"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 try—and 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.
"That's the funny thing," Jonathan said. "It really isn't. Get over here as soon as you can."
He hung up before Fortune could say anything else, and tossed the cell back to Simoon. She didn't look pleased.
"Hey!" Blrr said from the doorway. "We're going to make some popcorn and watch some TV. You guys want to come?"
Simoon hesitated, her gaze shifting from Jonathan to Blrr and back.
"Nah," Simoon said. "Next time. Bugsy and I are in the middle of something."
Blrr looked mildly surprised.
"Nothing like that," Jonathan said.
"Yeah, didn't figure," Blrr said, and vanished.
"You shouldn't have called him," Simoon said. "That was supposed to be just between you and me."
"I know what I'm doing," Jonathan said with a grin. "You'll thank me for this later."
9. Looking for Jetboy
Looking for Jetboy
Michael Cassutt
IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE a game. Reality TV, the teams segregated into separate headquarters, each location infested with cameras, with competition limited to challenges. Dramatic, yes. Tears and threats, sure. But it's all staged. . . .
Yet two hands appear on the railing of the deck of the Clubs Lair. Then two more, and two more after that, and Jamal Norwood knows that Drummer Boy is here, all seven and a half feet of tattooed attitude. Why?
"It's all part of the game, Stuntman."
"It's against the rules."
"The only rule is, there are no rules."
Jamal, aka Stuntman, can take Drummer Boy—more precisely, can take whatever Drummer dishes—if he had any desire to endure bounce-back so soon after the last American Hero challenge. Instead he tries to rise from the deck chair to retreat. But he is paralyzed, as if he has just slammed into concrete from a great height.