe I have a bunch of morals in mind. How about this one: don't underestimate shoeshine boys."
"Am I supposed to recognize this kid, Wally?" Zé asked.
"Well, he's just an archetypical underdog character," Wil cleared his throat and pulled at his collar. "You're supposed to identify with him."
"That's another thing!" Zé pounced. "Where the hell is Briar Pig? He doesn't even appear yet, except in side references. Wasn't he going to be the hero? The wolf gets all the air time. I like Sly more than Ira now. You're doing it wrong. And where did you get that name: Ira?"
"Pigs are hard to name," Wil pleaded with hands spread. "Maybe it's short for irate, as in: I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore. I picked it out of the air. Yeah, Ira's the hero. But there's actually a point to spending so much time on Sly's point of view, because this is how Ira sees things: Sly is an actual person, so being forced to kill Sly is a tragedy. Whereas from Sly's point of view, pigs are just food, so Ira isn't a person. And that's the problem. I plan to have Ira explain this to Sly, before he kills Sly, that is."
"Don't tell me how the story ends!" Zé covered his ears.
Wil wagged a finger at Zé. "You knew Sly was going to die from the beginning. What kind of story about little pigs doesn't kill the wolf in the end? But usually pigs are afraid, and in this story it's the wolf who's afraid by the end."
"And telling how much Sly likes Tex Ritter is a way of humanizing him?" Zé guessed. "So I care, since he has an internal mental life?"
"In part," Wil nodded. "Also, I hadn't quite given up on a joke yet, but I was unable to fit some material into dialog with Wally, without Wally taking over the story. If I had managed to get Wally and Sly talking about Tex Ritter—say because Sly wants to know when Tex's next movie comes out—then Wally would have told Sly about Ritter's son, John Ritter, acting in sitcoms in the future."
"John Ritter was really Tex Ritter's son?" Zé wondered.
"Yep," Wil nodded. "I liked the idea of explaining sitcoms to Sly, as well as movies like Sling Blade in which John Ritter played. But, you know, you can't put every funny idea you have in a story. There isn't room."
"Tell me about it," Zé commiserated. "Well, are you going to finish the fable? What about Sly's brother Teo?"
"Of course I'm going to finish," Wil insisted. "I'm saving Teo for a sequel, obviously. He's the main boss Ira has to defeat. The rest of Sly's chapter isn't very long, though, unless I ad lib a surprising amount."
"Why is that?" Zé probed. "Do you ad lib a lot?"
"I can't make the briar patch scene long without terrifying Sly," Wil explained. "And that's creepy. I ad libbed almost all the story so far. My rough outline was something like telegram, barbershop, shoeshine boy, oracular foresight, withheld warning, exit stage left, then the briar patch."
"I have a request," Zé suggested impishly. "Have someone slightly colorful give Sly directions at the briar patch."
"How about an old, crippled, blind possum Sly considers eating as a snack?" Wil offered. "Then he turns out not to be blind and crippled after all."
"In cahoots with Ira?" Zé grimaced.
flash gordon «
"There's not much time," Finch warned Wil. "So forgive my haste: we might be interrupted before we cover enough ground. Don't let me rush you, but I don't have time to be subtle. So, I have better guns. Do you want them?"
"Sure, what the heck," Wil made an easy gesture, glancing at Eli who slowly ran through the controls Wil showed him on his pistol. Eli aimed at the ground with exaggerated care. Wil continued, "But without training, how am I going to be more help than hindrance? I'm not a gun prodigy."
"Not yet anyway," Finch half-smiled. "I wanted to talk to you about that. I think we need to take a shortcut. Can you guess what it is?"
"Here we go," Flywheel's disembodied head observed. "Why do you always have these convenient crises to bend the rules? Pure chance?"
Finch curtly asked Flywheel, "Did Aleph or Mick get back to you yet? Patch them through as soon as you can. Aleph calls on open lines, so don't say anything interesting. I assume Mick still has a full kit?"
Flywheel looked chastened. "I'll be right back," he said, then his image froze and lost a bit of depth as X's appeared over his eyes to show he was offline.
Zé returned from Wil's bedroom with his nano armor mostly assembled, asking Eli how to finish loose ends. Now everyone but Finch and Ulf wore nano armor. Wil suspected Finch didn't need heavy armor. Ulf tossed on the coach, still asleep; where was Ulf's armor? Wil didn't have time to think about it.
"What about snipers?" Eli asked Finch while fixing a panel of Zé's armor in place. Eli glanced significantly at Wil's windows.
"Covered," Finch said simply, drawing a weird looking handgun from inside her coat. "I'm watching several feeds in strategic spots, and automatic systems watch others. I see movement, but no one's that stupid."
"That's an awesome looking gun," Zé enthused. "Buck Rogers from the 25th century? If that's an actual raygun, wouldn't that be, uh, sorta illegal? Assuming someone cares about anachronistic weapons."
"Where do I put that?" Wil looked down at his costume. "I'm running out of places to put stuff; I need a utility belt or something."
"Illegal to Chthon agents, yes," Finch agreed. "You'd be surprised by how much freedom I have, even when I'm not supposed to have any."
"Finch, are you doing anything illegal?" Wil asked quickly.
"To what authority?" Finch shot back with raised eyebrows. Finch held out the gun and quickly ran through a series of control movements. "See how these resemble your old gun? Same cues in your glasses?"
"To, uh, authorities in Thule, I guess," Wil replied, reaching for the gun. It's curves were exotic and beautiful. Wil had trouble grasping the power scale shown by his glasses. "Should I hold this in reserve?"
"Good idea," Finch nodded. "I want you to hold back as much as possible. Don't show anyone what you can do. And don't explain. I hope you haven't told Zé and Eli how your ability works? The longer other agents take to figure it out, the better. Don't tell Aleph or Mick, either, and especially not Flywheel."
Flywheel's image came suddenly back to life. "Don't tell me what?" he asked with a smile belying a bit of petulance. Then his eyes fell on the gun Wil was holding and grew large. "Holy Khronos, he gets one of those?"
"Yes, and it's going to get worse yet," Finch replied. "So please keep your hysterical reactions in check. Are you listening?"
"What are you doing?" Flywheel looked carefully at Finch.
Finch laughed and smiled while explaining, "I was just telling Wil we need to be vague when we talk about his talent—to be safe, because we want Wil to make it to next week. Right, Wil?"
Zé and Eli looked at Wil like he might catch on fire. "Dude," Eli said. "You can't fly or anything, can you?" Then to Zé: "That would be awesome."
"Okay," Wil agreed nervously. "So, can I do it without giving it away? Won't someone figure it out? How do I be careful?"
"You can use it any time," Finch allowed. "But you need to make your results look like an accident, as much as possible. Then observers can write it off to luck a good long while, before it gets implausible."
Flywheel's eyes bulged, apparently dying to ask questions. Finally he essayed a remark: "Caught yourself a big fish there, Finch?"
"Two of them," Finch glanced at Zé, who shrugged. "Now I'm going to outfit Wil with more tools, and I don't want you to bug me till you get Mick and Aleph. Don't ask how Wil plans to use the blades."
"He gets blades, too?" Flywheel said weakly, closing his eyes.
mayhem «
"That's right," Finch nodded. "A man's naked in certain places and times without a sword. Relax, Wil, this will be fun."
"Here's Mick," Flywheel announced. "I'll put him on."
Flywheel's image went green and wireframe before disappearing. Then a new wirefame head appeared before resolving into a lifelike head of another man floating over the table, who seemed a bit familiar to Wil. Zé placed the resemblance immediately: he looked a bit like Fred Ward in Tremors from 1990, and a bit like Richard Geere in a 1997 remake of The Jackal, with a nice haircut and whiskers trimmed short around mouth and chin—about thirty-fiveish and well kept. But most importantly, he was one of the Hells Angels next to Finch in the photo from Woodstock in 1969. He seemed younger now.
Mick's image moved, his eyes first taking in everyone present very rapidly, before fixing on Finch. He nodded and smiled rakishly.
"I need a mayhem expert, Mick," Finch told him. "Why aren't you here yet? Did you get lost?" She ended with a teasing tone.
"Nice to see you too, Finch," Mick started agreeably. His spoke with precise articulation and sounded—intelligent but distant? Then he became critical: "Do you have any idea what's going on out here? I see serious looking folk nearby. I don't walk into situations blind. And I don't start without a contract. What's up? How are you even stuck in one spot? This isn't one of those skanky end-of-the-world deals, is it?"
"Yes, I see what's happening out there. Meet the new guys," Finch pointed at each of them in turn, "Wil, Zé, Eli, and Ulf on the sofa taking a time out. Help me train Wil and extract everyone, alive. What do you want? Name your price. No, you can't be king of New York in the 1950's. Put it right out of your mind. Other than that, what do you want?"
Mick nodded graciously at introductions, then appeared to count a big score he stood to get out of negotiations, before a sudden look of suspicion swept his eyes. Zé was impressed at his speed of expression change. "That's the highest starting offer you ever made," Mick noted. "What am I not going to like? I don't do suicide runs."
"Wil takes point," Finch explained. "You back him up, train him on the fly, while fending off a metric shitload of trippers: rabid treasure hunters and high ranking Chthon agents, both. Seven days, high risk."
"Uh," Mick looked agonized, closing his eyes (making Wil wonder if everyone around Finch had that mannerism). Mick sighed, then seemed to make up his mind. "Treasure? I know: you can't tell me till I'm there. Okay, in addition to usual perks: I get forty million in gold; I get to be ten years younger; I get two wishes; I see this one magnificent girl again in a bar in New York 1955; and I'm on your list of survivors, guaranteed."
"That's pretty steep," Finch resisted. "One wish only, and no wishing for more wishes. Five years younger. And for New York in 1955, you have to talk to Wil: he's the one that would take you."
Flywheel and Mick spoke at once; Flywheel groaned, "Oh no."
"Who the hell are you?" Mick turned to Wil. Then Mick's eyes finally caught Wil's new gun, and froze. "Ah," he said. "That's interesting. Why does he need training if he already carries one of those?"
Finch continued, "And you can't go unless you promise not to say 'hey baby, I'm from the future' again, to anyone—that's not funny. If you agree, get in here: I'm in a hurry. One more condition: go ahead and mess with Wil, but don't really hurt him, because he has permission to shoot you if forced."
"Wil can outshoot Mick?" Flywheel sounded surprised.
"Terrific," Mick sighed, then told Wil, "I'm at your service. Can I take ten or twenty more minutes to square away stuff?"
"Sure, if Finch agrees," Wil nodded and glanced at Finch.
"Wait, I have a question," Zé interrupted. "Did you really help Finch at Woodstock? You were in a Woodstock photo with her."
Mick looked at Finch, who nodded. "Yes, we stopped the Woodstock disaster," Mick said. "Did she say why she does stuff like that?"
"Not in so many words, no," Zé replied.
"They might pay a good price for information," Finch warned Mick. "Sure you want to give it away free?"
"First I have to prove I know something," Mick countered. "Here's my guess: I think she fishes for new culture when more people live. Ask Finch what new kind of music appeared after Woodstock came out well."
"Heavy metal?" Eli guessed.
Mick laughed and shook his head, then signed off.
When Flywheel's head returned he said, "Sorry, Aleph is back on stage and won't call until she gets off in a few minutes."
coffee arena «
Ollie smiled warmly at Sister Judy after she ordered a double espresso. Partly this was because, in his mind, Sister Judy went through a glorious martial arts move, her black nun's habit flowing like a fighting robe in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. In the middle of her battle cry, arms held akimbo in a classic challenge pose, Ollie's view of Judy froze and became a black and white drawing captioned in large letters like a movie poster: "Sister Judy, as The Equalizer."
Ollie did something like this with most of his patrons, giving him a reputation for big smiles after meeting new customers is his coffee shop, Vintage Season, because Ollie appreciated how funny normal people looked in fighting mode. Apparently Ollie also sometimes made small sound effects under his breath like Bruce Lee when he saw himself challenging in reply: "Oliver, as The Proprietor." Once in a while, one of his baristas echoed Ollie's Kung Fu squawks, so he must do it out loud.
His martial arts view of the world had been going on for years, so now Ollie worshipped Quentin Tarantino every time something like this happened in one of his movies. Tarantino's Inglorious Bastards had him in stitches. Ollie's buddy Deck (typically "Deck, as The Bladerunner") hadn't liked that one, so Ollie had imagined Quentin Tarantino appearing in person at Vintage Season to lift Deck bodily in the air to break Deck's spine over one knee: "Quentin, as The Auteur." Ollie was most proud of seeing patron couples reveal their real, inner selves in movie combat mode, like when Janet smashed Dan's face into the counter with an explosion of cookies and coffee cup holders, snarling ferociously: "Janet, as The Sadistic Bitch."
But that wasn't the only reason Ollie smiled at Judy: he also kinda had the hots for her, because he thought she was beautiful. This bothered him even though he knew Judy wasn't really a nun. Some combination of psychological damage and sense of humor made Judy wear the nun's habit, so Ollie had only seen her face and hands. He actually dreamed about her face now. But he was having trouble asking Judy out—a woman one of his regulars called "a freakin nutjob." (This was one of Wil's coworkers, who Ollie cast this way: "Ulf, as The Asshole.")
He almost had his nerve worked up, because Judy was much better now, never pacing in the tiny park next door anymore, ranting quickly and steadily, with one hand moving close to her face in a frantic orbit like a bird trying to escape a cage. Two months ago Judy scared Ollie's other patrons one day, excitedly talking to herself about Miss Morlock's scavenger hunt—some kind of newspaper contest with weird rules—until Ollie decided to get some help. But instead of calling the police, Ollie asked Finch if there was anything she could do, as a favor to a friend, though Ollie wasn't sure why he felt Finch might be a help. After studying Ollie thoughtfully, then looking at Judy's rapid perambulation around a small table, Finch told him yes and approached Judy almost gently, even taking off her sunglasses before speaking in the privacy of the park. The change in Judy's attitude and posture was amazing when Judy looked into Finch's face, freezing in her tracks and relaxing completely, with a calm and rational look—other than fixating on Finch. The two of them talked for ten whole minutes, sitting face to face, alone in the park; Ollie didn't have time to watch the whole time, but it looked like an emotional conversation between old friends. Then Finch put on her sunglasses and left. Judy was totally changed, and came in to talk with Ollie, tentatively, like a coma victim awakening after a dozen years, wondering exactly where she was. Among other things, Judy seemed dramatically smarter, with a balanced and joyful emotional outlook.
Since then, Ollie looked forward to seeing Sister Judy every day, because now Judy was one of the happiest people Ollie had ever met, with an intelligent and graceful manner. Ollie was addicted to making Judy smile, because it made him feel better than anything he could remember. But he wasn't sure where he was going with this. Judy showed him parts of the scavenger hunt she had solved so far, and Ollie made suggestions about what to try next, helping Judy interpret cryptic clues Miss Morlock added to every column for participants in her popular alternate reality game.
For example, tonight Judy staked out another patron she called Mr. Steed—a nicely suited faux british agent wearing a bowler and carrying an umbrella—who Judy pretended was spying on Wil Munny's apartment across the street. (So far, Ollie had cast and recast Wil several times, depending on how Wil seemed, including parts as The Underdog, The Saint, and The Trickster. Besides Wil's friend Zé, and Finch, nobody else got as many parts.) Judy even went so far as to ask Mr. Steed, "Where's Mrs. Peel?" with a knowing look. Ollie guessed Mr. Steed might be in Morlock's game, but Steed looked at Judy like she was a lunatic, partly because Judy kept relaying remarks made by her "partner," Sam. For example, earlier Judy pointed at Sam and told Mr. Steed, "Sam says your hat looks pretty silly." Then Judy winked at Ollie when Mr. Steed looked away.
Sam was a present from Finch: a lifesized cardboard cutout of a man in an informal jacket and tie, with curly dark hair and a mustache. Sam was actually a cardboard poster of a 70's television character named Gabe Kotter, played by an actor named Gabe Kaplan; why Judy insisted on Sam instead of Gabe, Ollie barely understood: Judy just said Sam wasn't an angel. Sam's eyes were some kind of holographic material, so his eyes followed you around the room; Sam's tie was also real, as well as a tie pin and a pair of cufflinks in his sleeves. Judy carried Sam around under her arm and folded him to sit at tables with her, and everywhere they went, Sam had something slightly rude to say to everyone, which Judy said for him since Sam was shy, she explained.
It seemed Sam was made of something more durable than cardboard, because Sam never wore out, or became frayed despite constant use. Regulars at Vintage Season now said hi to Sam and asked how he was doing. When Ollie asked Judy if she, um, thought Sam was real, she punched him in the arm (just like Finch) and said, "Of course not," with a beautiful smile while searching Ollie's eyes. Her explanation had two parts. First, Judy got pleasure out of folks thinking she was still crazy; she couldn't go back to normal peer pressure, which was obnoxious. And second, one of her scavenger hunt tasks involved keeping Sam in the game. So it was an ideal match. Besides, as Judy explained, "Everyone needs a sidekick." Getting in the spirit, Ollie imagined Sam coming alive now and then, striking a Kung Fu pose before freezing in a movie poster reading, "Sam, as The Sidekick." Ollie considered getting a lifesize cardboard cutout of Electra, so they could double date when Ollie got the nerve to ask.
But Sam wasn't bullet proof. Ollie would see this demonstrated later this evening, when Sam took a bullet right between the eyes, leaving a perfect circle punched through his head above his nose.
advance warning «
Ollie's first signs of trouble came at the same moment: his phone buzzed a new text message received, and Sister Judy distinctly said, "Oh, shit," in a surprised tone of voice. Ollie followed Judy's line of sight while raising his phone to read the message. Two slightly odd men approached the door of Vintage Season; the taller one looked all around carefully as if covering the other's moves. Both men had blonde, nearly white hair, and looked like brothers with ninety percent of their genes in common.
The text message was from Finch: "I see them. Don't resist. Avoid the gun under your counter. I'll pay for damages. If I appear, drop to the floor and stay there. It might take an hour. Have patience. Do NOT touch a gun. Erase this message."
Ollie read it twice in surprise before deleting. Finch only sent text messages to order coffee before. The first blonde man coming through the door had a smile Ollie didn't like; the second didn't smile at all.
