Celebromancy

by Michael R. Underwood

  “If I get high roll, I get to buy you a drink.”

  Ree smiled. “And if I win?”

  “You can close for me so I can go home and play Diablo III.”

  Ree fiddled with the die, rolling it around between her fingers. “Bryan would love what that’d do to his insurance and payroll,” she said. Ree blew on her die and rolled on the table nearest the counter. Charlie rolled as well, his d20 skipping across the table to catch hers. Charlie’s die came up 14. Ree’s, 8.

  Charlie grinned, scooped up the dice, and snuck his way back around the counter. “You’re losing your touch, kemosabe.”

  “Maybe, but I can make a martini in thirty seconds flat . . . and I have a pilot shooting.”

  “So say the Twitters. Well, the pilot part. I still haven’t figured out where you bartend.”

  “Private company, NDA, sorry.” She shrugged.

  By way of response, Charlie started steaming some milk to make a cappuccino.

  “Just one shot today. I’ve already been hitting the go-juice hard,” Ree said.

  “Everything all right? The Twitter-sphere’s been flooded with gossip about the production.”

  “Gossip is as gossip does.” Ree looked sideways at the trio, who were deep in their discussion. She leaned on the counter to speak in a low voice.

  “Got a question for you.”

  Charlie leaned in to hear her over the steamer. “Shoot.”

  “Can you do some research for me? It seems like Rachel MacKenzie might be screwing with the production, and I need to know the backstory. And it needs to stay Ultraviolet-Secret.”

  Charlie pulled the pitcher away from the steamer and crossed his heart as he started the espresso shot.

  “Just you, me, and Friend Computer.”

  Ree and Charlie caught up on TV, comics, and Charlie’s latest info from the land of transhumanism and weird body modification while Ree sipped the (marvelous) cappuccino.

  “So I hear they’ve got the subcutaneous RFID install under a grand a pop now?” Ree asked.

  Charlie nodded. “I’ve been saving tips. But there’s still a 40% rejection rate, so we’re still a ways off.”

  Some people feared the future, cringed at the thought of the Singularity, when intelligent computers would replicate and technological advancement would outpace our ability to keep up. Charlie waited for it with the eagerness of a five-year-old in late December counting the hours until Christmas.

  Ree finished her drink, then checked the clock on her phone. If she headed over to Grognard’s now, she could eat real food rather than trying to convince herself that a milkshake and a slice of pizza counted as dinner.

  She gave Charlie another hug, left him a two-dollar tip when he wasn’t looking, then headed out to make her way to Grognard’s. Not for the first time, she grumbled about the old man’s crazy need for secrecy.

  Nothing like a nice stroll through a sewer to get her excited about work.

  Chapter Nine

  Help Me, Ree Reyes, You’re My Only Hope

  Drama hits the Awakenings set, as Hurricane J-Rad has reached Class Diva-Five. Shooting is off today as director Yancy Williams is desperately holding the production together. Delays like this can be killer. Expect One Tough Mama to close up shop if the stoppage continues.

  —Kelly Dominguez, Pearson Patriot, May 24, 2012

  It was tourney night at Grognard’s, so the bar was packed full while the rows of merch stood temporarily abandoned. The twenty seats at tables and booths were all filled, trench-coated, bespectacled, and other -ed geeks crowded around tables filled by pitchers, mugs, and their decks, which were protected from the drinks by magically-sealed sleeves.

  Ree wove her way through the tables, a full tray of drinks and food on one arm, the other arm free for counterbalance and to gently nudge patrons so she could make her rounds. She’d intended to do her makeup, since it was a hit with the customers. She’d been deciding whether to reprise the facial tattoo from Neil Gaiman’s Death or the tat from Mirror’s Edge, but Grognard had put her straight to work as soon as she walked in the door.

  Tourney nights were always busy, and this was no exception. This month, the game of choice was Legend of the Five Rings, a samurai epic fantasy card game that was nearly as old as Magic: The Gathering. Where most tournaments used the newest card sets, this tourney was a sealed booster draft from some of the oldest editions of the game: Anvil of Despair, Crimson & Jade, with Imperial Edition starters. Each player had put down $500 for buy-in.

  But the prize was worth it: a real, live set of Tokugawa-era o-yoroi armor, well used and perfectly-maintained. Ree had almost wished she wasn’t scheduled tonight so she could enter the tourney herself. But she was already exhausted from her new and even-more-crazy schedule, plus the folks playing were truly hard-core. Some were retired Magic Pro Tour players, others still ran the circuits: poker, Halo, StarCraft, and more.

  Grognard wouldn’t say who had donated the prize, but he always invited the competitors to witness his divination on the prizes before the start of a tourney to show that they were what he said they were and that everything was on the up-and-up.

  Grognard’s no cheat. Plus, if he gave out a cursed prize, his reputation as a magical vendor would be shot, Ree thought.

  So she did her best to keep up with the snacking and drinking habits of the truly hard-core. Triple Scotch on the rocks for Randy, a tall blond with a Magic Pro Tour T-shirt. Barbecue wings and Urban Ale-ian for Thomas, a short Korean-American with a buzzed head, who wore his trench coat 24-7. And so on.

  Dumping a now-filled-with-empties tray on the near counter, Ree took a second to shake out the growing pain in her calves and stretch. Grognard was moving as fast as Ree ever saw him move, deliberate but relaxed, as he poured a drink with one hand and mixed a shaker with the other, his large hands able to palm the shaker and keep the cap from flying off into the ice bin.

  “How are we doing?” she asked.

  Grognard didn’t look at her as he responded, just kept making drinks, a thin sheet of sweat on his bald scalp. “Good, good. Just keep things flowing, and they’ll stay happy. Any problems?”

  Ree shrugged. “Thomas is downing beer like a drunk fish, and a few guys have given me the come-hither eye.”

  Grognard laughed. “Thomas plays better drunk. Just cut him off if he starts calling you Olivia.”

  Ree raised an eyebrow as she cracked her neck in a roll. But Grognard still wasn’t looking at her. The big man slid a drink down the bar to a waiting gamer, then pulled out a lime to start chopping.

  “Got it,” Ree said. “Do I want to know who Olivia is?”

  “Nope,” Grognard said, reaching for more glasses.

  Ree shouldered the tray again and hip-checked open the door to the kitchen. “Fair enough.”

  • • •

  Around midnight, Ree got a call on her phone. Since she was on shift, she ignored it without checking. When her phone buzzed again two minutes later, she checked it after she finished collecting a trayful of empty pint glasses from the table where the top four from the tournament were ribbing the winner over her “lucky” break. Two missed calls and a voicemail from Jane.

  She looked over to Grognard, who was cleaning the bar, and said, “Can I step out and take this real quick?”

  Without turning to look at her, Grognard gave a grunt of assent, still cleaning.

  Ree stepped into the back room, where the dishes piled up like Mount Everest and the cook, Mohammed, kept the grill running and pulled some fries out of the oil, setting them to cool on a rack.

  She played the voicemail and heard Jane speak in a strained voice.

  “Ree? This is Jane. I was hoping to talk. I wanted to thank you after last night, and I’ve been trying to sleep for two hours and I just can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I feel those hands around my throat. It’s t
errible. Danny’s just outside my room, we hired security, but it’s not enough. Can you please call me back? I hope you’re all right, maybe you’re at work, I don’t know. Please call, okay?”

  Shit. That wasn’t a just-a-bit-scared voice, or a clingy-one-night-stand-trying-to-get-you-to-come-back-for-more voice. That was the for-reals verge-of-panic tone.

  Shit.

  Ree called Jane back, glancing sideways at Mohammed, and walked back into the office, closing the door behind her.

  Jane picked up on the first ring.

  “Ree?” she asked, her breath short.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” she said, her heartbeat picking up speed.

  “Thank God. Are you all right? I don’t know if I woke you or if you were free.” She paused, taking a long breath. “Thank you for saving me last night. It’s never been that bad, it’s never been real, while I’ve been awake.”

  “You’re welcome. I was more than a little freaked out. But lucky for you, you had a naked protector. And a real bodyguard who somehow managed to miss the dress code.”

  The star laughed. It was a soft, guarded laugh, but a laugh. Ree took the win. Jane said, “Danny has always been a stick in the mud. Though his excuse is that it’s hard to carry a gun naked.”

  “At least to do so comfortably,” Ree said. “I’m at work right now, but I might be able to take off. Benefits of the job.”

  “I’d really appreciate the company, Ree. Doesn’t need to be anything else. This isn’t a booty call or anything . . . I just can’t handle being by myself right now. Danny and Yancy need their sleep, since they’ve been taking care of me all day.”

  Ree nodded. “I’ll see what I can do, and text you either way. Even if I can’t get away, I’m done at 3 AM, so I could come over then.”

  Bob Saget’s voice filled her head, using his How I Met Your Mother narrator tone: Remember, kids, nothing good happens after 2 AM. If it’s after 2 AM, just go home.

  “That’s great, thank you. I really appreciate it.”

  “Okay, talk to you soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Bye,” Ree said, pulling the phone away from her head to hang up.

  Ree stared at her phone. She couldn’t pin Jane down. Was she the calm and clever lover of sociological science fiction and supporter of feminist NGOs around the world? Or was she the sexy cover model who wrapped neophyte screenwriters around her finger and then crashed to rock bottom, collecting DUIs? Ree thought she knew which one the magic led to, but without a PhD in either psych or magic, she couldn’t be sure.

  Now to get permission to leave early. It was, after all, why she took this job over something else. Grognard was clued in to the weird and more amenable to letting Ree skip out when something went BOOM! in the supernatural world than another bar or any of the other small handful of jobs Ree would have been able to get with her . . . colorful background.

  Ree walked back out to the bar, where Grognard was drawing a pitcher of the Crop Circles Wheat Ale.

  “Boss?” she asked.

  “You need to go,” he said, not asked. Some days, I think he’s psychic or something.

  “Yeah. Trouble on-set. Will you be all right?”

  “I can handle these knuckleheads.” Grognard gestured to the dwindling crowd. “Good luck, and don’t get dead,” he said.

  Ree took one last tray back to the dishwasher and then grabbed her bag to leave, texting Jane that she was on her way.

  Ree had the whole trip across town (a ten-minute walk to the right subway station, then a fifteen-minute ride, capped off with another short walk) to try to sort out her approach.

  Was she going as Jane’s friend? As her screenwriter? As a Geekomancer and resident magic hero of Pearson? As the girl Jane had just slept with? All of the above?

  Ree stopped at the edge of the trailer city to show her ID to a security guard. It wasn’t one of the guards she’d met during set visits, and the tall, thin man looked more hard-core than the folks on day shift.

  Is he extra help brought in since last night, or are night shift always more spooky-looking? The guard waved her through, and Ree filed the question away in the section of her brain marked RESEARCH AND SETTING DETAILS.

  She noted three more guards between the perimeter and Jane’s cabin. Yancy was not screwing around. But the extra muscle and a missed day of production had to be expensive, and One Tough Mama was already scraping the barrel with this production.

  No pressure, Ree. Just dozens of people’s careers on the line.

  Ree stepped up to the squat guard who stood in front of the door to Jane’s trailer. He was shorter than Ree, but nearly as wide as he was tall. Ree pegged him as Samoan, or some other Pacific Islander. He had a sweet tattoo winding up his neck and all the way to the top of his shaved head. He had a soft face but moved like a guy who’d seen his share of brawls.

  “Hi, I’m Ree Reyes. Ms. Konrad is expecting me.”

  He gave her the once-over with narrowed eyes, then waited a moment, arms crossed.

  Is this going to be a thing? Ree asked herself, ready to bring out her no, seriously, I belong here spiel.

  The guard smiled, the hard-ass demeanor gone. “Just kidding. You’re the writer, yeah? Local girl done good.”

  Ree nodded. “That’s me.” She extended a hand to shake.

  He met her hand, squeezing tight. “I’m Kalolo. Go on in.” Ree was glad she’d learned to shake from her dad, an ex-marine, otherwise she’d have come away with a mangled claw.

  Inside, the lights were on in the living room and all the way back to Jane’s room. Despite the light, Danny was dozing contentedly on the couch, baseball bat resting across his chest.

  Ree stealth-moded across the room, trying to avoid waking Danny. When she hit three paces in, he sat up, grasping the bat and staring right at her. Recognition hit his face, and he nodded, lying back down and settling into the couch, instantly asleep again.

  Nice trick. Ree walked through the trailer and knocked on the door frame to the bedroom, the door half-open already.

  “It’s Ree,” she said.

  “Come in,” Jane answered.

  Ree stepped in and saw Jane sitting in bed, over the covers, wearing her robe, a well-loved copy of Idoru sitting on the bed by her side. Jane’s eyes were puffy, but she didn’t have any smudged makeup, so Ree imagined she’d already removed the day’s face. Or had skipped makeup entirely, given the glamour mojo of Celebromancy.

  Jane slid over on the bed and patted the space where she had been sitting. “Thank you for coming over. Join me?”

  This wasn’t sex-goddess Jane from the club, but it wasn’t run-down Jane pre-makeup at the hotel, either. The way she was acting now was closest to sushi Jane—calm but burdened. Ree relaxed a little, feeling no tension or awkwardness from Jane. Just be a person, Ree. She needs a friend.

  “This place is buttoned up tighter than a chaperone at a Catholic school dance,” Ree said. “You’re as safe as can be.”

  “Except the thing that came after me didn’t come through the window or the door or past security. It came right out of my dreams, Ree. And when I go to sleep again, it might be there waiting for me.”

  “Freddy was always scarier than Jason,” Ree said.

  That got a laugh.

  Okay, so, comforting. That I can do. Except that her normal comforting mode, as employed with Sandra, Anya, or Priya, included hugging, lots of wine, and terrible movies. The TV was out in the living room, Ree didn’t know if there was wine, and hugging could be a pretext for more, and then things would get even more tangled up than they already were.

  “I’m not sure what to do here. Last night was . . .” Ree trailed off, stuck on phrasing.

  “The night became another thing,” Jane said.

  It was Ree’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, that.”

  Jane shr
ugged. “What happened between us can stay last night. But there’s no way this show will make it off the ground if you and I have to tiptoe around each other. Plus, I have bigger fish to fry.”

  “Speaking of, I went to check up on Rachel MacKenzie today.”

  Jane leaned away from Ree with surprise. “What? Really? How did you do that?”

  “Danny and Yancy told you about my other other job, right?”

  Jane nodded.

  “Turns out, X-Men: First Class makes for a great disguise. I went in as a reporter to interview Rachel. I didn’t get much, though, just a sense that she’s still holding a grudge. Yancy said you tried to pull off something big a couple years ago, and that’s when things got bad.”

  Jane sighed. “I wanted it all. I thought I had the right to take the mantle, and that I had the mojo to pull that off. I wanted to do so much, Ree. Thought I could make things better. Change the industry, focus on real issues, real stories.”

  The star leaned back, her eyes distant. “But for that, you need backing, power. Not just a great team, not just the flash-in-the-pan fame all the reality stars and celebutards are raking in feast-and-famine-style by putting themselves into the X-rated Truman Show. Investors can smell the weakness of a career teetering on the edge, and they don’t like to take risks. After we broke away from Cosmic, Yancy and I hit a ceiling. We could never break back into the Big Leagues, not without a game changer, either cash-wise or on the mojo side.”

  She stopped. “Let me start over. You didn’t tell me you were a Geekomancer, and that’s fine. But I don’t know what you know about my art.”

  “Celebromancy? Just a bit, plus what Yancy told me, which isn’t much. It seems pretty close to the glamours and such the Fae use. Control, direct, cultivate, and use attention.”

  Jane nodded. “And not just attention: Obsession, jealousy, aspiration. You can turn yourself into a Role Model, urge others to follow in your path. You can be a shining example or a cautionary tale, depending on how things go. I don’t know which one I am these days. Labels are very important in Celebromancy. Archetypes, titles, roles. The World’s Sexiest Man, the Ingenue, America’s Sweetheart. Those archetypes come with immense power.” Jane stopped and smiled at Ree. “And with great power . . .”