Inside Straight

by George R. R. Martin

  Toad Man nudges Jamal. “Boy, I thought we were having tough times. Look at them,” he says, nodding to the five Diamonds gathering in front of the symbol for their suit. They remind Jamal of an expansion baseball team about to take the field against the Brooklyn Dodgers. Only no expansion team had ever fielded such a sad-ass player as the Maharajah, missing two legs and one arm.

  The Hearts, on the other hand, look cocky. There are six of them, just as there are six Clubs. Both teams have won a challenge, and the immunity that goes with it. The Spades and Diamonds, losers both times out, are down to five players apiece.

  Jamal blinks—put them out of your mind. Think like Big Bill Norwood. They are all the enemy.

  “We have hidden five statues just like this—” Peregrine raises a golden figurine, a stylized Jetboy a foot tall “—at five different locations around Los Angeles. The team that returns here within four hours with the most Jetboys wins. It’s that simple.”

  “Any rules?” Drummer Boy booms, shooting a shit-eating grin down at his partner in crime, Hardhat.

  “Of course,” Peregrine says. “Just one: there are no rules.”

  Most of the aces actually finish the phrase for her. Jamal can feel his heart rate rise, as it did when he walked from the on-deck circle to home plate… or his first moment on set.

  “Okay, may I present… the Scavenger Hunt!” Peregrine pulls the covers off a giant electronic display—currently blank.

  “Shit!”

  “One minute, Mom. They lost the feed.” That from John Fortune, hand to earpiece, running toward a satellite truck a dozen yards away—no doubt happy to have an excuse not to be Drummer Boy’s Stepin Fetchit.

  “Do the locations even matter?” Diver is behind him. “No matter what, I wind up fishing or swimming. The life aquatic. Christ.”

  “Could be worse. You could be a tackling dummy like me.”

  “A what?”

  Jamal sighs. “Think of a punching bag on a sled. Football players practice tackles on it.”

  “Let’s trade places. I bet I’d like being tackled more than you would.”

  “You’ve got a bad attitude.”

  “You have no idea.” She forces a smile.

  “Okay, aces! American Heroes!” The board has been fired up successfully, a MapQuest look at Los Angeles County, with five beeping dots. One is in the Valley near the intersection of the 405 and Ventura Boulevard; one appears to be on a peak near Mount Wilson; one is in the middle of Beverly Hills; one is way the hell and gone in Venice, by the ocean; and one appears to be located just over the hill from Griffith Park Observatory.

  Jamal has no interest in dragging his ass all the way to Venice, or up some mountainside, and—as a Los Angeles resident—knows better than to face the 405 and Ventura area at any time of day. He’d also like to avoid getting into a battle anywhere near Rodeo Drive. Who needs the attitude? Besides, he has a good idea what that fifth location is.

  As Jamal watches, the screen changes, actual addresses and images popping up, to reactions that range from appreciative to confused.

  The fifth location is Griffith Park Zoo.

  Peregrine is posing for a trio of cameras. “You see your possible destinations. How you reach them and how you return is up to you.” She points to a huge, ridiculous clock, complete with American Hero hands, that has been dragged into the center of the circle. “When I say ‘go’ and the clock starts, you’re off.

  “Any last questions?” Faux drama. Jamal finds this intensely annoying and turns away before he hears Peregrine shout…

  “Go!”

  The first challenge is the freakish mad scramble to decide which of the Clubs goes where. It takes two minutes of suggestions, argument, and actual shoving before it reaches total chaos. As Jade Blossom and Diver tussle over which of the pair would be best suited to search in Beverly Hills, Toad Man turns to Jamal and gives a half-smile. “This reminds me of a football huddle.”

  “Yeah, but nobody is the quarterback.”

  It’s Holy Roller who uses his voice and bulk to restore order. “Dammit, people!” The uncharacteristic use of profanity shocks the team to relative silence. “Time, as they say, is a-wasting. Brother Stuntman, you know this godless city better than any of us. Why don’t you give us some guidance—and quickly.”

  Whether he likes it or not, Jamal is suddenly in charge. And the choices are obvious: “Brave Hawk, the mountain location. Reverend, you and Toad hit that Valley spot. Jade, Beverly Hills.”

  Jade’s face lights up in triumph—which is bad enough, but then she elbows Diver. “Too bad, baby”—as Jamal is forced to say, “Diver, Venice.” Remembering their earlier conversation, he adds, “Sorry.”

  If Diver’s wild card were laser eyes, Jamal’s head would vaporize. “Fuck you, Stuntman. Where are you going?”

  “The zoo.”

  The departure is a mad scramble, and not just for Clubs. Brave Hawk flaps into the sky. A few seconds later, Jetman launches himself in a blast of smoke and flame, the echo booming off the hills. Buford transforms into a toad the size of a Volkswagen and goes bounding off, with Roller rumbling behind him. A pelican the size of a hot air balloon appears out of nowhere and flaps off to the northeast—one of Dragon Girl’s stuffed toys, transformed. Is she heading for the zoo? Or Mount Wilson to battle Brave Hawk and Jetman?

  Jamal hears Rosa Loteria shouting for Rustbelt to “take the zoo!” The ridiculous-looking hoser ace jumps into a production truck and starts grinding the gears… the whole interior of the vehicle is probably now rust. Jade Blossom grabs John Fortune’s cell phone and calls for a cab. Well, she’s headed for Beverly Hills.

  Ever Big Bill Norwood’s son, Jamal gets a good jump, running for the Humvee and sliding into the driver’s seat before anyone else even reaches the parking lot. He is amused to find Art in the back with Diaz and camera in the passenger seat. “Who did you guys piss off today?”

  “You’re not gonna be pointing at us all day, are you, Stuntman?” Art sounds completely beaten down.

  “Sorry,” Jamal says. He backs the car out of the lot and burns, as fast as he can, toward the eastern exit.

  Growing up in Los Angeles has given Jamal a highly developed sense of geography, especially of various traffic shortcuts. He finds a turn-out just beyond a tunnel and quickly passes Rustbelt’s truck. “So I’m heading for the zoo,” he says, turning to Art. “What am I supposed to do, wrestle a fucking alligator?”

  Art can’t hide the smile. “Something like that.” Another reason why he is really a bad American Hero producer: he’s jumpy about contestants breaking the fourth wall, yet can’t keep his own mouth shut.

  Jamal thinks for an instant—a long, stretched, athlete-in-the-zone moment, the sort he experienced on a long base hit, a broken field run, a shot from downtown. He could win this. He feels it. He wants it.

  When he reaches the parking lot at the base of the hill, near the turn to the Greek Theater and right across Vermont from the battered little Roosevelt Golf Course, Jamal pulls over. He is still a few minutes ahead of his competitors. For a moment he considers simply waiting for the parade. Why not follow the competition? Lay back, hit them from behind when the time is right? Of course, that strategy presumed Rustbelt could find his ass with both hands.

  What the hell. If you’re going to play the game, play it balls out. More words from Big Bill Norwood. Let the other guy react to you.

  One, two, three—here comes a truck and a pair of Humvees. Jamal can’t see who’s in the third vehicle. But who cares? The cars disappear into the neighborhood and what Jamal knows is horrific midday traffic.

  The standard route would take them all south on Vermont to busy Los Feliz, then east and north to the entrance to the park and zoo. But there is another way.…

  “Are you gonna get going, Jamal? Or should we order lunch?”

  He smiles. “Art, do you wonder why I keep talking to you?”

  Art shuts up. He obviously knows his own weakne
ss.

  “I am going, Art. Watch this.”

  And Jamal pulls out of the lot and heads left instead of right—climbing a twisty road that he knows will carry him up and over the spine of the hills to approach the zoo from the other side.

  Griffith Park Zoo is closed for the day—Jamal would have known that from the empty lot where school buses were usually queued up. But an American Hero camera crew is positioned right next to the entrance—and clearly not expecting an arrival just yet. Jamal is amused to see the crew scramble like ants. “I guess you should have called these guys, Art.”

  Jamal pulls up to the entrance—knows he’s in the center of two lenses—and suddenly this is like being not only on a movie set, but as the lead. Why can’t he play an American hero?

  He can feel his eyes narrow—a full Clint Eastwood—as he scans the scene, right to left and back—a modified Schwarzenegger. A path has been marked with cones leading from the entrance past the row of animal habitats.

  Jamal turns on the Tom Cruise smile. “Showtime.”

  He guns the vehicle forward. “Anybody behind us, Art?”

  Art simply doesn’t answer.

  The trip is a short one—Jamal would have to be an idiot to miss the AMERICAN HERO SCAVENGER HUNT, so proclaimed on a banner.

  The idea that an idol is somehow secreted inside the zoo strikes Jamal as silly—but then, so has every challenge until now. Nevertheless, Jamal does not expect to go up against a rare Bengal tiger—and he isn’t.

  American Hero had built a habitat of its very own. And inside it? A brown bear, some kind of lion, a rhino—and a moat filled with snakes.

  And a brand new fence that sparks and hums, electrified.

  “Something for all of us,” Tiffani says from behind him. So much for getting the jump. The reflection of the brilliant midday sun precedes her. Tiffani is in full diamond mode.

  Jamal has never really met the glittering Diamond girl. He wonders how many discussions there were between Berman and his production team about whether or not the ace from West Virginia had to be in the Diamond suit because of her ability to transform herself into superhard carbon.

  (Then he wonders how many discussions there were about making sure Jamal Norwood, aka Stuntman, did not wind up in Spades.)

  In her natural state she is, as they would no doubt say up in some West Virginia hollow, a purty little thang—red-haired, bright-eyed, not much of a figure, but a definite attitude. Jamal’s early impressions labeled her a white trash trailer park babe, but that could be the accent. Being this close to her for the first time forces him to revise his opinion to a more positive one. If Jamal didn’t have Jade Blossom to drool over, he could do worse than Tiffani. Though not today. Not with immunity on the line.

  “You can have mine,” he says.

  “And they say gallantry is dead.”

  Jamal smiles. “You made good time.”

  “They had a police escort for us.” That explains it; Jamal knows there’s no way his competitors could be here already, going the long way around in L.A. traffic!

  That’s another thing he failed to anticipate… the continued interference by the American Hero production team. What else have they got cooked up for him? He slips along the freshly painted safety railing—surprisingly substantial, for an American Hero construct—noting the various booby traps laid for the contestants. Beyond the moat of snakes, there were odd-shaped pools filled with some kind of bubbling goo—acid? Surely not. Holes in walls—would something shoot out of there? Projectiles? Or balls of flame? The ground within the habitat, where the animals were clearly not walking (fenced by some low-level electrical current?), was marked with a grid. Webbing? What would happen if you stepped on it? Would you be hobbled, bound? Or would you fall through? Roaming through this habitat… three big, mean animals who somehow managed to keep from attacking each other? (A thought that inspires Jamal to look for feeding troughs—he finds them in the shadows at the rear, piled high with disgusting substances.) The question remains, of course: where is the damned idol? Come on, Jetboy, show yourself!

  Tiffani nods toward the habitat. “Hey, lookie there.” She points with perfect fluidity of motion, surprising Jamal, who expects to hear grinding: Rustbelt is atop the cagelike habitat, the bars now looking aged, thanks to the ace’s touch. And a few yards away—still outside—an honest-to-God T Rex is distracting the lion. Wild Fox is here too.

  Jamal is impressed with the thought that Rustbelt must have made a hell of a leap to reach the cage. Either that, or his touch was enough to protect him going across the electrified fence.

  Jamal looks for some kind of staging area, preferably one in front of a camera crew. He can still see Rustbelt hanging from the gridwork and Wild Fox’s T Rex engaging the animals. The bear roars and swipes at Rustbelt, fast and close enough to send the iron yokel sprawling. “Hey, watch it!” Rustbelt yells, his nasal Minnesota accent as annoying as a honking car. “Geez, you could hurt a guy, ya know?” Then he laughs stupidly, as if it was all just an act for the cameras. But even from fifty yards away, Jamal can see Rustbelt’s hands shaking. He drops to the ground with a clang that echoes off the walls of the habitat’s caves, and starts sidling between two of the domed units, tipping over fake rocks and newly planted trees. There’s no obvious way in, not that Jamal can see.

  What the hell.

  Jamal flings himself at the electrified fence, feels the stinging spark—the total, instantaneous clench of every muscle in his body—know that can’t be good.… smells his own flesh singeing.

  Then he hits the concrete apron bordering the moat. He lies on his back, panting, twitching, the sun and sky whirling. He feels as though he’s been flattened by a three-hundred-pound linebacker at full speed, or dropped from an airplane.

  Come on, bounceback.…

  How long? He’s not sure. He forces himself to sit up… stand up. Okay, he’s still in the game.

  It’s not impossible to jump the moat, Jamal sees. Like most American Hero hurdles, it is designed to look more challenging than it actually is. A quick leap, and he’s over.

  Though he slips on what proves to be dirt that is so hard it’s become slick. Trying to right himself, he feels as though he’s pulled a thigh muscle. Fucking idiot. The injury won’t do anything but throb and slow him down. The trauma isn’t severe enough to trigger a bounceback. Where’s the big wild card power now?

  “Hey, Rusty! Look out!” Jamal turns—atop the railing, at the opposite side of the habitat from glittering Tiffani, Wild Fox has resumed his natural form, ears and tail and all, and is alerting Rustbelt to Stuntman’s approach. Jamal can’t even see the iron ace, though the grunting and snorting of bear and lion are clues to his location.

  Suddenly Tiffani flashes into view, still outside the railing. “Behind you, Stuntman!” she yells helpfully.

  A shadow falls across Jamal. The rhino. Wham! The beast head-butts him, sending him crashing into one of the domes covering a cave. The surface of the dome is raw concrete—it’s not enough for Jamal to be slammed into it, he’s also scraped raw, bleeding.

  And trying to avoid the rhino’s feet. Miss. Miss.

  Then a direct hit on his left shoulder. He can’t help screaming, can’t help hearing his voice echoing in the habitat.

  He drags himself inside the habitat. The rhino, either satisified by the punishment it has inflicted on the intruder, or otherwise distracted, turns away, allowing Jamal to begin to bounceback.

  One new sensation breaks through the pain: this cave is the worst-smelling place Jamal has ever been in.

  He sits… tests his shoulder. Completely shattered, but rebuilding. He uses the time to search the interior of the cave for Jetboy. No, nothing but bear or rhino shit.

  Presently he drags himself out of the cave, emerging to a clamor of voices—Wild Fox roaring in his latest animal persona, Rustbelt yelling like a drunk at a tailgate party, Art and the other producers keeping their cameras aimed. Something is going on out of his
line of sight. Fine. It gives him time to search further.

  He performs a flanking maneuver, putting one of the caves between him and the snorting rhino, who seems—if possible—to be growing more agitated at the presence of multiple aces in the habitat.

  In the shadows Jamal sees not only the expected foliage and the odd box or barrel—presumably filled with feed—but other obstacles, including what could only be a limbo bar.

  Who is that stupid production designer again? Or is this the work of the “writers” Jamal had seen lurking with the camera crews?

  Maybe it’s his experience on films, where the action is usually broken into pieces, but he feels a strange sensation, as if he is seeing his quest as it will appear on plasma screens days or weeks hence… wide-angle habitat… lion, bear, rhino… snakes in moat… face of Tiffani… Wild Fox with his ears pricked up and his tail swooshing. Cut, cut, cut!

  Rustbelt kicks over a bucket of feed, starts pawing through it.

  Wild Fox is in the habitat now—and he’s taken the shape of the bear! Which one is the ace? Ah, the one stopping to search.

  Tiffani, where’s Tiffani? Got to have that eye candy, people! There she is, glittering and glowing. And to Jamal’s amazement, then fury, she simply steps on the electrified wire—balancing like an acrobat as St. Elmo’s Fire envelopes her harmlessly—then simply dropping to safety in the habitat.

  Of course. Stuntman is flesh and blood. He gets hurt, then bounces back. Tiffani is transformed into one of the hardest substances known, a lousy conductor. A few stray volts of electricity wouldn’t even curl her hair, assuming it could be curled. She shoots the camera a smile so bright that Jamal can see it from behind, the way it shines on the crew’s faces.

  She turns. “Get going, Stuntman!” Cut. Cut. Cut.

  Then it’s Rustbelt, ducking under the sweeping paw of the brown bear. (What the fuck does he think he’s doing?) Cut.

  Wild Fox-as-the-bear pulls apart one of the cavelike habitats and begins picking through its contents in a very fastidious, unbearlike manner. “What have we got here?” he says. Shit, does he have the Jetboy idol? Jamal wonders. Am I screwed? Cut.