Nick and Tesla's Special Effects Spectacular

by Bob Pflugfelder

  “Oh, no,” Dalasia said. “It’s much more complicated than that. Here, let me show you this last one I’m working on …” In reality, Tesla had mastered Sudoku a year ago and was already bored with it. In fact, she’d moved on to UltraMegaSudoku, which was played on a cube instead of a square and involved fractions. She was having trouble coming up with questions to ask the guard.

  Nick, meanwhile, had crept as close to the Dumpster as he dared. Any nearer, and he wouldn’t be at the right angle to hit the script with the grappling hook. Unfortunately, because of the script’s location, Nick had to stand out in the open, in full view of the security guard if she turned around.

  Tesla was asking Dalasia whether Sudoku had anything to do with tofu when she saw Nick raise the grappler … aim … fire …

  On its release the grappling hook went low, careening off the side of the Dumpster.

  Dalasia’s head snapped up. “What was that?”

  “Huh?” Tesla resisted the urge to flash an angry look in Nick’s direction. Reload, she was thinking, and fire again.

  “I thought I heard a weird noise,” Dalasia said, scanning the street behind Tesla. “Like … something careening off of something.”

  Do not turn around, Tesla was saying in her head. She saw Nick fire again; this time, the grappling hook arced high, landing somewhere in the piled-up trash. Nick started pulling it in ever so gingerly.

  Hurry up, Tesla thought. But aloud she said, “Look!” She pointed at the Sudoku page. “Didn’t you make a mistake there?”

  “Huh?” Dalasia inspected the puzzle. “Well I’ll be … you’re right. I used a three twice in that row. Must have been when those weird boys dangled that bird-dummy off the parking garage.”

  Tesla’s head snapped up. “Did they get caught?” she said. “I mean, whoever they were.”

  “The police took them to the station,” Dalasia said, “just to give them a little scare and a talking-to. They didn’t do any harm, really.” She was tapping at the puzzle with a pencil she’d produced from her pocket. “Now, if this isn’t a three, then …”

  “Gahhh!” Tesla gasped suddenly. Nick had reeled in the grappling hook, but all he’d accomplished was to knock an empty plastic soda bottle off the trash pile. He gave Tesla a nervous wave.

  “What?” Dalasia said, looking up.

  “Oh,” Tesla said quickly. “Numbers! So frustrating! Am I right?”

  Nick was reloading the grappling hook, but it looked like the line was tangled.

  “Well, if puzzles were easy, then they wouldn’t be any fun to solve, would they?” Dalasia turned her attention back to the Sudoku page, erasing some of the numbered squares.

  “You got that right,” Tesla said. She had already solved the puzzle in her head, and it was taking all of her self-control not to grab the pencil from Dalasia’s hand and fill in the missing numbers.

  Nick was taking aim again.

  Suddenly, a loud burst of static crackled over the airwaves. “HEWITT!”

  Dalasia pulled the walkie-talkie from her belt. “Hewitt here.”

  “Morely’s on the way to relieve you.”

  “Already? She’s a half hour early.”

  “Yeah, I know. I need you to walk the perimeter one more time before you leave. There’s been all kinds of nutty stuff going on today. Somebody says they saw a couple of zombies peeping into Wilder’s trailer.”

  “They’re called zomboids, ” Dalasia said, correcting him.

  “Whatever. Just do a patrol before you clock out.”

  “Will do, chief.” She started to put the radio back in its holster, but another burst of static signaled that the communication was not yet done.

  “Don’t call me chief!”

  “Sorry.”

  “My title is supreme squad commander.”

  “Right, 10-4, sir. Over and out.” Dalasia holstered the radio and then shrugged. “That’s just a made-up title he invented,” she said. She glanced at the puzzle book for a moment, then looked back at Tesla. “Wait a minute … zomboids?”

  Tesla, meanwhile, was watching Nick. From the corner of her eye she could see that he was crouched on the ground, but she didn’t dare turn her head to get a clear view of what was going on. Was the grappler broken?

  “You wouldn’t know anything about peeping zomboids, would you?” Dalasia said. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Who, me?”

  Behind her, Nick stood up. Tesla risked turning her head just a little bit … and that’s when she saw what Nick was doing: he was waving the script!

  “Yeah, you.”

  “I, uh … hey! Look.” Tesla took the pencil that Dalasia had left resting in the puzzle book and began filling in numbers. “I think I figured it out.”

  “Now, wait a minute … .” Dalasia reached for the pencil but then stopped. “Say, that’s right … and there … yeah! You did it!”

  “I guess you’re a good teacher,” Tesla said. Dalasia had taken back the book and was looking over each of the numbers.

  “I’ve been working on this for an hour …”

  “Well, you were probably depending too much on trial and error instead of using intersection removal and chaining strategies,” Tesla said.

  “Wha—?”

  Tesla began walking away. “Anyway, I’m going to go get this makeup off my face. Thanks for teaching me Sudoku!”

  Dalasia watched the zomboid girl stride confidently back toward the set. She reached for her walkie-talkie, but then changed her mind. “Eh,” she muttered. “I’m ready to call it quits for the day. Let the supreme squad commander deal with it.”

  Nick and Tesla paused just long enough to wash off their green makeup. (Not only did they not need it anymore, but also it was starting to itch.) Then they hurried off to see if Silas was waiting for them at the rendezvous: a dark alley that was growing ever darker as the sun sank lower in the sky.

  Silas was there. And it was obvious that he’d successfully completed his mission, too. In his arms was a pile of scratched silver and blue metal—the armor they’d helped rip off Damon Wilder’s squirming body earlier that day.

  “How’d you get it?” Tesla said.

  “Piece of cake. It was in a Dumpster behind Matt’s trailer.”

  Nick squinted at Silas’s face. His skin didn’t look green; Silas had taken the time to wipe off his makeup, too. But something new had taken the makeup’s place. A moist black smear ran across Silas’s forehead, and the curly hair above was dusted with small black specks.

  “I think I also found all of Matt’s old coffee grounds,” Silas said. “Dumpster diving has its dangers, you know.”

  “Tell me about it,” Nick said.

  A nearby door creaked open.

  “Good. You’re here,” DeMarco said. “Come on.” The corridor beyond him was even darker than the alley, but the friends didn’t hesitate. They darted inside.

  DeMarco closed the door, sealing them into near-total blackness.

  “This way,” he said.

  DeMarco led them toward a vertical stripe of light at the other end of the long, narrow hallway.

  It was another door, propped open a few inches by an ancient soda cup tipped on its side. When Nick and Tesla reached the opening, they peeked through the crack.

  They were inside the Veranda Theater. On the other side of the door were rows and rows of dingy upholstered chairs and, behind them, a tall black wall pierced with a single window in the center. Through the window, the kids could see a bearded projectionist fiddling with bulky machinery, getting ready to show that day’s Metalman footage.

  All told, fewer than twenty people were in the audience. Aunt Zoe and Cash Ashkinos were sitting together in the front row. Bob Ortmann was seated one row behind them. About a half dozen other people were sprinkled throughout the seats; they saw Matt Gore and Barbara the makeup lady, as well as various members of the camera crew. Several P.A.s were standing in the side aisles, leaning against the walls and holding
notebooks, tablet computers, and trays filled with even more lattes.

  And walking in and making their way down one of the aisles were Damon Wilder and Jack Wiltrout.

  “How are we going to make them listen to us?” DeMarco asked.

  “We’ll just have to pretend like we’re in a movie,” said Silas. “We need to be loud, hyper, and dumb.”

  Wilder was holding a chunk of bagel in one hand, and as he walked toward the front of the theater, he stuffed it into his mouth.

  “Well, I’m here,” he announced as he chewed. “Bob, is there something you want to tell me?”

  “Oh. Well. Yes. Yes, there is, buddy,” Bob Ortmann said. He stole an apprehensive glance at Aunt Zoe and Cash Ashkinos in the row ahead of him and then started to rise from his seat. “There’s something I need to announce to everyone. We’re going to have some personnel changes …”

  “This is it!” DeMarco said. “He’s gonna fire Aunt Zoe!”

  “And Cash!” said Silas.

  “They’re not fired yet,” said Nick. “Let’s go, Tez!”

  He was very pleased with how his voice sounded. There was almost no warble at all.

  Nick burst through the doorway, with Tesla at his side and Silas and DeMarco at his heels.

  “Stop!” Nick shouted. His voice cracked so much that it sounded more like “Steeoop!”

  “Darn it!” he said.

  “What the—?” said Bob Ortmann.

  “Who the—?” said Barbara the makeup lady.

  “How the—?” said Aunt Zoe.

  Only Matt Gore managed to blurt out a complete sentence.

  “What are you kids doing here?” he said, staring in wide-eyed wonderment at them.

  “Exposing a saboteur,” said Tesla.

  “And saving this movie!” added DeMarco.

  His aunt put her face in her hands.

  “Oh, DeMarco,” she groaned.

  “I’m sorry, kids, but you need to run along home,” Cash Ashkinos said. “It might not look like it, but the grown-ups are trying to get some work done here.”

  The Veranda was an old theater—so old that it didn’t have only a screen. It had a stage, too. Tesla jogged over and climbed the short flight of stairs and walked onstage. Nick and the other boys followed after her.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ashkinos,” Tesla said. “We’re not leaving until we’ve told you what we know.”

  Bob Ortmann rolled his eyes and sighed. Then he turned to speak to the camera crew seated a few rows behind him.

  “Go get someone from security, will ya?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Ortmann,” someone said. The man who spoke popped from his seat and began making his way toward the aisle.

  “As long as you’re waiting for security to come hustle us away,” Tesla said, “you might as well listen to what we have to say.”

  “Not really,” said Ortmann. He pulled a cell phone from his jacket. “You go ahead and talk if you want. Me, I’m calling the studio to tell them about our latest fiasco.”

  “Well,” Cash Ashkinos said, “you kids sure do have a sense of drama, I’ll give you that. And remember, Damon, they did help you during that prank today.”

  Damon Wilder had seated himself in the front row, too, on Aunt Zoe’s right, with several empty seats between them. Jack Wiltrout was in the seat next to Wilder; he was munching on yet another bag of chips. “That was no mere prank!” Wilder shouted, as if making sure that even the projectionist in the booth could hear him. “It was vicious sabotage! And somebody is going to suffer the consequences.” He glared at Cash Ashkinos and Aunt Zoe.

  Ashkinos stared back for a moment and then turned to Aunt Zoe. She looked too mortified to speak. “All right,” Ashkinos continued. “If you kids want to continue your performance, go ahead. At least until your escort arrives. And then you go home quietly, deal?”

  “Deal,” Tesla said. “Ladies and gentlemen, my associates and I—”

  “Associates?” DeMarco whispered.

  “Partners!” Nick hissed.

  Tesla glared at them. “All right. Ladies and gentlemen, my partners and I know who’s been sabotaging this production. And we have proof!” She held our her hand to Nick, gesturing for him to hand her the script.

  “Exhibit A!” Tesla waved the script over her head. Except that it wasn’t the script. She realized that she was holding an empty soda bottle.

  A snicker emanating from the audience sounded significantly like Damon Wilder’s voice. It was followed by a few chuckles here and there.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said. “I was going to recycle it. It shouldn’t have been thrown in the trash.” He took the bottle from Tesla and handed her the script.

  “This,” Tesla said, her voice echoing through the old theater, “is a script that Damon Wilder and Jack Wiltrout have been working on.”

  She stepped forward and tossed it down to Aunt Zoe in the front row.

  “Wait—what? How did you get that?” Wilder demanded.

  “It was found in a Dumpster earlier today,” Nick said, his voice not quite as loud as Tesla’s but loud enough. “I wanted in on the act,” he whispered to his sister.

  “You went through my trash?” Wilder sputtered.

  “Yeah,” Wiltrout said, “you went through … ?” He paused for a moment. “Wait a minute. Damon, you threw out our script?”

  “Look, Jack, it was just the third draft, and we agreed that substantial rewrites were needed, remember?”

  “Points for emoting, kids,” Ashkinos said, “but your plotting needs work. We all know that Damon and Jack have been working on their own dialogue for Metalman. ”

  “Their own terrible dialogue, you mean,” said Silas.

  Ashkinos winced and stole a quick peek toward a livid Wilder. “I didn’t say that. My point was just that it doesn’t prove anything,” he said.

  Aunt Zoe handed him the script.

  “This isn’t a rewrite of The Stupefying Metalman, Cash,” she said.

  He looked down at the ream of paper in his hands.

  “Reflections of Remembrance,” he read aloud. “A Play in Three Acts by Jack Wiltrout.” Ashkinos looked up again at the kids on the stage in front of him. “I am very confused.”

  “Me, too,” said Ortmann. By this time, he had lowered his phone and leaned forward to look over Ashkinos’s shoulder at the script. Then he turned to his star and said, “Damon, you told me that you wanted Jack on set to punch up your dialogue. The studio is picking up the tab for that, not for you two to play Shakespeare.”

  “Oh, now, really—that’s a bit insulting, Bob.”

  “Sure it is,” he snapped. “It’s insulting to Shakespeare!”

  “Now, Bob,” Jack said, after swallowing a mouthful of chips. “I assure you, I’ve been keeping my work on our play separate from my time on the Metalman script. I can account for all of my billable hours …”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Aunt Zoe interrupted. She had taken the script from Cash and had been reading through it the whole time. She now rolled it up and pointed it at Wilder like a weapon. “Damon, Jack. When were you going to produce this play you were writing?”

  The two men looked at her quizzically, as if they didn’t understand the question.

  Aunt Zoe looked directly at Tesla, and then she looked back at Damon Wilder and Jack Wiltrout.

  “She knows,” Tesla whispered to her friends. “She figured it out!”

  “My aunt is no dummy,” DeMarco said proudly.

  “Hey,” Silas whispered, “that reminds me. When are we going to get Michael back? We need that costume to finish Bald Eagle—”

  “Silas!” Tesla hissed.

  “I’m also wondering,” Aunt Zoe continued, “where you were going to get the money to do it?”

  With those words, a hush fell over the theater. The mumblings and chucklings and whisperings that had been heard in the background ceased as each person leaned forward to see what would happen next.

  Wilder bar
ked out an incredulous laugh. He answered in his loudest stage voice yet. “Where would we get the money? I’m Damon Wilder! I’m about to star in the biggest blockbuster of next year! After it comes out, I’ll have theatrical producers fighting for the chance to finance any play I choose to do!”

  DeMarco moved forward to stand beside Tesla.

  “You’ve seen the performance he’s turning in, Mr. Ortmann,” DeMarco said. “Do you really think big-time Broadway producers are going to line up to pay him to be in a play?”

  “Well …” Ortmann said.

  “You wouldn’t know about this, Bob,” Ashkinos said, “but Zoe tells me that, earlier this summer, her nephew and his friends outsmarted two crooks who had kidnapped a little girl. And they got her home safe. Maybe they’re on to something here.”

  Ortmann’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “That would make a great feature,” he said.

  Now it was DeMarco’s turn to look shocked. “You know about that?” he said to his aunt.

  “Your mother has told me the story over and over,” Aunt Zoe said. “Don’t tell her I said so, but she’s proud of you.”

  Meanwhile, Damon Wilder’s face had turned bright red. “That script doesn’t prove anything,” he said. “Now, why don’t we send these kids home, and we’ll get back to work.” He swiveled this way and that to face Matt Gore and Barbara and the other crew members scattered around the theater. “Am I right, people?”

  But no one told him he was right.

  “Just one more thing,” Tesla said. She motioned for Silas to step forward and hold up the dented metal he had carried in.

  “This is part of the costume that Mr. Wilder was wearing this afternoon,” Nick said. “Right, Mr. Gore?”

  “Uhhh.” Matt stood up and leaned in for a better look. “Yeah, that’s it, all right. I had to throw it out because it got damaged during the—uh, the Itch and Moan incident.” A groan rose throughout the theater. Matt shrugged. “Well, that’s what they’ve been calling it on the Internet.”

  “If you look closely,” Tesla said, “some of the powder is still inside.”

  “No! Don’t go near it!” Wilder said.

  DeMarco took a piece of the costume, the left shoulder plate, and walked to the front of the stage. He held the piece with its curved surface facing up like a bowl of soup. “It doesn’t make you itch,” he said. “I already tested it. But come and get a closer look.” He kneeled at the edge of the stage; Aunt Zoe and Cash walked over and took the piece from DeMarco’s hands. They held it up and peered at it closely.