Bugsy re-formed his chest enough to speak, pulling the button-down blue shirt up as he did. Arms, legs, anything below his diaphragm, he left as insects. “It’s way more comfortable,” he said. “These really long flights I get a kink in my back.”
Nick shook his head. “You really don’t care about anybody else, do you?” he said.
“What?”
“Do you know how uncomfortable it makes people when you do that?”
“Jeez, sorry. But do you know how uncomfortable it makes me when I don’t?” Bugsy crossed his arms, bands of wasps making a rough approximation of normal anatomy. “Look, Nick, whatever it is, why don’t you say it, okay?”
“I am saying it. You treat being an ace like it gives you permission to ignore other people. When I drew my ace-”
“No, Nick. No, this isn’t about great power coming with great responsibility, all right? Let’s get down to it. You’re jealous.”
Now Nick crossed his arms. The airplane dropped like an express elevator, then steadied. The fasten seat belts light went on with a chime. “And what exactly is it that I have to be jealous about?”
“Hey, I feel for you,” Bugsy said. “It’s not really like it’s Ellen I’m with when Aliyah and I hook up, but Ellen’s in there someplace. It’s her body, and I know she feels what we’re doing. She’s thinking about you, but whatever. Of the four of us, you’re the only one who never gets any action, and I’m really sorry about that. But I didn’t kill you or Aliyah. I didn’t make the rules about how Ellen’s powers work. And I don’t think-”
“This is crap,” Nick said. “I’m not the jealous one. You are. You hate it that she brought me along and not just your girlfriend’s earring.”
Bugsy felt his annoyance bump up toward anger. The conversation about which artifacts-if either-to bring on the trip to Saigon had been between him and Ellen. That Nick was talking about the details of it meant that once again the two of them had been having internal conversations about him. “All I said was that Aliyah’s earring wouldn’t look out of place, and your hat might.”
“You mean my ‘sad-ass lump of felt and weeds’?” Nick asked, quoting the fight verbatim.
“I just meant that the hat’s been through a lot,” Bugsy said. Some of the wasps started moving around, making little hopping flights, growing agitated. “Ellen’s a very attractive woman, and we’re going to stand out here anyway.”
“And you didn’t want her bringing me back every time you were in the hotel,” Nick said.
“Well, no, actually I didn’t,” Bugsy said. “Matter of fact, I like being with Aliyah. I enjoy her company. I enjoy sex with her on those occasions when Ellen isn’t plopping you on her head the second she walks through the door.”
Nick smiled. Bugsy thought the expression was nastier than usual. “So why don’t you tell me some more about how you’re not jealous.”
Bugsy chuckled because the alternative was to start yelling. He pulled the remaining wasps back in, filling out the arms of his shirt, the legs of his pants. His anger was starting to send them a little too far afield, and unintentionally stinging some poor bastard three rows up wasn’t going to make the trip any better.
“Look-” he began.
“You have a lot to learn about women,” Nick said. “You have a lot to learn about people, for that matter.”
Bugsy didn’t precisely mean to do what he did next. It was like it just happened, his arm moving of its own accord, his fingers closing on the ruined fedora. Nick’s eyes had a moment to widen, and then they were Ellen’s. The storm in her expression was full-on category five.
“Look,” he said, before she could speak, “this isn’t the place for me and him to work out our shit, okay? This is a really unpleasant, complicated set of relationships, and we’re heading for Vietnam with about an inch and a half of legroom each. If you want to kick my ass, wait until we’re on the ground.”
Ellen snatched the fedora back from his hand, but she didn’t put it on. “We will have this conversation again,” she said.
And you will take his side, Bugsy thought. He didn’t say anything, only nodded. Ellen turned away, putting the tiny airline pillow onto her shoulder, her back toward Jonathan.
“You know,” he said, “space is really tight. If you put the earring in, we could stretch out together, and-”
“In your dreams,” Ellen said.
Congo River
Kongoville, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
The brakes hissed as the bus slowed to a stop at the end of a long pier leading to a murky green-brown expanse of water. There were vendors set up along the edge of the pier with jewelry, baskets, T-shirts, and hand-carved doodads. Filing off the bus with the rest of the tourists, Michelle and Joey were immediately hit with the earthy smell of the Congo.
The guide started talking, but Michelle tuned him out. She was feeling an incredible urge to get on the river and head north. It itched across her mind. She turned around to talk to Joey, but Joey had vanished.
Michelle skirted several piers, looking for Joey as she went. Plenty of people stared at her, but no one stopped her, so she kept going. She’d tried to dress nondescriptly in khakis, a white button-down shirt, and tennis shoes. But being a six-foot-tall platinum blonde made her stand out no matter what.
“Joey,” she hissed. “You miserable brat!”
“Bubbles.” A hand landed on her shoulder. She swung around-hands up-ready to bubble.
“Jesus! Joey, you little shit.”
“It’s time to rock and roll. I found a way upriver. Boat’s close by.”
Michelle considered for a moment. “Joey, the Committee really screwed the pooch when they passed on you.”
“Yeah,” Joey said bitterly. “I’m fucking handy.”
Impulsively, Michelle hugged her. “You’re extremely handy.” But then she remembered the night she and Joey had spent together, and pulled away. “So where’s this boat?”
“Follow me.”
The man appeared out of nowhere. Michelle would have bubbled him if Joey had not caught her arm. He smiled at Joey in a way that creeped Michelle out, and motioned for them to follow.
Tied to a short pier was a beat-up twenty-five-foot boat. It had a large motor on the back. Two men with guns emerged from the small cabin. They eyed Michelle and Joey.
“Which one is her?” asked one in French.
Michelle understood him. But doing runway in Paris had given her more of an ability to understand French than to speak it.
Their guide pointed to Michelle.
“Let’s see it then,” the shorter of the two said.
The guide repeated what the man on the boat had said.
“She’s not your fucking dog,” Joey snarled. “She don’t perform on command.”
Their guide translated. The man in the boat shrugged and turned to go back into the cabin.
“I’ll show them,” Michelle said.
“Fuck that, Bubbles,” Joey replied. “We’re paying them an assload of money. They don’t need a show.”
“Christ.” Michelle opened her hand and created a bubble. It was soft and rubbery. His partner stared gape-mouthed as the bubble formed, and he hit the deck when she let it fly. Then she sent it flying into the back of the man who wanted to see her power. There was a loud “oof” as the bubble hit. The man pitched forward, and his gun flew out of his hand and clattered to the deck.
Michelle started another bubble. This one was for show. When the man she’d hit turned around and saw her, he held up his hands. In her very rough French she said, “I would rather be friends. This is business, yes? We want to go upriver.” She closed her hand, popping the bubble, and felt a rush as she absorbed its energy. “I’m Michelle.”
“Gaetan,” he said, jabbing a thumb into his own chest. Then he pointed to his partner. “Kengo.”
“Can we come aboard now?”
Gaetan nodded. Michelle turned to Joey. “Are we good to go?” Joey brushed past her and climbed into the boat.