Blood Ties

by Robert J. Crane

  “And thematically it fits,” he muttered to himself, and cranked the bass again. “Now lyrically I just need to squeeze it in. Like my giant penis into a tiny lover.”

  “I’m dropping deuces/deuces

  I’m rockin’ Las Cruces/Cruces

  Makin’ girls stupid/stupid”

  He stopped the beat again and laughed at that line. “Haha! Girls are already stupid!”

  He chuckled at that for a long while. Eventually he settled down, and wondered what that curious buzzing feeling was on his genitals. It felt good. Hopefully it would continue for a while.

  “Oh, that’s right,” he said, reaching for his zipper and undoing it. He’d put his phone down there when it had started blowing up this morning with DC numbers. Might as well get some joy out of the Feds calling him nonstop.

  This one was a New York number. Answer it? Hmmm. He looked at his recording session info on the laptop keyboard. It was a really revolutionary device, the laptop. A total music machine and recording studio all in one. He’d already spliced in some other sound files to make this track more artful. One of them was a burst of flatulence he’d had this morning that rattled the bathroom fixtures. It was totally kittens, and it had created a deep, resonant bass line that really added to the piece.

  Maybe a conversation with someone in New York would provide more inspiration to get him through this creative slump.

  He answered the phone after hitting record. “Declare yourself.”

  There was a pause. “Friday? It’s Sienna.”

  Friday stared at the phone. “Sienna who?”

  “Your niece, numb-nuts. The Slay Queen.”

  Friday’s eyes got tighter. “How do you know the name of my niece?”

  A sigh was born from the phone like a bastard child from a hooker’s filthy, diseased vaj. “Dude. I’m your niece. I know my own name and how we’re related. I was there when we figured out that Simon Nealon was my grandfather and your dad. Remember?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Friday said, standing up and looking around. Was he swole enough for this? Probably. Seemed like trouble was coming since they knew his name and knew his niece’s name.

  Was someone watching him right now? How could this Sienna imposter have found him? “I know this isn’t the real Sienna.”

  “Okay, just for kicks, let me ask you—how do you ‘know’ that?”

  “I hear you using scare quotes around the word ‘know,’” Friday said. “Like I’m a moron. Well, I’m many things, but not a moron. I’m a super genius. Social media influencer. Musically talented. Immensely well endowed. You are none of those. You’re a government agent, and the government is after me because of the abnormally large size of my genitals. They want to study them to solve the manhood crisis of this decade.” He took a breath after letting all that out. “And you can’t be Sienna because Sienna would never have let her brother fire me.”

  Another sigh was born. Another bastard sigh. “I don’t have anything to do with the agency anymore, Friday. I work for the FBI now.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Dude, I literally have an FBI badge.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do...‘Sienna.’ See, I can use scare quotes in my dialogue, too.”

  “Friday,” she said, right as he was about to hang up, “I died yesterday.”

  Friday paused, frowning. “Then how are you talking to me now?” His frown deepened. “Wait...are you a ghost?” He looked around the apartment in alarm. “Where are you hiding?” Two steps and he was at the curtains, ripping them down, frantically. “Are you behind the toilet again? I knew those fart acoustics were too good to be true—”

  “I got revived by the paramedics,” she said, and there was a strain in her voice. “But I came up against something. A meta. Tougher than hell. It’s called a Grendel, and it ripped me up like I was nothing.”

  “If you’re a ghost, how did a physical being rip through you?” Friday asked. “Hah! Gotcha. I knew you were lying. About everything. ‘Sienna.’ Check and mate!”

  “Friday,” she said. “I’m going to California to try and track this thing down. I need help. Backup.” She took a deep breath. “To keep from dying again.”

  “But if you’re a ghost, how is it going to—”

  “I’M NOT A DAMNED GHOST!” she thundered through the phone. “I mean, sure, my complexion is kinda pale, but...I’m alive. And I’m going against this thing again when I find it. And I could really use someone strong and tough to...help me.” Her voice went low. “I really need you to help me.”

  Help me.

  The words cut right through him, drilling into his brain like a particular virulent set of lyrical awesomeness. “I’m in,” he said, and hung up.

  Then he remembered he didn’t know what he needed to do.

  Fortunately, the phone rang again. “Sorry, sorry,” he said as he picked up. “I just got excited about making that declaration and wanted to go out on a high dramatic note.”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “The mission’s in the Bay Area. California. Silicon Valley and San Francisco. I’m about to catch a private jet—”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Friday said. “Text me the address. I’m already on my way.”

  “Okay, but how are you—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Friday said. “You call, I’m there. That’s a promise. From me to you. Like pizza delivery from Domino’s or the certainty of insults at Dick’s Last Resort. Now if you’ll excuse me...I have to requisition some wheels. Friday is rolling!” And he hung up again, snatched up his computer, threw it in his backpack and charged out into the bright day.

  “God, that’s blinding,” he said, shoving his hand into his eyes as he staggered out into the street. “They should have named this place the Sunshine State.”

  “¿Qué fue eso?” A small Latina with grey hair stood hanging her wash nearby. This was her backyard, after all. He was just renting the guest shed while he was working to create his mega-selling debut album. She got very frantic all of the sudden at the sight of him, clearly excited about his famousness and future success having a chance to rub off on him. “¿Qué haces en mi cobertizo?”

  “Thank you so much for the kind gift of my creative space,” Friday said, waving at her as he ran for the fence separating the yard from the alley. “I really needed the room to create. Artistically!”

  “Pensé que el ruido venía de los pendejos que vienen atrás de nosotros!” She was really shouting her enthusiasm now. So excited for him. “Pinche intruso!”

  “I’ll be back to sign autographs later!” He leapt the fence as someone came screaming toward him on a moped. “Until then, spread the love!” And he waved his hands at the moped driver to flag him down.

  The guy stopped about ten feet from him. “Dude.” The guy flipped up his visor. “Who are you and what are you doing—”

  “I’m a federal agent and I’m requising—requisiting—no, req’ing—no, that’s not it. Whatever—it’s an emergency and I’m taking your moped.” He grabbed the little guy and tossed him over the fence without thinking much about it. He’d catch the clothesline and be fine. Friday jumped on the moped and spun it around, pulling out the phone and snapping a moped selfie for upload later. “Keep the fame warm, wet and ready for me, Los Angeles.” He gunned the throttle, and the moped skidded against the asphalt as he lifted his legs and sped toward the end of the alley and into the sunny day. “I’ll be back before you know it, but first...” He tightened his grip on the throttle. “I’ve got someone who needs my help like a dirty, dirty hooker needs a shot of penicillin.”

  11.

  Sienna

  “Ms. Nealon,” Aaron Mendelsohn said, waiting for me at the bottom of the jet’s staircase. Just beyond, a limo was parked, long and black, old school in design. An actual red carpet waited for me down there, bridging the tarmac gap between the steps and the car. A driver already held the door open, and the car was running.

  T
he air was a brisk 70 or so, the December wind here in San Jose surprisingly cool even to this Minnesota girl. I flashed my badge at a security guy waiting at the bottom of the ramp and he nodded. The ground crew was already unloading my two suitcases, one of which held my clothes.

  The other? It had a little something extra in it from the FBI Armorer at the Midtown location. I’d stopped off at the “real” FBI office in Manhattan before I’d caught my plane, and he’d indulged me with something that was bound and guaranteed to piss off California’s more sensitive citizens. And it wasn’t a plastic straw dispenser, either.

  “Welcome to the Bay Area,” Mendelsohn said. He was probably in his early thirties, just a little overweight, with slightly longish, curly hair that hung around his ears. I couldn’t decide whether it was stylish or sloppy and had to concede that in California, maybe it was both. He wore dress pants of the tweed variety, a jacket that matched over a dress shirt that was somewhere in the range of red and magenta. No socks under his loafers, either. Glasses completed the look, but the thin-framed variety. He was a geek but not a hipster. My first thought ran toward ‘absent-minded professor.’ He even had patches on his jacket.

  “I’ll take that,” I said, snagging the special surprise suitcase from the ground crew guy unpacking them. It was huge, about three quarters the length of a casket, but all industrial steel. “You can take that one.” I nodded at my other bag. “Nothing personal, this one’s just illegal for you to handle or touch or maybe even breathe in the presence of, honestly.”

  The ground crew guy backed away from it a few steps like I was carrying a bio-genetic plague. Which I totally wasn’t. This time.

  “Well, all right,” Mendelsohn said, staring at my steel suitcase. “I’m not sure that’s going to fit cleanly into the car...”

  “It’ll work,” I said, and promptly made it work, though I did ding up a couple places on the door jamb as I did so. Also, Mendelsohn had to content himself with sitting in the front seat of the limo. Which was fine with me.

  Pretty soon we were cruising away from the airport, heading along the green, palm-tree-lined freeway. San Jose was hardly a city on par with LA or the sort, and the section we were driving seemed to have the feel of a pretty normal, built-up suburb.

  Mendelsohn peered at my suitcase from the seat opposite me. “So...what is that?”

  “My own personal can of whoopass,” I said. “Only to be opened in case of emergency.”

  He eyed the steel case, then me, and seemed to be making a calculation about whether he wanted to know what was within. He erred on the side of NOPE. Smart. “Mr. Wittman is a bit busy right now with meetings dealing with the aftermath of the incident at QuantiFIE, but I’ve prepared a presentation that will bring you up to speed with what we have.” He looked down at his watch, which was some sort of strange, over-sized CRT thing out of one of Reed’s post-apocalyptic nuclear video games. “Will your associate be joining us?”

  I checked my brand new phone, which Shaw had sent Hilton to fetch for me before I got on the plane. It hadn’t synced anything yet, but it did have the time, and Friday’s number, programmed into it. “No idea,” I said, and looked out the window. “For all I know, he could be in Canada by now.”

  12.

  Friday

  Oakland

  “Whassup, my homies?” Friday asked the two young, black men sitting on the stoop.

  “Nothing much, white boy,” one of them said. He wore a red t-shirt, his companion wore yellow. Good colors. Very eye-catching, suggesting high funk levels.

  “Cool,” Friday said. “But seriously, you shouldn’t assume my race. That’s very racist of you. But we’ll talk about it later. I’m trying to find an address—”

  “You check your GPS?” Yellow Shirt asked.

  “I’m just looking for an address,” Friday said. “I think I might have taken the wrong turn.” He shook the cell phone. “I can’t hear this thing very well as I’m driving for some reason.”

  Red Shirt just stared at him. “Uh...is it because you’re on a moped and you don’t have a helmet with a speaker?”

  “I don’t think that has anything to do with it,” Friday said, and shook the phone again. This was all basic technology, evolved from the Etch-A-Sketch. Shaking should reset it. “I think it’s just being racist against me. You know what I mean, right?”

  The two dudes exchanged a look. They were clearly impressed with his brilliant analysis and down with his struggle.

  “Anyway, I’m looking for downtown San Francisco,” Friday said. “Can you help a brother out?”

  “You are in the way wrong place,” Yellow Shirt said. “This is Oakland.”

  “That’s an incisive bit of knowledge,” Friday said to Mr. Yellow Shirt. Now the map on the phone was working again. Shaking helped, clearly. “I can see why you wear the colors of command.” He nodded at Red Shirt. “You, though, you’re destined for death on an away mission if you don’t change up your fashion sense.”

  “Huh?” Red Shirt asked.

  “I think he’s talking Star Trek,” Yellow Shirt said.

  Friday pointed at him. “Command material, clearly. How do I get to San Francisco from here?”

  The guy in the yellow shirt just stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. “You go...” He pointed down the street. “That way to the 580, which leads to 80. Follow the sign that says San Francisco. Go over the Bay Bridge and you’re there. Hit the ocean and you’ve gone too far.” He looked at his companion. “Directions even a dumbass can follow.”

  “Thanks for being a solid bro.” Friday stuck out his fist. Waited for the bump back. Waited. “Don’t leave me hanging here.”

  The guy in the yellow shirt stared at him, then pushed off the stoop, slowly walked over, bumped fists with him, and Friday did the explosion move. “Totally kittens,” Friday said, then started the moped again. “Hey, huddle in, let’s get a pic together.” He turned the phone around, got all three of them in frame—those guys seemed a little skeptical, but whatever, they were solid bros—and hit the auto-upload after hashtagging it #thuglife. “Excellent. Don’t do any drugs without me.” Then he clapped his wrists together in an X. “Wakanda forever!” And hit the accelerator.

  “What do you think he got high on?” Yellow Shirt asked as Friday drove away, the moped purring like an angry kitten. With rocks in her ass.

  “I don’t know what it is, but we need to get it the hell out of this neighborhood before any more cracked-out white people come down here being like that,” Red Shirt said. “You want to play Scrabble?”

  “Hell, yeah. I’m gonna blast your ass with another triple word score that will make you cry like the bitch you are.”

  That was the last thing Friday heard as he left them behind in the dust, riding his bold stallion of a moped off to destiny—and probably the I-80 freeway, if he could find it.

  13.

  Sienna

  Cameron Wittman’s Silicon Valley digs were in a four-story office building that, from the outside, looked to be only a few steps, stylistically, above my old offices in Eden Prairie.

  Once I stepped inside, though, I realized I was in a whole different world.

  There were conference rooms with bean bag chairs pulled into a big circle, which we passed as we headed along, couched between concrete floors and industrial ducting and venting ceilings, like a warehouse had been converted into this space. It was Chipotle meets hipsters, and it offended my more buttoned-up sensibilities as I walked through a cubicle farm where the workers were sitting on balance balls instead of chairs.

  “What do you think of our set-up?” Mendelsohn asked with a little enthusiasm as we picked our way through the aisles.

  “Like I’ve died and gone to Brooklyn’s Weirder, Western Outpost,” I said, trying to avoid accidentally knocking nerds off their balance balls with my giant metal case. I heard whispers of, “Slay Queen,” as I made my way through the place. There were posters for bands I’d never heard of o
n the walls, and that made me feel good about myself.

  Mendelsohn chuckled, and we passed out of the valley of the balls and cubicles. Ahead was a conference room that was glass on three sides, jutting out into this central bullpen like one of those prison cells from the movies where the bad guy meets the good guy then proceeds to taunt him and lay out his evil plan.

  There was no great evil in the middle of this one, though, I didn’t think. Just Cameron Wittman with a group of surprisingly uniform-looking metrosexuals and people with different hair colors and varieties of piercings. I glanced at Mendelsohn, then at Wittman’s little council.

  Mendelsohn smiled like he knew what I was thinking, then ran a hand over his tweed outfit. “I don’t look like I belong here, do I?”

  “You’re a little old to be a tech geek, aren’t you?” I asked. “It doesn’t even look like a young man’s game, it’s like a preteens versus fetuses game around here. With lots of blue hair and enough metal in their faces to put them in real danger of sudden flight if they ever visited a junkyard where the electromagnetic crane strayed a little too close to them. I mean, your hair’s not even an oddball shade. It’s like you’ve made the most individualist fashion statement in the room by dressing that way, and it’s not even ironic.”

  Mendelsohn let out a solid laugh. “I don’t think I could pull this off ironically.”

  “You’re right, you couldn’t,” I said. “You’d need one of those beards to tie the look together.” I pointed at the dudes with the long beards around the conference table. Like a youthful version of some medieval council with patches of blue, pink, and aqua hair mixed in.

  “I don’t think I can grow a beard like that,” Mendelsohn said, smiling. “Mine’s very patchy.”

  “It’s very strange how close hipster beards are getting to what I call ‘tactical beards,’” I said, prying my eyes off the cornucopia of humanity in Wittman’s conference room. “The trend is very bushy, but I feel like the ‘tactical beards,’ which you see on guys who have been in the military, have a real rugged edge to them that’s attractive.” I glanced back at the conference room one last time. “These hipster beards scream ‘My mommy let me groom myself and I didn’t know what to do with that freedom’!”