“Branson, Missouri,” Fortunato said with a look of contemplation. He turned to Digger Downs. “Coming?” he asked.
Digger jumped up from the bed. “Sure. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Good, Fortunato thought. Because I still don’t have any money. He realized that before long he’d have to figure out a way to make some if he was going to remain in the world. He couldn’t depend on the good will of Aces! forever.
Digger joined him at the doorway and preceded Fortunato into the hallway. Fortunato paused for a moment and turned back to Finn.
“How’s Peregrine doing?” he asked.
Finn shrugged. “About as well as can be expected. Maybe even a little better. But she’s still got a long convalescence ahead of her.”
“There is something you can do for me.”
“Say goodbye for you?” Finn asked.
“How’d you know?” Fortunato said after the silence had stretched uncomfortably between them.
Finn shrugged again. “I read Tachyon’s dossier on you, remember?”
Fortunato nodded. “Yeah. I guess that the space wimp did have my number.”
He turned and left the hospital room. Finn watched him go in silence.
Branson, Missouri
Sascha Starfin was waiting for them near the baggage carousel. Jerry saw him immediately once he and Ray and Mushroom Daddy had fought their way past the crowds of women wearing MAGOG buttons.
“Sascha!”
The ace turned his head towards them as Jerry shouted and waved. Sascha’s height was accentuated by his thinness and his long neck. His hair, receding at the temples, was stylishly gelled so that a roguish curl fell over his broad forehead. His teeth were white and straight, his mouth expressive. It was his most expressive feature. He had no eyes, only an unbroken expanse of skin across the sockets that should have housed them.
“Jerry, glad you made it.” He turned to Ray. “Mr. Ray. Good to see you, as well.” His eyeless face turned unerringly to Mushroom Daddy.
“Wow,” Daddy said. “Spooky, man. How’d you know I was here?”
Sascha flashed another smile. “I’m telepathic, for one thing. For another, I can smell you. I didn’t know there was a cannabis-scented variety of Old Spice.”
Ray broke in before Mushroom Daddy could reply. “Did you book rooms in the hotel I mentioned?”
Sascha nodded, though he looked dubious. “Yes. The Manger, at the Peaceable Kingdom. Isn’t that a little way out of town?”
Ray shook his head. “We’re not here to see Boxcar Willie. Believe me, we’ll be close to the action.”
“The Manger?” Jerry said doubtfully. “What kind of hotel is that?”
Ray smiled. “It’s the kind where ‘There’s Always A Room For You, Even If You’re Not The Savior.’”
“Wait a minute,” Jerry said. “The Peaceable Kingdom. Isn’t that Barnett’s religious theme park?”
“Yep,” Ray said, “we’ll discuss it later. I’ve got to check some things out.”
He hustled away through the automatic doors and into afternoon beyond, where he jumped into the first taxi in line. Sascha puckered his lips in a thoughtful moue. “Ray left precipitously, didn’t he?” the eyeless ace said. “That man has secrets.”
They followed Ray outside into the warm summer afternoon on the fringe of the Ozark Mountains. Jerry shrugged as they went up to the cab currently at the head of the line.
“He’s a spook. He probably has more secrets than a madame in a high-class cathouse. But, you’re right. He’s been helpful so far, but really, how far can you trust these government types? Keep an eye on him.”
Sascha grinned, and made an okay sign with thumb and forefinger as Jerry opened the cab door.
“Where to, gents?” the cabby asked as the three slid into the air-conditioned comfort of his back seat.
“Peaceable Kingdom, the Manger,” Jerry said in a resigned voice.
The cabby cleared his throat as he eyed them, especially Mushroom Daddy, in the rear view mirror. “I see that you gentlemen have, uh, sophisticated tastes. If you’re interested in any of the real thrilling sights, stuff the tourists generally don’t get to see, I’m your man. Real joker acts. Some real wild ones, if you know what I mean. Aces, too, sometimes, with powers that’ll blow your mind. Totally unregulated gaming,” he said, glancing in the mirror at Sascha whose wild card nature was rather obvious.
“I didn’t know there was any of that in town,” Jerry said.
“Oh, sure,” the cabby said, nearly side-swiping a white stretch limo as he snuck through a red light at the last second, shooting the limo’s driver the finger and Jerry a shark-like smile. “Not in town, of course. The town is strictly for the squares. Lennon Sisters. Pat Boone. Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. That yodeling guy. You know, Un a Paloma Blanco.”
“Boxcar Willie?” Daddy asked.
“Slim Pickens?” Sascha asked.
The cabby shook his head. “Nah. That’s not him. Anyway, the real action is outside of town. The road houses. The exotic attractions. Like the river boats out on the lake.”
“River boats on a lake?” Jerry asked.
The cabby shrugged. “Close enough for the tourists. Some places have free access to all kinds of games, even to wild carders, which I hope you don’t mind me saying kind of stand out in this place.”
“I don’t mind,” Daddy said.
“Good,” the cabby nodded. “Roulette. Craps. Slots. You just got know where to look. And know how to not get caught cheating.”
“We’ll keep that in mind.” Jerry looked out the cab window as they passed through the town. All roads from the airport, it seemed, led through Branson. That was the point of them, after all.
Compared to Vegas, Jerry thought, Branson was kind of... mediocre. There was traffic, but more pick-ups and Winnebagos than limousines. They were lights, but fewer of them, and dimmer. There were hotels and theaters, but smaller, definitely less glittery. They were stolid brick buildings, not phantasmargorical palaces of exotic sin. The names on the marquees were more pleasingly familiar than exotic. There was, Jerry noted, a dearth of topless reviews but plenty of gospel choirs. One constant, though, was common to both tourist Meccas. There were plenty of buffets.
Branson wasn’t as big as Vegas, either. A trip down the strip took less than twenty minutes, and suddenly they were out in the open country of a small peninsula jutting out into Table Rock Lake. From a distance, the Peaceable Kingdom looked pretty much like any other theme park, its skyline dominated by a high Ferris wheel, a twisting roller coaster, and some whirling, whipping, and falling down really fast rides which Jerry never really saw the point of.
The cabby pulled up in front of The Manger, which, yes, did have something of a faux Middle Eastern look about it. “Remember what I told you,” he said as they decamped with their luggage. He zoomed back into the unrelenting traffic.
“Your bag, sir?” someone said. Jerry turned to see a joker in a bellhop uniform—if you could call faux Arabic robes and headgear a uniform—reaching for his suitcase. His third arm, coming right out of the center of his chest, grabbed the bag. Handy, Jerry thought, for a bellboy. The bellboy turned to Sascha and Daddy.
“I’ve already checked in,” Sascha said.
“I’m cool, man,” Daddy said to the bellboy.
“No luggage?” Jerry asked.
“Like, why should I bring clothes, man?” Daddy laughed at the self-evident absurdity of the idea. “If I need more I can always get some.”
If? Jerry thought. Good God, he’s not staying in my room.
They went through the large revolving door and the air conditioning hit Jerry in the face like a blast of frigid wind howling down from the North Pole. The lobby was dark, cold, and crowded. The decor was hotel-lobby modern, with a twist. There was faux marble, thick carpeting, palms and other plants commonly found in that ecological niche, and comfy chairs scattered around. The twist was in the decor.