Anton Strout: Deader Still

“Here?”

Connor lowered his voice. “You’d be surprised how many Extraordinary types a convention like this attracts,” he said. “Besides, there’re a couple of side benefits to working here that I think you’ll find interesting.”

“Such as . . . ?”

“Well, two things, really,” he said. He stopped at one of the booths. Dozens of still-boxed action figures lined the booth. “First, think about the great scores you could find here with your powers.”

I had been slacking in using my psychometry to supplement my government salary at the D.E.A., and my SoHo apartment’s maintenance fees weren’t going to pay for themselves. If I could get some good readings on some of the collectibles here and get them into the hands of the right consumer, I’d be set for a while.

“Brilliant,” I said. “Thanks, partner. What’s the second?”

Connor stopped and pointed ahead. I looked and saw our booth. There was nothing that suggested the secretive nature of our organization, but there was a table full of pamphlets and reading material . . . and the Inspectre was manning it.

“What’s the Inspectre doing over here?” I said. “I thought he was just here to oversee the Oubliette.”

Connor shook his head. “He’s also here to work the booth.”

“Isn’t that kind of beneath him, playing booth jockey?”

“You know the Inspectre,” he said. “He’s a hands-on kind of guy. Likes to take a personal interest in who’s coming into the Department. Like you. I thought you’d appreciate the bonding time I bought by volunteering us for this.”

I was touched by his thoughtfulness. Before I could think of anything to say, Connor patted me on the shoulder and took off down the aisle toward the Inspectre. I followed him into our booth. Connor took a spot at the back of the space organizing stacks of papers while the Inspectre stood at the front, handing out information. The table was covered with a variety of pamphlets and handouts: Homebrew Potions: Ask Me How! , The Truth About Gated Communities: Ghost Dancing & Ancient Indian Burial Grounds , Your Neighbor Might Be Possessed If: Ten Signs It’s Time to Move .

The list went on and on.

“You know,” I said, approaching Connor, “for a secret organization, we’re sure making quite a spectacle of ourselves.”

“Relax, kid,” he said. He sounded more curt than usual. “Most of the people just look at us as a marketing ploy for some new line of comics or something. They don’t even give us a second glance.”

I looked around and noticed what he said was true. A five-hundred-pound guy dressed as Legolas took one of the leaflets the Inspectre handed him and moved on without batting an eye. No one was really paying us any attention.

“So, do you think I passed the Oubliette?” I asked, switching back to my main concern.

Connor paused, silently shuffling the papers in his hand.

“Is something wrong?”

Connor gestured for me to move closer, farther away from the Inspectre.

“What the hell did you do back there?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “The Oubliette has rules. No outside items. You had your phone on you.”

“What was I doing?” I said, angry. “I was surviving . . . because the fucking thing malfunctioned.”

“Maybe that was part of the test,” he said with an air of superiority. “Did you ever consider that ?”

I hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell him.

“Well, was it?” I asked. “Was it part of the test?”

“Well . . . no,” he said, becoming less heated. “But you didn’t know that.”

“Look,” I said. “Before you jump further down my throat, let’s talk about what I did know. First, the rules stated that no weapons could be brought in. I wouldn’t have thought my cell phone would be considered a weapon, and since no one’s ever done what Jane did before, you wouldn’t have considered it a weapon, either.”

Connor glared at me, but conceded the point with his silence.

“And second,” I continued, “I studied for that damned Oubliette for weeks.”

Connor’s jaw tightened.

“Not with me, you didn’t,” he said. And there it was.

“There was nothing personal in my choice of Jane,” I said. “It’s just that Jane had more access to the books I needed.”

Connor didn’t look convinced.

“Just make sure you’re thinking with the right head when it comes to your girlfriend,” he said. “She’s working for Wesker now, and in the Black Stacks. That’s gonna change a girl.”

Before I could defend my choice further, the Inspectre appeared at the corner of my eye and put an arm on both of our shoulders.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m sure the two of you could go on for hours about the finer points of today’s fiasco, but let’s call it even, shall we? Given the sabotage, I think Simon did a commendable job. His time with the F.O.G.gies seems to have paid off, and I for one see nothing wrong with being resourceful in dire circumstances. Congratulations, my boy. You passed the Oubliette.”

I was thrilled to hear I had passed, and I appreciated the Inspectre coming to my defense, but at the same time his sticking up for me was driving a wedge farther between me and my partner. Lately, anytime Connor attempted to correct me on anything, the Inspectre would intervene, and it was like an annoying Get Out of Jail Free card.

“Thank you, sir,” I said with humility. It felt like a bittersweet victory with the unresolved issue of sabotage tainting it.

The Inspectre turned to Connor. “As the two of you will be sitting and manning the booth, this would be a perfect time to get Simon to do his performance appraisal, don’t you think?”

At the words “performance appraisal,” I withered.

With a final pat on the back, the Inspectre turned and walked off to engage a group of bespectacled cyborgs that had gathered at the front of our booth.

“We could just go cover me with rat goo again instead,” I offered.

Connor shook his head. “Sit down, kid. You’ve been avoiding it for weeks.”

“I’ve been focused on the Oubliette. I forgot about it. Plus, I don’t get why we need them. Isn’t being thrown into a pit full of perils performance appraisal enough? I mean, I’ve never really held a job where I was graded on my performance before, you know, having been a career criminal. The idea of actually reviewing myself mystifies me.”

Connor pulled out a chair, laid the blank forms down on a table, and handed me a number two pencil.

“What the hell am I supposed to write?” I asked.

Connor shrugged.

“I’ve got no idea, kid. The Inspectre’s still riding me about mine. I’m working on it, but at least he’s letting me ride you about yours in the meantime.”

“Well, that takes the pressure off,” I said.

“Easy,” he said. “Wesker will be by in an hour to collect them for the Enchancellors, so be happy you only have me to deal with right now. Just hurry up and finish it.”

Finish it? I hadn’t even started it. Oh, how I already missed my rat-filled pit!

A man can produce a surprising amount of writing in sixty minutes when the pressure is on. Sadly, I wasn’t that man, and I found easy distraction checking out scantily clad “booth babes” and the tantalizing collectibles I couldn’t wait to get my hands on. Before I knew it, forty-five minutes had passed and I was staring at the still-blank pages before me when I was interrupted by the sound of the Inspectre’s phone ringing. He motioned Connor over to him and they conferred, leaving me to a final fifteen minutes of staring.

“Wrap it up, kid,” Connor said, patting me on the shoulder. “We’ve got a case to check out.”