Daniel Abraham - Inside Straight

And the applause grows even louder. The kids seem genuinely happy to be in the presence of real, live aces. As they climb up to the stage, Rosa says, “They must have us mixed up with the ones who went to Egypt.”

And what appeared to be a long day looks to be even longer.

While Jamal bounced back from the penultimate challenge, all hell had broken loose in the Middle East with the former Discards from American Hero making actual history, while Stuntman, Gardener, Jetman, Tiffani, Rosa Loteria, and the others were nothing but tabloid fodder.

Then came the visit with Mom and Big Bill Norwood.

His parents still lived in Baldwin Hills; not in the same house Jamal grew up in, rather, in a two-bedroom condo a few miles away. It was another dislocation that made Jamal feel as though he were visiting strangers.

His mother fussed more than usual, proud to have a celebrity in the family. More precisely, a wild card celebrity. “It was so strange to see you … being hurt like that!” Mom had never really accepted Jamal’s wild card. “You didn’t have it as a child!” she had protested the first time he gave his parents a demonstration of Stuntman’s powers. (Okay, maybe he was showing off, leaping from the fourth-floor roof of their condo building and going splat on the parking lot below.) But Jamal’s appearance on television—the sort of thing the neighbors could see—somehow made his condition more real to her. Being an American Hero made it okay for Jamal Norwood to be an ace in his own home.

That was Mom, of course. Big Bill Norwood was a whole different matter. When Jamal entered, Big Bill was in his easy chair, remote in hand, detached. He nodded a response to Jamal’s greeting, then let his eyes flick back toward a basketball game. (It always amazed Jamal that his father could follow four sporting events simultaneously on television, but couldn’t sustain a conversation longer than a few sentences.)

“Mom says you saw the show,” Jamal said, knowing there was no reason to postpone the inevitable conflict.

Big Bill grunted. “Yep.”

“What did you think?”

“Seemed kind of dumb to me.”

Jamal felt stung. He pointed a finger at the TV screen. “Dumber than Division III girls’ volleyball?”

Then Big Bill did a surprising thing. He clicked off the TV and set down the remote. “Yes, your show is dumber than those girls, because no one’s setting up phony challenges to make them look like fools.”

“You think I look like a fool?”

“Bill.” That was Mom, using her warning voice.

“You know what you are, Jamal.”

That hadn’t been the end of the visit, of course. Visits with Mom and Big Bill never had dramatic endings, they always faded out like a song that goes on too long. It was one low point in a season of low points … as Jamal did, indeed, find himself being recognized… as he wished he had never signed up for the program in the first place.

The second phase of the final challenge takes Stuntman and Rosa to the Los Angeles Police Department’s training academy for a challenge that turns out to be a photo op. Peregrine explains that this challenge is designed to show how Stuntman or Rosa—whoever wins—can relate to law enforcement. “After all,” she says, “no matter how easily you crush crime in your new city, you’re going to be dealing with cops.”

Stuntman and Rosa, the two L.A. natives, both laugh out loud at this. “As if either of us would leave L.A.,” Rosa says.

“As if either of us would get anything but shit from the LAPD,” Jamal says. He finds himself liking Rosa for the first time. Well, they are in this thing together.

Here, at the Academy, at least, the aces get to be aces. Their challenge is to simply race through a modified version of the LAPD obstacle course—along with a group of LAPD rookies. Rosa is especially good at this, pulling one card after another out of her sleeve. One second she’s El Valiente , beating the department’s hand-to-hand combat instructor, the next she is La Bandera , leading her squad of rookies up the last hill. Stuntman simply has to hump it, running, climbing, and jumping like the other nats, though he is able to take a beating from the hand-to-hand instructor without breaking a sweat.

The whole event is merely to create footage, not to prove anything. “Where the hell are we going now?” Jamal asks Eryka. He is in low-level bounceback, panting, bent over, cranky.

“Network Center on Beverly. It’s the broadcast.”

The biggest challenge of all.

Jamal and Rosa travel in separate Humvees that are directed to different entrances. Jamal emerges, with Eryka, at the door normally used by the network staff. He sees no cameras, no fans. The parking lot is full, but the stark hallway is empty, as if quarantined. Jamal is quick-marched from a well-tit passage through one turn, then another, to cold, shadowed steps, emerging several floors down, in what would—in any city other than Los Angeles—be called a basement.

He is left in a dressing room used by actors on the network’s soaps, complete with chairs for makeup, the usual mirrors, a decrepit couch. The only sign that anyone has been here for days, possibly weeks, is a basket of fresh goodies—more than six people could consume. Typical for television.

Jamal has barely collapsed on the couch when he hears, “There you are!” His agent, Dyan, is in the doorway to the Green Room. A large, enthusiastic, essentially ineffective woman, she is nevertheless a welcome sight, given the circumstances. “Aren’t you excited?”

“Trying to be.”

Dyan tilts her head, like a schoolteacher with a mischievous student. “Don’t be like that.”

“Where’s Rosa? What’s going on?”

“She’s in another dressing room,” Michael Berman announces as he enters. “We thought it was better to keep you apart.”

“Are we supposed to be fighting?”

“It would help.” Berman’s voice is bitter, even by the standards of a network executive.

“We’ll do what we can, Mike. What is the last challenge, anyway?”

“If I had to give it a title, it would be ‘Facing the Music.’ “ Berman does not hide his juvenile satisfaction at this.

Jamal looks at Dyan: no help there, none expected. “Which tells me nothing.”

“You’ll find out everything you need to know in fifteen minutes.”

“Too bad the challenge isn’t to rescue your ratings.”

Berman’s only response is a microscopic raise of his right eyebrow. “If only your wit had been more apparent on camera. I’d wish you good luck, but why be hypocritical about it?”

The exec is out the door before Jamal can press him. He can only turn to Dyan, who is staring, eyes wide in shock. “Wow. I knew Michael was a tough customer, but …”

“Well, we’ve had our moments.”

“Thank God he can’t control the voting.” The final winner on American Hero will be selected by votes from the global audience—texted calls that, in the best American tradition, will be charged by the call. The ace with the richest fans around the world would win.

“Can’t he?” Jamal says. American Hero was television, not politics. The producers could rig it any way they wanted.

“Just remember,” she says, putting her hands on his shoulders in a very manly, almost coachlike way, “this is nowhere near the worst experience of your career. Remember Riders to Las Cruces ?” His only Western, a low-budget nightmare.