Inside Straight

Jamal finally gets to his feet. Dragging himself after the figurine, he sees it picked up by Rustbelt . . . it instantly changes color and texture. Seeing his immunity in the Minnesotan's hands—a stocky, stupid-looking kid who acts like an ape with a hand grenade—Jamal loses his temper. "You ruined it, hotshot!" Jamal shouts.

Rustbelt reacts as though Jamal has slapped him. And while he is distracted, Tiffani appears next to him and snatches the idol from his hand.

"Hey!" Rustbelt is even more wounded.

"Don't let her do that, goddammit!" Wild Fox snaps. He scrambles over the fence and out of the habitat. Rustbelt stands frozen as Tiffani actually poses with Jetboy, like a hostess on a game show, all glittering girlishness. "Purty, ain't it?" Her accent is as thick as Jamal has ever heard it. He knows what she's doing. Four cameras are on her and the male aces flanking her. The first one to make a move will look like a mugger attacking a cheerleader.

With one last look over his shoulder—yes, there's the damned rhino, looking as confused as Rustbelt—Jamal joins the group in front of the cameras. "So much for teamwork," he says.

"Come on, Jamal, what did you expect? We can't share the idol."

She's right, of course. They were never teammates. Jamal rejected the idea. He realizes that he resents the way she's got the idoclass="underline" not from her wild card ability, which is no more useful than Jamal's, but from being a girl.

"You haven't got back with it yet," Rustbelt says, the longest, most coherent sentence Jamal has heard him utter.

For a moment, the sentence seems to take shape and hover in the air . . . a tangible challenge.

Tiffani realizes that her feminine immunity might be in danger.

As the cameras follow, she starts running for her vehicle.

Jamal has bounced back enough that his leg no longer bothers him, though his shoulder will be a gooey mess for hours yet. He easily outdistances Wild Fox and Rustbelt in the race to the vehicles. But Tiffani is ahead of him, Tiffani is pulling out, right behind an American Hero Humvee and its camera crew. Jamal reaches his own wheels—Art and his camera operator are already inside. Clearly they expect to record his frustration at losing to Tiffani.

It isn't until he is on the road, zipping through traffic heading south from the zoo, that Jamal begins to wonder just what he hopes to accomplish. "How are the other contests going?"

"I hear the shopping is taking too long." Art glances over his shoulder at the camera operator, who snickers. "Brave Hawk whupped up on Jetman. He's already back with his idol."

So Brave Hawk would live to fight another day. Jamal really needs to win, if only so he can spare himself a boatload of condescension from the Apache ace. This assumes, of course, that Jamal isn't voted out.

It won't be for lack of high-speed driving. Jamal has been trained, and while doing spins and turns in a controlled environment like a movie location is far easier than simply going fast, running lights and driving on the shoulder . . . he has the skills, and the two yokels behind him do not.

He catches Tiffani at the turn east onto Los Feliz, pulling abreast of her. For a moment she isn't aware of him—too distracted by the stares, shouts, and gestures she is getting from the cars behind and in front of her. Then she glances to her right—and Jamal has the pleasure of seeing true surprise on her face.

"There's nothing you can do, Jamal!" She isn't saying it to be mean, he thinks. And for a moment he feels bad, because he has realized how to get the idol from her.

But only for a moment. The other aces like Tiffani. She won't be voted off. Jamal, however, is on the bubble.

He can't make the move here, not on Los Feliz, with three lanes of midday L.A. traffic surging, then slowing, like gobs of sludge in a fat man's bloodstream.

Suddenly he sees an opening on the right. Tiffani's car is stuck behind the Humvee in the middle lane, but there is room to pass on the right, where, insanely, cars are parked. Zip to the right, then zip back before creaming himself on a BMW. He shoots a light—Tiffani and the American Hero team are now a good minute behind. Now he's able to turn onto Vermont and stop. "Get out," he tells Art and the camera guy.

"What the hell are you doing, Jamal?"

"Get the fuck out of here so you don't get hurt!"

Fortunately, Art is one of those people who reacts quickly. Maybe it's the look in Jamal's eyes. The producer and camera operator pile out of the Humvee. Jamal has it in motion before the doors slam.

He looks in the rearview mirror. The camera Humvee is just now making the turn, fifty yards back.

Faster, faster. He needs more time.

Past the golf course, whipping to the left. Up the hill. The glistening dome of the observatory flashes past like a rising sun.

Here! A turnout just around the edge of the hill. He slews the car around, frantic, get ready. He blinks sweat out of his eyes. This is genuinely nuts. He wants to be anywhere but here. Big Bill is right—he doesn't have the mentality for competition.

Tiffani's Humvee drives past. And without making a conscious decision, Jamal guns his vehicle right into the side of Tiffani's car, neatly T-boning it off the ledge.

Jamal feels himself go weightless, like a drop on Space Mountain or that awful, awful fall on the Nic Deladrier project. The impact of car on rock, then on Tiffani's car, is like being slammed into a brick the size of a garage door.

He is hanging in the air, in his lap and chest belt, nothing new broken, but definitely in pain, especially with his rubbery shoulder. He has smacked the side of his face, too. But the massive Humvee is intact—he is able to open the door and pull himself out.

He can smell smoke and feels dust in his throat. The light is so brilliant his eyes hurt. A breeze is starting to swirl up the canyon, a Santa Ana driven by the differing temperatures of desert to the north and ocean to the south. The only sounds are distant voices, school kids at play on fields far below, their shouts amplified by the surrounding hills.

The slope is steep. He has to hold onto the car to keep from slipping down. His legs aren't good, but he can already feel them bouncing back. Tiffani's car is ten yards farther down the slope, upright, but its body crunched, as if squeezed in a giant's fist.

And Tiffani is still strapped into the front seat—her glittering diamondlike surface smudged with dust. She is frantically trying to free herself, a process complicated by her need to scream at Jamal. "You stupid son of a bitch!" It actually takes her several seconds and deep breaths to get the words out. Jamal merely slides to the passenger side of her vehicle and—absorbing three first-rate punches—plucks the foot-tall, rust-colored Jetboy out of the wheel well.

"You could have killed me! What do you think you're doing?"

"Winning." He sees how trapped she is. "When I get to the top, I'll make sure they come for you."

He jams the idol inside his shirt because he needs both hands to get up the slope.

Bounceback is working for him—he has jogged two hundred yards up the road, one turn short of the observatory lot and the finish line, before he sees—strangely—a beautiful, naked woman standing just up the hill, like Hugh Hefner's vision of Eden. It's Jade Blossom! His dream girl with the saucy mouth and amazing breasts. . . .

He trips, his feet tangled in a rope. As he hits, he lands on Jetboy. More pain. Rolling on his side, struggling to free himself with one good hand, Jamal sees Jade Blossom transform back into Wild Fox.

Of course.

Not only have Wild Fox and Rustbelt caught him, they have help. Drummer Boy is here, too, and Rosa Loteria—which would explain the caballero reeling in the lasso that tripped him up. Adding to the fun, there is a camera crew with Rustbelt—Art and Diaz. Jamal looks up the road. The camera Humvee has backtracked. Then the whump-whumping of helicopter blades causes everyone to turn. The aerial camera from the flying challenge is back now, too.

Jamal feels as though he has become Will Smith. He is the action-movie star, and this is his big finish. This is like Bad Aces II. Helicopters, Santa Anas stirring dust, afternoon light. All he needs is theme music.