The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  “Shut up. This is our big chance. I’m not gonna let you fuck it up.”

  Wang nods at Ralph, and he scrambles to raise his camera and resume filming.

  “A sale!” announces Wang, spreading his arms wide. “Offer only applicable for people with beards—and no,” he adds, lowering his eyebrows at Johnny, “scruff doesn’t cut it. For today only, Fabio, you may hire the services of the A-Team—for free!”

  Fabio folds his arms. “Really.”

  “But he’s comin’ too, right?” asks Shmuel, pointing at Johnny. Wang’s eyebrows rise, and Johnny’s head pumps up and down.

  “Yea-ah, dude. But…who’s Edger?”

  “Edger is—was—my best friend,” Fabio replies, avoiding eye contact. “He died. Um, yeah. I got a call saying I had to clean out his storage locker. It’s in South Bend, Indiana. These two offered me the van if I signed them into Comic-Con using my photo ID. Which I did.”

  Ralph’s spirits rise. He can hardly believe his good fortune. This “Fabio” character’s best friend died! Their Cannes documentary has a tragic backstory! It’s almost too good to be true!

  Johnny frowns, momentarily breaking character. “Why do they need to use your—?”

  Wang clears his throat. “We don’t need to get bogged down in the past, now, do we? Ahem. Fabio, my friend, this is your lucky day. You get the van and the A-Team and Johnny Gemini.” Wang looks over at Ralph. “And him. That guy. What’s your name?”

  “Ralph.”

  “And you get Ralph! Who doesn’t wanna Ralph?”

  “Me, after chugging a two-liter of Listerine?” says Shmuel. “Just ’cuz I like chugging doesn’t mean I wanna ralph? I mean, I don’t think anyone really wants to ralph? But I know lots of chuggers.”

  “South Bend is perfect,” says Johnny. “As it happens, I’m doing the next Space Pirates movie there in a few days. We were headed that way anyway.”

  Fabio frowns. “The next Space Pirates is filming in South Bend?”

  Johnny nods. “Time-travel thing at Notre Dame. It’s your lucky day, little man. You’re gonna be on set with me, the Hoff, and Busey. Hey. You okay? You’re looking a little green. Maybe you should sign up for some soul audits, like me. Hey-hey!” He shoots his finger guns. “Soul audits! Soul good!”

  “This is soul weird,” Fabio mutters.

  “You know what? I’m feeling generous,” says Wang. “I’m gonna throw in the gas money.”

  “I’m feeling generous too?” says Shmuel producing five medallion pendants from a box inside the van and handing them out. “Everybody gets one of these?”

  “The fuck is this?” asks Wang.

  “Road trip swag?” answers Shmuel.

  Ralph pauses filming to accept his. Golden, the size of a half-dollar, its design is identical to the traditional Celtic knot used by the Scottish actor Longrod Biggerstaff as centerpieces for his wedding last summer. He turns it over. There’s a switch on the back. He operates it: on-off, on-off. Nothing happens. Maybe it needs batteries.

  “Where’d you get that?” asks Wang. Ralph hurriedly hangs his medallion around his neck and resumes filming.

  “They’re my keys?” says Shmuel, glancing down and away before regaining eye contact. Ralph zooms in on Shmuel’s pendant. Behind the medallion, inexplicably, his keys are clipped to a ring at the bottom.

  “I can see they’re your keys, dumbass,” says Wang. “Where’d you get the jewelry?”

  “An old guy gave them to me?” replies Shmuel, again glancing down and away.

  “Some random old guy just fucking gave it to you?”

  “Mm-hmm. I smiled at him? And he gave it to me? You’re not the only one who’s a getter, you know? I can get things too?”

  Wang rolls his eyes. Johnny frowns.

  “Dude. We could be drug mules right now,” says Fabio, examining his.

  Wang brightens. “You think so?”

  “Them’d be some small drugs, dude,” says Johnny, examining his. “Hope they’re good.”

  “It’s settled, then,” says Wang, clapping his hands once. “This will be the official pendant key chains of the Church of the Ladder Day Dudes. We’re in business! Yeah! Road trip!”

  Lurking beneath the large black vents of a DeLorean Time Machine are two professionals specializing in the art of beating grown men into bloody submission. Danny, the salt-and-pepper-haired stocky one on the left, is admiring his brass knuckles. Leo, the balding, pink-faced one on the right, is stuffing his cell phone into his pocket.

  “Whoever she is,” says Leo, eyeing the heartbreaker in the Black Widow costume currently hiding behind a 1966 Batmobile, “boss says she don’t work for us.”

  Danny nods. “And the guy with the jewelry? The medallions or whatever?”

  “He don’t work for us either,” says Leo. “No fucking clue what that was about.”

  “Okay. Forget him. Black Widow. You think she’s here to collect?”

  Leo shrugs. “Boss says she don’t matter. Knock her out if you want.”

  “Knock her out?” Danny laughs. “I’d like to take her out. I’m thinkin’ maybe a nice shrimp dinner.”

  Leo smiles. “Well, by all means. But maybe knock her out first, ’cause it’s gonna be a lot harder to get our five mil outta Gemini if Black Widow here is an actual, you know, black widow.”

  Danny frowns. He doesn’t really believe in “black widows,” the company term for guys like them, aggressive collection agents, but with pretty faces, legs, and unscrupulous tactics. As far as he’s concerned, the whole thing got cooked up by the feminazis to spook men. He has a nose for fake news, and this was that. Another nefarious liberal plot like TV lesbian weddings, waifish chicks beating up muscular men in the movies, and/or the normalization of tattooed chicks with armpit hair. Yeesh. The thing of it is, people needed to learn to separate fact from fake. Fact is the stuff that bites you in the ass if you’re not careful. Fake is the notion little Black Widow over there even knows how to make a fist.

  “I’ll take a slap on the ass from a black widow any day of the week over one of these aliens.” Danny eases a knot in his neck and glances over his shoulder, but the group of grays that had earlier been standing around smoking have gone.

  “Oh boy.” Leo rolls his eyes. “Here we go.”

  “What?”

  “I knew the minute those guys walked out, you were gonna freak out about it.”

  “I’m not freaking out. All I’m saying is, and this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say, as any reasonable person would concede, being, by definition, a reasonable person, if I were an alien, and I was visiting the planet Earth on a mission to abduct unsuspecting earthlings and conduct experiments on them with anal probes and whatnot, I would come to the San Diego Comic-Con. First, it’s sunny and beautiful. The air is nice. But second, no one would be able to tell I’m an alien because there are so many earthlings walking around in very realistic alien costumes. I would blend in, disappear, and you would not know I was an alien.”

  “There are no aliens.”

  “There are. And they enjoy sticking probes up butts. Ask anybody. It’s a thing.”

  “There are no aliens.”

  “The universe is unfathomably large.”

  “Did you just fucking say unfathomably?”

  “You said there are no aliens, but it’s like they say in that movie Contact, starring Jodie Foster and Mark Harmon: If it’s only us, it seems like an awful waste of space.”

  “Mark Harmon wasn’t in Contact.”

  “Wasn’t he that one guy?”

  “No,” says Leo. “That was Tom Skerritt.”

  Danny squints and thinks. “You know…? I think you’re right. I think that was Tom Skerritt.”

  “Whatever,” says Leo, yawning into his fist. “We gonna do this, or what?”

  “All right, all right.” Danny pokes his head over the trunk of the DeLorean and locates Black Widow again. “She hasn’t seen us. Wait here.”

  Hunch
ed over, Danny darts from the DeLorean to the General Lee, and then around the rear of the A-Team van—careful not to be seen by Gemini and the weirdos. He passes a few more cars and arrives alongside the 1966 Batmobile, the trunk of which is hiding a squatting Black Widow. At first, he does nothing but pant and admire how her ass is on the verge of splitting those very tight black leather pants. Then he realizes where he’s at and what he’s doing.

  “Nyet,” Black Widow whispers into her cell phone. “The doctor didn’t show.”

  Doctor? he thinks. What doctor?

  “Observe and report,” she says. “Da. Copy.”

  She ends the call, then peeks over the bat trunk. Danny squats on the balls of his feet and thinks. Observe and report. Doesn’t sound like seduce and collect. Maybe there’d be some seafood in this after all. Somewhere nice. Maybe San Diego Harbor. Away from the aliens. He slips his brass knuckles into his pocket and saunters a wide loop around the Batmobile to position himself in front of her.

  “Lose your keys?” he asks in ringing I’ll-save-the-day bass tones.

  The redhead peers up at him. Her eyes are emerald green. An unreadable expression flashes over her features before settling into an apple-cheeked smile. She rises from her hiding spot, adjusts the front of her leather top, and then slides her cell phone into her cleavage.

  Danny’s gaze snaps up to meet her eyes. He grins.

  “Yes,” she purrs. “My keys. Perhaps you help me find them.”

  She’s a blur; he’s yanked forward. His shoulder pops. The Batmobile’s door speeds toward his face. His forehead slams into metal, neck compresses like a shock absorber. The world goes black. Next thing he knows, he’s counting dancing shrimp.

  CHAPTER Seven

  I find Mary in the walk-in closet after her workout. Three of her peering back at me with wide eyes. Four, if we count the sweaty, pheromone-blasting, flesh-and-blood Mary in the middle.

  Her hands glide down her hips as she turns sideways. The mirror reflections copy her like evil clones. Her head tilts, and her unreadable gaze scans from three angles every inch of her toned physique. She eyes the contours of her breasts in an understated Calvin Klein sports bra; she examines her sculpted midriff and the concavity of her belly button. The Gigantic Rock glinting in the mirrors, her thumbs dip below the waistline of her yoga pants, cruise outward along the elastic, and tug once. She bites the corner of her glossy pink lip and scrutinizes every possible curve from the waist down—and with legs like hers, it’s a long way down—before her eyes flit up to find mine, spanning those sexual leagues in an instant, and landing her gaze like a side kick to the gut. I can barely breathe.

  Air squeezes into my lungs like I’m sucking it through a straw-sized snorkel. I’m slouching. Better stand up straight. Unlock my knees. I’ve got to get it together. If she and I are going to live under the same roof, I can’t be falling over every time she has the audacity to exist. Otherwise, I’ll need some kind of house scooter to motor around on my butt all day. Beep-beep, coming through, time to brush my teeth—well, well, don’t you look hot again—okay, faint on you later.

  She turns and faces me with a clandestine smile gone so fast, it’s possible I imagined it. Going for my best Han Solo, I fold my arms and lean—oh shit, oh shit—my stomach flops and my arms spring apart as I nearly miss the doorframe. Clear my throat. Fold arms again. Lean on doorframe. There. Let’s pretend this never happened.

  “You okay?” she asks, dampening a smile. So she knows what she does to me. Well, obvious data is obvious, and she’s sharp as a Joss Whedon wisecrack. I clear my throat before speaking.

  “We need to talk.”

  Her frown pulls to the side. “Have you packed yet?” she asks, returning her focus to the mirrors and stroking her hips. “We’re leaving tonight.”

  I haul my gaze away from the gratuitous hip stroking and focus on the curtains. Is she trying to distract me? “Don’t change the subject. Mary, you saw my karate hands. I’m useless. We have to tell them.”

  “You know what Alex will say. You should’ve read my mind when you had the chance.”

  “Come on. You know I would never do that.”

  “And you know you’re not useless,” she counters, grabbing my elbow and rotating me so I’m peering into eyes like blue lightning. “Hey,” she says. “I’m over here.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  Her sparkling gaze is unfiltered magic. And those pheromones… Hoo-boy. Yeah, those are pretty much broadcasting a signal strength to trigger every boner from here to Tijuana. Since making a run for the border isn’t an option, I step back to open the distance and force myself to relax. Setting aside her sharp intelligence, I’m sure she isn’t intentionally trying to arouse me to change the subject. But if she isn’t, that would imply the chemistry I’m feeling is a two-way hyperspace lane. Which, of course, is ridiculous.

  “Come on, Mary. This is serious. How am I supposed to fool anyone I’m worth the upkeep—this cover marriage, this house, the secret bases, and the gold-plated foosball tables—if all I’ve got are the stupid karate hands?”

  She shrugs. “You’ve got computer skills. Stay in the van. Caleb and Alex will be thrilled. Nobody ever wants to be the person in the van.”

  “The person in the van? Have you ever even watched a superhero show?”

  Worry lines crease her forehead.

  “The superhero is never the person in the van,” I say. “It defeats the whole purpose. The person in the van is the person in the van. It is literally the whole point of being the person in the van. Without the person in the van, the superhero cannot superhero. Honestly, this is Geek 101.”

  “Guess I missed that course.” Facing her reflections, she adjusts the elastic under her breasts and adds, “This isn’t about your powers anyway. It’s about them not trusting me if they know you can’t read my mind anymore.”

  “But I never read your mind in the first place.”

  “I know. It’s why I trust you. I know the kind of person you are. But, Edger, Alex and Caleb are different. Most people are different. Most people would be tempted to abuse their superpower. Even if it’s just small things. Even if it’s just once or twice.”

  “I’m not as incorruptible as you think. Once I used my powers to get Star Wars spoilers.” In the mirrors, her chin tips down as she peers up at me. “I know the title of Episode IX,” I say, standing straighter. Three lopsided smiles brighten three perfect Mary faces. A rising urge to confess to anything seizes me. “Another time, I used superpowers to get the Biggoron’s Sword on the N-64 because I was too lazy to look it up online.”

  “Cheater.”

  “Yeah. I feel bad about that one. My phone was two feet away. I could’ve looked it up, but then I would’ve had to reach.”

  “Edger. This is what I’m talking about. I know you’d never do it, but Alex assumes you’ll steal my secrets if you think I can’t be trusted. And that is the only reason she didn’t bench me today. But if you tell her you’re losing your powers”—she shrugs—“I’m toast.”

  “No. You’re too valuable.”

  Her eyebrows rise.

  “You are,” I insist.

  “Nobody’s too valuable when it comes to stopping Nostradamus.”

  “You’re too valuable to me.”

  An unreadable expression passes over her features. Her forehead tightens. Uh-oh, did I cross a line? One second, she’s all flirty—and then this, whatever this is. She steps nearer, and I hold my breath, still wary of those international-incident-triggering pheromones. Her diamond-edged eyes probe mine like she’s peering into me instead of through me. These aren’t the steal-my-secrets eyes she sometimes uses. Nor are they the fathomless cover-girl magazine eyes. These are the seeing-me-for-the-first-time eyes. But that doesn’t make any sense. You can’t share the near-death experience of being trapped in a disco-ball water-torture chamber and come out strangers. You come out wet, with broken glass everywhere, and an army of angry clones
doing Thriller.

  Mary stepping around me refocuses my attention. She crosses to the bed and flops down on her back. I clear my throat, softly, so she won’t hear. Inching across the floor—please, God, don’t scare her off—I sit on the bed beside her. Deep breath—release. My racing heart could toast Usain Bolt right about now and even pose for photos before the finish line. Probably best not to assume anything. She’s probably lying there because she’s tired. I’ll just…pick up the conversation where we left off?

  “If you’d just explain to them about you and your dad,” I say, squashing an unbidden mental image of us making out, “we wouldn’t have to lie to them about me and my powers. This isn’t as complicated as you’re making it.”

  “Do you ever miss sex?”

  Hello! says Nigel. I’m here!

  Holy crap—is this really happening?

  She said—

  I know what she said, shut up!

  Mary peers unconcernedly up at me, her silky blonde hair fanned out over the deep blue satin sheets.

  I take another deep breath—aa-and, release.

  Please, please, please, don’t say meep.

  I shrug. “I mean…do you ever miss…sex?”

  She shifts up to lean on one elbow. “Oh my God. Sometimes you’re so…so…” She rolls her eyes. “Look, sooner or later, you’re going to want sex. And I like you, Edger.”

  Tell her you like her too, whispers Nigel, so softly it’s like he’s worried she’ll hear him through my ear.

  “You’re a really nice guy,” she says.

  Ooh, says Nigel, his psychic sense deflated.

  “Why do girls always say how great I am right before they tell me they don’t want to have sex with me?”

  Mary frowns. “Huh? I’m not telling you I don’t want to have sex with you. I mean—”

  “You’re not?”

  I’m back! says Nigel.

  She claps a hand over her mouth. Her eyes widen. “Wait—you think I meant…”

  “No! No! Pfft! Ha-ha, no. No, no, no, no. No.”

  She springs up from the bed and strides for the window, back to the bed, and back to the window. “Right,” she says. “Oh my God. Because we are so not having sex.”