"What was?" Fortune asked.
She looked up, half-smiling a question.
"What were you thinking?" Fortune asked.
Curveball frowned, picked up the beer bottle, drank a little, and put it down with a thud. Fortune let the silence stretch. If it had been a manipulation, it would have been a good one. The poor bastard was sincere, so it was even better.
"I'm thinking about the reasons we all came to this thing," she said. "Drummer Boy, Earth Witch. Me. It's been fun, and I've met a lot of people who are really great. And some that aren't so great. But the thing that . . . the thing that's weird in me? I want to win. I came here and I thought, whatever. I'll try and we'll see what happens, but I'm around everyone, and it's like it's important. I want it. I want to be the American Hero."
"And what do you think about that?"
"That maybe we can never be special enough to be happy," she said.
Ooh, deep, Jonathan thought. But Fortune was nodding and smiling.
"Can I tell you something? You have to promise not to pass it on," Fortune said.
Curveball raised her eyebrows.
"I tried to get my power back. After . . . after what happened. I thought maybe I could get it back and control it. Since my dad . . . since Fortunato fixed me."
Curveball shook her head. Someone at the bar shrieked with laughter that sounded as fake as the ambiance. Curveball's hands were on the table now. There were probably six or eight inches between Fortune's hands and hersflirting distance, maybe. Or maybe not. Jonathan was having a hard time getting a good read off the interaction.
"I tried everything," Fortune said. "Meditation, hypnosis, acupuncture. Rolfing."
"You're kidding," Curveball said with a laugh that managed to be warm and sympathetic.
"Seems kind of stupid now," Fortune said into his drink. Jonathan couldn't be sure, but he thought the guy was blushing.
"Maybe," Curveball said. "I get it, though."
"I don't care if John fucking Fortune gets his powers back!"
On the couch at Losers Central, Jonathan felt a wave of vertigo, suddenly uncertain of where he was. Someone was talking about Fortune. And she sounded pissed off.
He stood up, tucking the hand with the missing thumb into his pocket.
"No!" the voice said again. A woman's voice. "No, I'm not. They voted me off the show, Mom. I'm off. I'm stuck with all the other losers."
Jonathan walked to his doorway. Across the hall, Simoon's door was ajar. He could just make out her sand-colored skin and black hair as she paced.
"Yes, he's here sometimes. But it's not like . . ."
A faint treble yammer, a voice on the other end of a telephone connection, buzzed like a mosquito. Jonathan came closer to the door.
"I'm American, Mama. I was born in America. I've never been to Egypt. Egypt isn't my problem. John Fortune isn't my problem. I got kicked off the show, and now I'm rooming with the most annoying guy in the world, a Mexican wrestler with a fake accent, a guy who turns into bugs, and a girl who thinks roller derby never went out of style. My career is over. Peregrine already thinks I suck, I'm not going to try to get her son to"
The mosquito whined again. Simoon paused in the narrow strip. One hand held her cell phone to her ear. Her head bowed, and she sighed.
"I'll try, okay? If the occasion comes up, I'll tryand don't push me, Mother. Honest to God, if you give me any more shit about this, I won't even talk to him."
The mosquito was much quieter.
"You too," Simoon said. "Give my love to Uncle Osiris."
The cell phone closed with a click, and Jonathan rapped gently on the door, swinging it open an inch in the process. Simoon looked up, her eyes round and surprised. Jonathan waved, hoping the gesture was appropriately friendly and not particularly stalkerlike.
"Oh my God," Simoon said, her brows furrowing with concern. "What happened to your thumb?"
"Oh," Jonathan said, sticking his hand back in his pocket. "It's nothing. It just does that sometimes. Little bits of me kind of wander off. They'll be back."
"Oh," Simoon said, and Jonathan mentally removed her from the list of women who would ever, under any circumstances, consider sleeping with him.
"I was just . . . I couldn't help overhearing you, ah, shouting at your mother there."
Simoon sighed and sat on the edge of her bed. She looked smaller than he'd thought. "Sorry about that," she said. "It's this whole long thing."
"The camera guys are still watching Joe Twitch and Spasm fight it out," Jonathan said. "You want to talk about it?"
"It's nothing," Simoon said.
"Egypt. John Fortune. Something that wasn't your fucking problem?" Jonathan said.
Simoon shook her head, paused, looked up at him.
"Okay," she said. "But just between us, okay?"
"Absolutely," Jonathan lied.
"My mom's a god. The wild card hit Egypt way back when, and a bunch of the people who got it wound up looking like the ancient gods. You know. Crocodile heads or lion bodies, that kind of thing. They called themselves the Living Gods. My mom's Isis, or, you know, an Isis. There are several."
"She's in Egypt?"
"No. Vegas. A bunch of them emigrated and got jobs at the Luxor. My mom hooked up with Elvis when she got here, and here I am. Daughter of a god and the King, and still kicked off the show. But anyway, I have a lot of family back in Cairo. Cousins and stuff."
Jonathan moved slowly into the room and sat on the couch there. The bed would have seemed a little too familiar. "So how does John Fortune figure in?"
"My uncle Osiris has this thing where he sees the future. Bits of it. They don't even let him into the casino part of the hotel. Anyway, ever since the Twisted Fists killed the Caliph there's been a lot of antijoker sentiment in the old neighborhoods. And Osiris told Mom that there's some kind of amulet they gave Peregrine back in the 80s, and that it's time she got John Fortune to wear it."
"Ah," Jonathan said. And then, "I don't get it."
"It's supposed to give him the powers of Ra, whatever that means. And that's supposed to help things back in Egypt. I don't know all the details, and Uncle Osiris really likes to play how he's all mystical and wise and shit, so getting a straight story out of him is, like, good luck. It's all destiny this and fate that. But Mom decided that I should tell John Fortune about the amulet. And now she's giving me all kinds of shit about how I haven't done it yet." Simoon shrugged like it was obviously the worst idea in the world.
"And you don't want to because . . . ?"
"I came on the show to help my career. Get some exposure," Simoon said. "If I go talking crazy shit like this to Peregrine's kid, what kind of reputation do I get? And anyway, after what happened to him before, he probably doesn't even want powers, you know?"
"Have you ever tried Rolfing?" Jonathan asked.
"What?"
"Never mind," he said. "Just gimme your phone for a minute."
"Why?" Simoon asked, suddenly suspicious. Late in the game for that, Jonathan thought.
"Trust me," he said.
He dialed with his remaining thumb. The connection rang twice, then a click.
"Hello?" Curveball said.
"Hey," Jonathan said. "Give him the phone."
There was a pause.
"What are you talking about, Hive?"
"I don't know his phone number. I know yours from when we were all buddies and gosh-darn-it friends for life, so I'm calling you. Now slide the phone across the table, okay? I need to talk to him."
Simoon, jaw slack with horror and surprise, made a waving motion with both hands. Don't do this. Jonathan gave her history's least-successful thumbs-up.
"Jonathan?" Fortune said at the other end of the line.
"Hey," Jonathan said. "I'm over at Losers Central with Simoon, and you need to get over here."
"What's the matter?"
"There's a story you've seriously got to hear. And funny thing is, it's all about you and how you get ace powers back."
There was a pause.
"Is this a joke?" Fortune asked.