Inside Straight

"Come on, tough guy," Drummer Boy shouts, easily blocking the mountain road with his flailing arms. He looks like a Hindu god on crack. As the chopper swoops south toward Sunset Boulevard and Thai Town to make a turn, Jamal hears the crunch of steps behind him. He bolts, and dodges a blow from Rustbelt.

He is surrounded. And outnumbered.

The only safe thing is to keep moving. He's faster and more mobile than his opponents. All he has to do is reach the damned finish line.

Drummer Boy picks up a rock and flings it. Jamal sees it, dodges, but here comes another one. Fuck! Without thinking, he ducks, hauls Jetboy out of his shirt—stands like A-Rod at the plate and smacks the next projectile. The impact is jarring, like hitting a baseball on a cold day.

But what takes the sting away is seeing that projectile smack Drummer Boy in the forehead. All of the ace's arms flutter like tree limbs in a gentle breeze, and he sinks to the cracked pavement. Jamal retrieves Jetboy and sprints past him. Rosa Loteria has transformed back into herself and is madly shuffling her magic cards. Using Jetboy like a club, Jamal smacks the deck out of her hands, and hears her gasp as the cards go flying. Then his path is blocked by a snarling tiger. He runs right through it, knocking Wild Fox back on his shit-smeared tail.

He can see the observatory building ahead of him. Lining the railings, half a dozen aces—Brave Hawk's pseudo wings fluttering in the breeze, Dragon Girl, Pop Tart.

And Berman, the network guy, off to one side.

It's as if the world is ganging up on Jamal.

A hundred yards to go. The camera truck is behind him. The chopper above.

For a moment, he wishes he could get to the building itself. What a perfect spot to replay the knife fight from Joker Without a Cause!

Jamal is hit from behind. It is the most surprising blindside tackle he has ever felt. He hits the pavement hard—chin scraped, hands raw. Jetboy flies out of his hands. Rustbelt rolls past, upset by his own momentum, his bolts sparking on the pavement. Jamal scrambles after the idol.

He and Rustbelt grab it at the same time.

For an instant they are eye to eye. "It's mine."

"Mine, now," Rustbelt says.

Both of them know that Jamal can't win a tug-of-war. His wild card—never especially helpful except on a movie stage—is completely useless here. But what had Tiffani taught him? He has other weapons. Especially when he hears Rustbelt say, "That's what you get for being a—"

The word is lost in the roar of rotor noise from the hovering chopper.

Jamal lets go of the idol. He points at Rustbelt and screams as loudly as he can, right in front of all the cameras, "Did you hear what he called me? What kind of racist shit is that?"

"It took you long enough."

It is early the next morning. Clubs Lair is quiet. Jamal sees Michael Berman emerging from the breakfast nook. Astonishingly, he is still dressed in his black suit and tie. The only signs that he has been up all night are a faint beard stubble that shows a surprising amount of gray, and the loosened knot of his tie.

"Didn't know we were meeting."

"You're not that stupid."

Jamal removes the carafe from the coffeemaker—still dirty. He smashes it into Berman's face, hearing the crunch of it, but it doesn't break. . . .

No, no need for that. Hear the man out.

He empties the old coffee into the disposal as Berman, strangely, opens the exact cabinet where the coffee is kept. "You didn't expect to drop that little bomb on us without experiencing a little fallout, did you?"

Jamal feels a tight smile forming. Fallout. Bounceback, oh yes. The look on everyone's face when he shouted that Rustbelt had called him "nigger". The rusted Jetboy idol never made it to the finish line. The whole scene fell apart, aces herded into their vehicles like witnesses to a crime. Sullen, confused silence at the Lair that night.

Silence, that is, except for Brave Hawk, who offered a pat on the shoulder. "Told you."

Now Berman removes the carafe from Jamal's hands and wipes it dry with a paper towel. He goes to the Sparkletts dispenser in the corner and fills it. "What proportions do you use?"

"Excuse me?" Jamal is still in bounceback, never his best mode, and suddenly feels unsure. What is this man doing here? What is he talking about?

"What proportion of coffee to water?" Berman's expression suggests this is the most natural question in the world.

"Two to one. I mean, one to two. One coffee to two water."

"Me, too." With two quick moves, Berman gets the coffeemaker started.

"So," Jamal says, "where's the camera crew?"

"This conversation doesn't exist."

"Fine."

"Neither, I suspect, did that word. It can't be heard on the tapes."

Jamal lets that statement hang in the air. "Which doesn't mean it wasn't said. Just like this conversation—no record, but real, right?"

"That would be an interesting public debate, wouldn't it? Your word against Rustbelt's." Berman shakes his head. "Poor Wally. Of all the people to pick on—he's as black as you."

"He's iron, Mr. Berman. He's not black." Jamal hears these words come out of his mouth. Where did he learn to be militant? Certainly not from Big Bill. "Is that what you want? A public argument between me and Rustbelt?"

"We've had enough of that already." True, before the Clubs had even returned to the lair after the scavenger hunt, the blogosphere had inflated with the news of Jamal's accusation.

"So, where does that leave us?" Jamal says. "Where does that leave me?"

Berman picks up the Jetboy idol. "You seem to have gained a new kind of immunity. It will be impossible for anyone to vote you out of American Hero."

"Does that mean I'm the winner?" He finds the thought incredibly exciting—as if he'd just been told he was going to start in the big game.

"I couldn't possibly tell you something like that." Which in no way means that he isn't the winner—the first American Hero! "It would be best for all of us, I think, if you tried very hard not to think that. To simply play the game. By the rules."

"I thought there were no rules."

"The apparent rules. The rules we make up as we go along." Berman suddenly puts his hands to his face, the gesture of a much older man. "Do I have your promise to . . . play that way?"

"Yeah. By the rules we make up as we go along." For a moment, he wishes Big Bill Norwood could be sitting in the breakfast nook. Or maybe that nasty little Nic Deladrier. How do you like Stuntman now?

Jade Blossom enters. "Oh," she says, her mouth forming that single syllable most prettily.

Berman stands, and a look passes between him and Jade. With utter certainty, Jamal realizes that Berman has been after Jade—and so far, unsuccessfully. Berman makes a grand gesture, midway between an introduction and a surrender. "You two must have a lot to talk about."

Then he leaves.

Almost instinctively, as if searching for a human touch as much as an erotic thrill, Jamal reaches for Jade.

But she raises a hand. "Wait a second."

Behind Jade, Jamal sees Art blinking sleep out of his eye, gesturing for Diaz to raise the camera.

"Now." And she takes his hand.