Robot Revenge

by J.J. Chow

  “Acting like your namesake?” Winston asked. “The Russian princess?”

  “Hardly.” Anastasia swatted his words away with her bejeweled fingers. “I’m dressing up as the royal queen—a much younger version.”

  “For sure.” Jazzman tipped his top hat at her.

  Marcy introduced herself to Anastasia.

  “Oh, yes,” Anastasia said. “I see the family resemblance. Same chin. But you’re younger, right?”

  Marcy darted a glance at Winston, a smug smile on her face.

  “It’s my receding hairline,” Winston mumbled. Kristy patted him a few times on the shoulder, and he felt a bit better.

  “You two met my brother on that Sweet Breeze case, right?” Marcy asked. Anastasia and Jazzman both nodded.

  “He was there through it all,” Jazzman said. “From when the administrator got framed to the closing of the home.”

  “Even helped me move,” Anastasia said. She gave Winston’s hand a quick squeeze.

  “And caught the real culprit,” Jazzman said. “You should be proud of your little brother.”

  “Not too shabby, sai lo,” Marcy said, giving Winston a little nudge in the ribs with her elbow.

  Winston felt his face growing red at being called little brother in such an endearing tone. He’d never been complimented by his sister before. Finally. And it’d only taken a little over four decades.

  “Guess what I heard?” Anastasia said. “It’ll be a total Sweet Breeze reunion tonight.”

  “But no Rob, right?” Winston asked. The administrator hadn’t taken great care of his residents.

  “Or Carmen?” Kristy squared her hands on her hips. Could his girlfriend still be jealous of that wannabe model he’d met?

  “No, silly, not them.” Anastasia straightened her royal attire. “Our friend’s coming.”

  “Pete Russell,” Kristy said.

  Marcy turned to Winston. “Isn’t that the grumpy war vet who tried to slice your head off with playing cards?”

  He had been nicked after he’d interrogated Pete at Sweet Breeze. Winston rubbed his neck at the memory. “All in the past.”

  Jazzman repositioned himself on his seat and stretched his fingers. “It’ll be great to see Pete again. I miss the crew.” He started playing a melancholy tune, and it sounded downright bluesy in his hands.

  By now, the street was filled with attendees. It was hard to see past the dizzying array of costumes: peacocks strutting their stuff, wizards with cracked Harry Potter glasses, and overly made-up clowns that had frequented Winston’s childhood nightmares.

  A huffing alerted them to the approach of Pete. “The things I do for friends,” he said, not quite under his erratic breathing.

  “Darling,” Anastasia said, enfolding Pete within her royal robe.

  His breathing got audibly worse, and he untangled himself from her fabric net. “Anastasia, you could kill a man with your clothes.”

  “I’ve been told that before,” she said.

  Winston said, “Good to see you, Pete.” It’d taken a long time to get on a first-name basis with the veteran, who insisted on respect.

  Pete turned to Marcy. “And, beautiful young lady, who might you be?”

  She introduced herself, glowing under his praise—or maybe that was just the bright blue of the Mystique skin.

  Pete kissed her hand. “A pleasure.”

  Either Pete had really changed his personality or Marcy had managed to charm another person in her life. How’d she do that? Not only did she beat Winston at academics, but in the social arena as well.

  Kristy must have felt Winston’s mood shift because she said to him, “Let’s dance.” Then she told Jazzman to “play something nice and light.”

  “Guess it won’t be ‘Mack the Knife,’” Winston said, referring to the only song Kristy had ever learned to play. She grinned and led him to the “dance floor,” a strip of concrete to the side of Jazzman’s piano setup.

  The tune caught Winston’s ear, and he started humming along. One of his favorites. A hit from Johnny Mathis: “Chances Are.” What he thought of as their song—she must have clued the musician in.

  Winston turned to Kristy and pulled her near. Although he could only do the box step, he felt super suave as she danced with him. Her black leggings showed off her lean legs as she moved, and her long soft cardigan kept brushing against his waist. Then Kristy moved closer in, and for a few precious moments, she leaned her head against his shoulder. During that time, everything faded but her gentle breath teasing his neck and the lush, intoxicating scent of her gardenia perfume.

  He knew he was having a 404 moment, everything forgotten and his mind in a daze. A new vision flashed in his head. He imagined a time when he’d dance with her again, she in a resplendent bridal gown, their matching wedding rings glinting in the soft glow of moonlight. The same sweet perfume would surround them, and he’d want to snuggle next to that floral-infused skin forever.

  Then he felt a harsh bump against his back, which ruined the fantasy. He swiveled his head to find the intruder and noticed the gelled hair right away. Mr. Elegant from the neighborhood watch meeting. What was the guy’s name again?

  “Oops, Ryan,” his date said. That’s right. Winston needed a mnemonic for the man. What about Ridiculous Ryan? Or Rude Ryan? Definitely the latter.

  Winston snickered, and the stately couple turned their attention toward him. Ryan’s date, a gorgeous actress type wearing weighty strands of golden necklaces that could rival Anastasia’s collection, exuded big bucks. No doubt Ryan’s banking hands couldn’t wait to manage her money.

  “Don’t worry about them, Lana,” Ryan said to his date.

  “But that Asian dwarf looks like he knows you,” the actress said. What? Winston was five feet six, hardly short—and especially not for a Chinese guy. Didn’t she know that?

  “Don’t recognize him,” Ryan said with a dismissive wave.

  She pouted, showing off her maraschino-red lips. “And how much time do we have to spend here?”

  “Not very long. I’m just showing my face because a client asked me to come.”

  She fingered one of her necklaces and lowered her voice. “This neighborhood is safe, right?”

  “Don’t worry—I’ve got a tight hold of you.” Ryan winked at her and spun her around. He dipped and dove and wiggled. With moves like that, no wonder he’d crashed into Winston.

  Once they danced away, Winston tried to put the incident out of his mind. “Chances Are” had ended, and Kristy and his special moment had vanished. As Jazzman started playing a swingy number, Winston decided to take a break from dancing. He took Kristy over to the refreshments table to clear his head. They nibbled on steak tartare appetizers.

  “Great spread,” he told Heather, who pushed hors d'oeuvres his way. She saw Kristy and sniffed, giving Winston a meaningful glare. That’s right. Winston was supposed to be “married” to Marcy—he’d have to clear that up soon.

  “I’m the best,” Heather said. She fanned her business cards on the table. Ace Parties, they read. Heather was listed as the CEO of the company. “Tell all your friends,” she said. “Especially the rich ones.”

  She smoothed her golden gown and smiled at him. Heather’s skin seemed to shine under the stars.

  “Are you a golden girl?” Winston asked.

  Her whitening-strip-induced smile faltered. “Golden Girl? Do I look that old to you?”

  Kristy intervened. “Oh, I think Winston means a beauty from the golden age of Hollywood. Like Rita Hayworth.”

  Happy Heather overflowed again with graciousness. “Close,” she said. “I’ve come as an Oscarette. Like the famous statue for moviemaking, but female.”

  Winston did not watch the Oscars. He’d never bought into the red carpet buzz.

  “How creative,” Kristy said.

  Boring was more the adjective Winston had in his mind. But how to change the subject? He noticed kids with chocolate-smeared faces and sticky hand
s, but none with inventor kits. “Heather,” he said, “didn’t Bill say he wanted to give gadget goodies to the kiddos?”

  Heather gestured with a golden-gloved hand. “Oh, they didn’t fit with the theme.” Winston looked around and took in the Hollywood vibe: feather boas draped the table, black-and-white clapboards described each food.

  “Ooh, the appetizers have actors’ names on them,” Kristy said. She placed a bit of Pattinson Pate on her cracker.

  “I hope Bill’s not too disappointed,” Winston said.

  Heather straightened a Brad Bruschetta sign. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  “Maybe I should check on Bill,” Winston said. “What’s he wearing?”

  “Um, orange and black.” Heather turned to another attendee. “Try some of the Shailene Spinach Tartlets. And don’t forget to contact me for all your event needs.” She shoved a business card at the newcomer.

  Winston scanned the crowd for the captain of the block but couldn’t spot the man among all the partygoers. While Jazzman played more songs (after stretching out his fingers and taking pills on the sly), Winston wandered around and looked for Bill. But then Kristy started yawning and said she had the early shift at Life Circles, so the two of them left after waving to the others.

  CHAPTER 7

  IN THE MORNING, WINSTON smiled as he woke. He’d loved every minute of going to the party with Kristy on his arm. He was in such a good mood that he even decided to make an omelet for his big sis. He added in fresh veggies—crisp bell peppers, tangy onions, and juicy tomatoes—with a grin on his face. The clock showed seven a.m., the exact hour Marcy arose every morning. She was like his personal alarm, which had helped him from getting tardy slips at school.

  Ten minutes passed with Winston still smiling. Another twenty minutes later, and he stormed over to the guest room and burst through the door.

  He yanked off the blanket. “Wake up, lazy head.”

  She rubbed at her eyes, mascara smearing her fingertips. “What time is it?”

  “It’s already 7:30 a.m.”

  She yawned, stretching her arms high above her head. “Why are you waking me up?”

  “I made you breakfast, like a good little sai lo.” He noticed her clothes. “Are you still wearing your costume?”

  “Let me get some more rest.” She pulled the covers over her head.

  He narrowed his eyes at her body burrowed under the comforter. “When did you come home?”

  Even muffled, he heard her reply. “Late.”

  “What time?” He tugged at the blanket, and she pulled it back.

  “You’re not my keeper,” she said.

  “I’m supposed to watch over you.”

  She popped her head out from under the comforter. “As a guest?”

  “Because you’re my sis.” Even if she was Miss Perfect and always outshone him. “Anyway, I promised Dad . . . before he had the heart attack.”

  She blinked at him and sat up. “I promised Mom I’d take care of you. She always worried about your future.”

  Winston gestured at the house around them. “And you have looked after me. So now it’s my turn.”

  “No,” Marcy said. “I’m the jie jie. As the older one, I need to keep everything under control.”

  “By staying out late? Partying?”

  She glared at him. “I karaoked. And it was fun. If I had more dam, guts and courage, I would’ve gone over the top, like that woman who swept the refreshments off the table and danced on it, shimmying on an imaginary pole.”

  He shook his head. “Did that really happen?” Heather must have been horrified that her elegant soiree had gone up in flames.

  His sister pulled the covers over her head again. “You’re not the boss of me. I wanna sleep.”

  The business line started ringing. Winston wanted to stay to help his sister out even though he didn’t quite know how. At the same time, he hoped to flee this mixed-up scene where Marcy had warped into someone different.

  The ringing continued. He looked at his sister hidden under the blanket and nudged her still form with his finger. “There’s an omelet with your name on it waiting for when you wake up for real.”

  Then he left to catch the phone’s caller. He hadn’t had a real case in a while, and he didn’t count Jazzman’s plea for help as official detective work. But the call went to voicemail. Winston retrieved the message and heard only the first part of “Hi, it’s Diana” when his doorbell sounded.

  He opened the door to see the woman herself staring at him, her phone pointed like a sword at his chest. Her hair seemed wild, a static electricity experiment gone wrong. She wore a light-colored Harvard University sweatshirt with a few mystery stains on it. A sour smell hit him as she moved closer, the scent of unwashed socks and desperation.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  She combed her fingers through her lion’s mane—unfortunately making the strands stand up even more. “Everything. The world’s ending.”

  He looked up at the sky. No falling meteorites. Or lurking UFOs. “I don’t see anything.”

  “It’s Bill,” she said.

  Oh no, not him again. “Is it about the party?”

  “What? No.” A deep-red color crept up Diana’s face. “I think Bill’s missing.”

  Bill’s house had seemed empty last night. “Maybe you’re mistaken,” Winston said. “He’s a recluse.”

  “Bill was supposed to help my son finish his science project for the Talos competition. My boy has to win.” She swatted at her stained sweatshirt. “He needs his mentor to get into Harvard.”

  Winston patted her shoulder. “Calm down, Diana. I’ll help you find Bill.”

  “Oh, thank you. I phoned Bill, knocked on his door, even contacted the Tech. Finally, I had Cam climb through an open window in Bill’s house—one of them doesn’t latch properly. Nobody was home. I didn’t know what to do, but then I remembered your number . . .” He knew he shouldn’t have mentioned his business line at the meeting.

  “What did the staff at the Tech Museum say?” he asked.

  “Bill hasn’t been in since last week.”

  “Really?” The old man seemed to view the museum as his second home. Winston ushered Diana over to his office (the mother-in-law suite) and jotted down some notes. He’d been wishing for a case—and now he had one.

  HOW COULD HE INVESTIGATE this? Who would really know Bill’s whereabouts? The man wasn’t super social. Winston sighed and decided to walk Diana back home. She needed a nap—and as he breathed in the air around her—a shower.

  “So you live close to Bill, right?” he said as they walked along.

  She nodded, her wild hair swaying like a huge jagged palm leaf in the wind. “Two doors down. Across from Heather.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “A few days ago, maybe. Bill keeps to himself.” She dragged her feet along the sidewalk. He noticed that she wore yellow fluffy duck slippers, but he didn’t mention it. “Hard to get him into a conversation. Except about science,” she said.

  “Right. Like that project for your son?”

  A brief smile flashed across her face. “Yes, Bill was enthused about that. Cam wanted to make a robot.”

  “Cam? An unusual name.” Winston thought about the fictional girl detective. “After those Adler books?”

  “What? No. Cambridge. Where Harvard is.” She tried rubbing out a dark-brown stain on her sweatshirt with her thumb.

  Ah, one of those moms, Winston thought. Maybe she’d actually been born in the year of the tiger. “Makes sense,” he said, trying to win back her good graces. “So what’s the robot thing?”

  “Very hush-hush,” Diana said. “AI stuff I can’t follow. But it’s only half done, and the contest deadline is two weeks away. If Cam wins, it would mean a huge scholarship.”

  They had walked over to Diana’s house by then. Hers was not as clean as Heather’s perfect abode, but it seemed tidy enough. The clutter of sneakers and a sk
ateboard on the porch seemed more functional than sloppy.

  “Best of luck to Cam then,” he said.

  Diana inserted her key into the lock but turned back. She grabbed hold of Winston’s T-shirt and pulled him close. The smell of unbrushed teeth assaulted him. “You need to find Bill. Cam must win.”

  Winston pried her fingers off. “I’ll do my best.”

  Her eyes grew wild, begging him. “I’ll give you a portion of his college fund if you can do it.”

  “Please don’t,” Winston said. She must be desperate if she was willing to use her kid’s education money to pay for locating Bill. “Just go in your home and rest.”

  “Rest?” Her eyes checked her smartwatch. “I can’t. Need to help Cam finish his applications before the mailman comes by. I only have fifteen minutes.” She rushed inside without a backward glance.

  Since he was already on Magnolia Lane, Winston wandered over to Bill’s house. Again, all was dark and quiet. He knocked on the door and even tried to peer into the shuttered windows. He turned to the gate on the left side of the house, but it was locked. He’d never been good at breaking and entering, or even hacking, as some computer nerds could do. Heck, he’d even locked himself out of his own email account before because he couldn’t remember his password.

  Maybe he could go through the back. He tugged at the locked gate and wondered if he could shimmy through the space at the bottom of the fence. The gap was about the thickness of the side of his head. Even if he Dance-Dance-Revolutioned for weeks, he’d never slim down to fit in the small opening.

  Maybe he could cross over via the neighbor’s yard. The residence to the right of Bill’s didn’t have a locked gate. Instead, a hedge of bamboo separated the neighbors. The stalks grew past Winston’s head, but maybe he could access Bill’s house through them. Wasn’t bamboo flexible? Couldn’t it bend so he could squeeze through?

  He stepped into the neighbor’s yard looking for a possible opening. He had to dodge a cacti garden to do so. Whoever owned the place embraced waterwise gardening to the max. He was trying to get a better view of the bamboo growth when someone cleared his throat—from high above him.