Daniel Abraham - Inside Straight

Hell, sometimes he couldn’t do that either.

He’d been sent to the Discard Pile after the Blacks had lost their challenge, and that’s when his growing fury and discontent couldn’t be contained any longer. He lasted a single day there, listening to the stupid prattling, the ego games, the posturing all of them did for the cameras. It was stupid, all of it—fake drama and fake heroism. That same evening, he packed his clothes and headed for the door, only to find his way blocked by King Cobalt and Hardhat. Other discards watched the confrontation: Ana, standing in the middle of the huge living room with hands on hips, shook her head as if she’d been expecting something like this; Toad Man lurked in the archway to the kitchen like a wart-ridden VW Beetle; Brave Hawk, his arms folded on his chest, gazed down stoically from the balcony above them; two five-foot-tall Matryoshkas huddled against the wall. And the cameras. Always the cameras.

“Where the hell you going, DB?” King Cobalt said.

“I’m outta here,” Michael told them. “Fuck this shit. I got music to play with people I actually like. I’m done with this crap.”

King Cobalt shook his masked head, the silver lightning bolts sewn there glistening. “Uh-uh. That ain’t how it works, and you know it.” Hardhat gestured, and a crosshatch of glowing steel beams barred the door of the mansion.

“You think that shit’s gonna stop me from leaving?” Michael told him. He flexed his six arms, looking at all of them. “It’s gonna fucking take most of you to do that, and it’s gonna be real. No stuntmen, no dummies, no breakaway furniture, no pulled punches. Real.” He wanted them to try, in that moment. He wanted to lose himself in blind rage. All it would have taken was a word or a movement. Hardhat glared. King Cobalt’s eyes glittered behind the blue mask, but then King Cobalt stepped to one side. He waved at Hardhat; the barrier at the door vanished.

“Michael,” Ana said as he stalked past them to the door and wrenched it open. “All you’re proving is that you’re still an ass. Kate—”

He hadn’t allowed her to finish the sentence. “Fuck Kate. Fuck you. Fuck John Fortune and Peregrine and this whole goddamn show.” He doubted that they would play those exit lines on the weekly wrap-up, and the slamming of the door behind him was entirely unsatisfactory. He took some small pleasure in ripping the locked steel gates of the driveway from their hinges and tossing them aside. He gave a sextuplet of fingers to the cameraman filming his exit.

As he walked down the street looking for a taxi and drumming irritated riffs on himself, his anger slowly cooled. He wondered what Kate would think when she heard, and how he could ever apologize, how he could ever apologize to any of them.

He would never be able to apologize to King Cobalt. Not now.

The news program had turned to another story now—floodwaters and boats rescuing stranded people in some local city—and he picked up the remote and channel-surfed, looking for Kate or Fortune or anything to do with the escalating crisis in Egypt. Nothing. He tapped on his chest with his free hands as he pressed the channel button with his lower left hand. Drumbeats surrounded him, fast and hard. He focused the sound through the open throats on his thick neck, tightening the muscles there and shaping the sound—he could feel it in his own body, though someone standing five feet to his side would have heard very little. But a person standing right in front of him, where he was staring …

The television set vibrated in its wooden cabinet.

Tighter yet. Tighter …

A jagged crack ran quickly across the screen, from lower left to upper right. The television hissed, sparked, and went dead. Michael tossed the remote across the room.

He rose from the couch and went into the bedroom. Without waking Chaton, he dressed quickly and packed a small duffel bag with underwear, jeans, T-shirts, and a bundle of his signature graphite drumsticks. He left the room and took the elevator down to the lobby. The night staff looked up with surprise at his appearance. “Scusilo. There’s a young lady in my room,” he told the woman at the desk as he placed a hundred-euro note conspicuously on the counter. “Make sure someone sends breakfast up to her around eleven-thirty. I need a cab, also, and I’d prefer that no one knows that I’ve gone out.” He tapped the note for emphasis. “Oh, and there’s a slight problem with the TV—just put it on my bill.”

The woman blinked. “Surely, Mr. Vogali,” she said, her English accented with the Roman lilt. “The concierge will help you with a cab.”

A half-hour later, he was at the airport.

The call on his cell phone came about 8:30—hours earlier than he’d been hoping it would come. It seemed that a hundred euros wasn’t as much of a tip as he’d thought, or maybe Grady just tipped better. At least it was Cohen and not one of the guys in the group; that would have been much harder. “Hey, KA,” Michael said as he flipped open the phone. “I figured you’d be calling eventually.”

“DB, where the hell are you and what the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m just taking a walk, Grady. Enjoying the scenery. Y’know, the Coliseum, the Parthenon …”

“The Parthenon’s in Athens.”

“It’s been a long walk.”

He heard an exasperated huff. “The desk clerk from the hotel called me. I’ve talked to the concierge and I’ve been to your room, DB. I’ve talked to the girl, I’ve seen what’s missing, and I’d appreciate it if you’d treat me like an adult. Now, where are you?”

“At the airport,” Michael told him. The private prop-jet was idling on the runway a hundred yards from him. He could feel the prop wash whipping his pants legs and whistling past the throats on his neck. From the open door of the plane, a hand gestured toward him.

“Please tell me you’re going to Berlin,” Cohen said.

“I’m going the other way, actually.”

“You can’t do that, DB. You can’t cancel this concert at the last minute. Forget that it violates your contract, it’s not fair to the rest of Joker Plague. It’s not fair to your fans.” A pause. “It’s not fair to me.”

“This is more important right now. To me.”

Cohen’s exasperation rasped the phone’s speaker. “What? What’s more important? You think you’re fucking Bono, off to save the goddamn world?”

“Wow, KA. Didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”

“Fuck!” The blast of fury made Michael lift the phone away from his ear. “DB, you blow off this tour and Joker Plague is finished. The label won’t touch you again. Your career—and everyone else’s—gets flushed down the toilet.”

“Bullshit,” Michael spat back. “Let’s cut the crap. You’re just worried about your own ass, KA. The label still has a best-selling CD, and they’re not going to flush that. It’s all about the money, Grady, and we both know it. You’ll be getting plenty of publicity to sell CDs and concert tickets by the time I get back. I promise you that.”

“When? When are you coming back?” Another pause, and a long sigh. “Look, maybe I can do something with Berlin, even London if I have to. But when are you getting back here? By New York? Tell me it will be by New York.”

“Talk to you later, KA.”

“DB! Goddamn it—”

Michael closed the cover. With his middle hand, he sidearmed the phone at the concrete wall of the terminal. It shattered. He strode quickly toward the open door of the plane and hauled himself inside. The pilot was checking off instruments. He glanced back at Michael as he strapped into the nearest seat.