The incident might be good for a line or two when it came time to write the book, something about how the famous aces get all the sex maybe, or the total lack of privacy. Or exactly what the hell a loteria deck was anyway, and what kind of sad-ass power someone might gain from drawing El Pescado or El Melon. Nothing much more than that.
One fishing expedition officially a bust.
Jonathan shifted his attention.
"You're really going to add a lot to the show," Berman said. "I tell you, we had quite a furball working out the rights with your agent. She's a machine."
They were on the deck of what Jonathan assumed was Peregrine's house. Los Angeles spread out below them like a fire. Peregrine herself was just inside the huge glass wall, looking classy and talking to a young woman who Jonathan was pretty sure he'd seen on a magazine cover. Out here in the open air, it was just Berman and this other guy.
"Thank you," the guy said. It came out like tank you, with very round vowel sounds. The wasp on the rail buzzed by for a closer look. Natural blond, blue eyes. German accent. It rang a bell. Something about BMWs. "But what does this mean, furball?"
"A disagreement. A little dust up. Nothing serious. Just that she really knows her stuff."
"Genevive is a very smart woman," the German guy said.
"She sure is," Berman agreed with a smile.
He hates her, Jonathan thought, or he is fucking her. Or both. He made himself a mental note to find out which.
"The guest aces episodes are going to be central to the show. Really central. And having someone of your stature gives the whole thing a sense of that international respect. That's what we want. A real demonstration that American Hero isn't just about America."
The penny dropped.
Lohengrin. He was the guy who could generate a suit of medieval-looking armor and a sword that could cut through more or less anything. All very Neuschwanstein. He'd made a big splash a few years ago over something, but it had only played for about five minutes on American news.
So what exactly was it he was doing here? He had to be the Kraut Berman had been talking about before.
"I wanted very much to help promote heroism," Lohengrin said. "There is not enough of it in America."
"I'm glad you feel that way, too," Berman said.
The wasp landed on the rail, just a few feet away. Still close enough to hear and see.
"When am I to meet with the team that I am to lead?"
"Ah," Berman said. "That's actually changed a little. The part where you lead the team was just preliminary brainstorming. No, what the network settled on was having you face off against the team. Part of their task will be getting past you."
Because American Hero isn't just about America, Jonathan thought. It's also about beating up foreigners. Lohengrin's expression told him that he'd drawn the same conclusion.
"Genevive didn't mention that change?" Berman said, oozing apology without actually offering one. Lohengrin smiled coolly. Jonathan saw Berman flinch when the sword appeared in the German ace's hand, and flinched himself when the sword darted at his wasp. It felt like being pinched.
He hoped the display had proven Lohengrin's point. He didn't have a backup wasp there, though, so he'd never know. It was a bummer. That angle might have been juicy.
The wasp in the fold of Curveball's purse took to the air as Jonathan's attention inhabited it. It took a moment to get his bearings.
"I . . . I don't really talk about it, you know," Fortune said. The bar roared dully behind him, half a hundred conversations running in parallel. The décor was unfinished wood, painted ductwork, and odd signs and objects epoxied to the walls in lieu of actual character. "I spent most of my life with Mom trying to keep anything from setting off the virus. She's great, you know. I mean I really love her." He paused. "That's not something guys are supposed to say about their mothers, is it?"
"Probably not," Curveball agreed. "But it's okay. I know what you mean."
Curveball and John Fortune, sitting together in a booth at the back of some unholy Bennigan's clone. There didn't seem to be a film crew nearby. Either they were really well-hidden, or John Fortune had used his connection to the show to sneak Curveball out of the panopticon. And if that wasn't reason enough to go out with a guy, Jonathan wasn't sure what would be.
The wasp high on the wall edged down, keeping its green carapace hidden behind the fake antlers and 1950s outhouse humor. Jonathan tried to make out what the body language was saying; Fortune with his hands on the table, a little slumped over, Curveball sitting forward too, leaning on her elbows. Listening, but not flirty. She had her hair down. It was the first time Jonathan had seen her without her ponytail.
"And then, when I drew an ace . . . when I thought, you know, it was an ace. I don't know. It was wild. Everyone was calling me the savior, or else the antichrist. And the thing with my dad. The thing with Fortunato."
Fortunato dying to save me, he didn't say. Now that Fortune laid it out like that, Jonathan could see how there'd be a certain amount of couch time called for.
"Intense," Curveball said.
"Yeah. Yeah, intense. And now," Fortune shrugged, "it's all over. You know? I used to have guards around me all the time. And then I was one of the most important aces in the world. And now I'm Captain Cruller."
Curveball shook her head, shifting her hand from the opposite elbow to the beer bottle in front of her. Dos Equis. Jonathan would have thought she was a wine cooler girl. "That's Drummer Boy," Curveball said. "Blow him off. He's a dick."
And dicking away, even as we speak, Jonathan thought.
"He's not wrong, though," Fortune said. "I mean it's weird being ordinary, you know? Not being anyone in particular."
"Maybe you should get on a TV show," Curveball said.
The wasp was in a pretty good position to see Fortune's face while that sunk in.
"Shit, I'm sorry, Kate. I didn't mean anything about you guys. I wasn't . . . I didn't mean to slag on you."
"No, it's okay. I mean, apology accepted, but it's not what I was thinking."
"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 hers—flirting 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."