by M. H. Mead
He scanned the crowd, looking for anyone who wanted to give Oliver a lot of money, not that he could imagine what that looked like. The party guests seemed like his typical fourthing customers writ large. Comfortable incomes, but they worked for their money. He supposed the trust fund crowd attended a different sort of fundraiser. More fun to buy a senator or a governor than a city councilman.
Andre would do his job, mingle on command, but he needed a drink first, even if he had to pay for it. He maneuvered through the crowd toward the bar.
“Ka-donk.” A nudge from behind made Andre take a quick step forward to catch himself. He whirled to see his nephew grinning at him. He thought a twenty year old would be above the ka-donk game, but Nikhil still wanted to keep score. “I’m at least five ahead.”
“Doesn’t count,” Andre said. “I saw it coming.”
“You did not.”
“I see all of yours coming. I know everything you’re going to do.”
“Yeah? What am I going to do right now?”
Andre pursed his lips and took in Nikhil’s new suit, his fresh haircut, the way he’d combed the dark waves away from his face in imitation of his only uncle. He still slumped when he stood and those sideburns had to go, but he’d pass. Hell, he’d probably gotten rides already. “You’re about to show me your new fourthing badge.”
“Damn!” Nikhil brought his hands to his face and groaned.
Andre took the opportunity to give him a shoulder jab. “And ka-donk, too.” He held out his hand. “Let’s see it.”
Nikhil turned his shoulder away and thrust his hand into his pocket. “I don’t want to show you, now.”
“Yes, you do. You’ve already got your hand on it.”
“It’s spooky how you do that.” Nikhil pulled out a round, white badge. “Does it look okay? I mean, it doesn’t look . . .”
“It looks great.” Andre held his own badge in the other hand. The new badge’s registry number was six digits long. His own had five. He’d already become an old-timer.
Of course, there had been fourths longer than there had been licenses, but not much more. At first, working fourths had fought the license fee as a tax on what used to be free. But they’d bowed to the inevitable as drivers overwhelmingly preferred licensed fourths. By the time Andre had entered the profession, licenses were the norm. The fee wasn’t outrageous considering what you got. Or rather, what drivers got. A licensed fourth had no arrest record, a valid multi-card, and clear drug tests. Fourths couldn’t guarantee that they’d be entertaining, but at least they could guarantee they weren’t criminals.
Andre handed the badge back. “How’s it going so far?”
Nikhil pocketed his badge with a shrug. “It’s going. I mean, it’s fine. Slow start, you know, but you can’t always get . . .” His eyes slid to the side. “Oh, hey, there’s Topher Price-Powell. You have to meet this guy.”
Andre turned, expecting one of Oliver’s people—someone either stiff with entitlement or anxiously wondering how to buy some. Instead, Nikhil pointed out a young man, perhaps one of his college friends. Andre’s first flash was that Topher must be another fourth, someone getting rides on the strength of his Hollywood pretty boy looks. But looks were not enough, and two more seconds of observation told him that Topher didn’t even understand the obvious social clues, much less the subtle ones.
Topher Price-Powell stood with two women in their thirties, both wearing the quiet clothing and loud jewelry of the securely upper-middle class. They probably had young children at home, and almost certainly had been discussing them before Topher had started holding court. He talked, they listened. Or, pretended to listen. The tilt of their bodies, ever-so-slightly away from him, the shared glances between them, said it all. Andre felt a twinge of pity for Topher. He couldn’t see that the women were humoring him, far more interested in his pouty lips and strong shoulders and the way he flipped his bangs off his forehead than anything he had to say. The pity was followed immediately by a desire to pin Topher’s mouth closed and hold his eyes open. The guy needed to look, to listen, but most of all, to shut up, or he’d never get anywhere with women.
Nikhil was already ahead of him, leading him through the crowd. “Topher! Hey!” He caught Topher in a full-arm handshake then immediately turned to Andre. “This is my Uncle Andre.”
“A pleasure.” Andre held out a hand.
Instead of shaking, Topher thrust a small booklet at him. Andre slid it into his pocket without reading it. He caught Topher’s eye and smiled at the women, but Topher did not introduce them. Did he even know their names?
“I’ll get us some drinks,” Nikhil said.
“I’ll go with you!” the women chorused, then giggled. Topher watched them go, then stuck his hands in his pockets and regarded Andre.
“So you’ve known Nikhil a long time?” Andre asked.
“We hang out.”
“And you’re a fourth as well?”
“No. Well, yes. Licensed, but not practicing. I probably won’t renew after this year.”
“Ah.” Andre translated. It’s harder than it looks and I suck at it.
“Right now I’m the head of the Council for Economic Justice.”
“Nikhil told me about that. Some kind of lobbying group?”
“Grassroots organizing,” Topher corrected him. “Right now we’re protesting the new wall in Dearborn. Do you know how much that cost to build? The outer communities have plenty of money. They could use some of it to help the disincorporated residents, but they’d rather spend it keeping those people out. What kind of economic miracle do we have if it’s created a permanent underclass?”
“The economic miracle is fine with me, thanks. You’re too young to remember, but when I was a kid things were just starting to—”
“I’m old enough,” Topher cut in. “You can spare me the lecture.”
Andre noticed Bob Masterson circling in, drinking a long-necked beer, squinting one eye and quirking his lips. If something was about to happen, it figured that Bob would both notice and land in the middle of it.
Sure enough, Bob stepped forward and held out his hand. “Do you have any more of those pamphlets?”
“Maybe.” Topher looked him up and down. “Are you going to read it?”
“Not if you don’t give me one.”
Topher took a glossy pamphlet out of his inside suitcoat pocket and silently handed it over.
Bob studied it at arm’s length. “Nice looking document. Where did you get it printed?”
“Sabo’s.”
“You get a better deal at Office Spot.” He focused on the paper. “The Council for Economic Justice. Cee Eee Jay. Doesn’t make a very good acronym. Do you pronounce that ‘seg’ or ‘keg?’“
Topher glared at him like a teacher shushing a student. “We just call it the C.E.J.”
Bob handed the pamphlet back. “Have you been to Dearborn? Have you seen that wall? It’s got murals on both sides, one of them painted by John Tebeau.”
“Which side is Tebeau’s mural on?”
“Ours, of course.”
“Ours!” Topher crowed. “Ours.”
“That’s right. The zoners are sending their kids to our schools, polluting our waterways, and dragging down property values on the borders. The whole place smells.” Bob’s eyes slid sideways to two middle-aged women who were now openly listening. “They benefit from every one of our civic improvements, without paying a penny in taxes.”
The faintest eyebrow twitch made Andre wonder if Bob believed what he was saying. Bob was a good fourth. Of course he would say what the majority of the people at the party wanted to hear. Whether he agreed with it or saw things for what they really were was beside the point.
“Excuse me,” Topher said. “Excuse me! Just because someone lives in the disincorporated zone doesn’t mean you can treat them like a serf.”
“I don’t treat them like anything,” Bob said.
Topher scoffed. “You want a cheap mai
d or a gardener and the rest of the time, you don’t want them to exist.”
“No one makes people live in the zone.”
“Where else are you going to live on a maid’s salary?”
“I’m NFA. I live anywhere I want. But we’re not talking about me. Where do you live, Mr. Topher Price-Powell, head of the Cee Eee Jay? Not in the zone, I’ll bet.”
Topher rounded on him, arms and shoulders taut. “You have no idea who I am.”
Andre held his breath as Bob and Topher stared puffed and postured. He exhaled. Bob was a fourth. Topher was Nikhil’s friend. Of course, they would behave themselves, wouldn’t they?
“Let me guess,” Bob said. “You pay three times the going rate so your gardener can live Downriver.”
“Yes, in fact I do.” Topher regarded him smugly, as if he’d scored a liberal credibility point.
“So you take care of the zoners by denying them work.”
“At least I’m a contributing citizen.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No real job. No place to live. That’s the definition of a bum.”
“And you’re the definition of a pretentious jerk.” Bob backed onto one foot. Andre noticed his other foot pointed forward, hands at the ready.
Topher was practically standing on his toes, trying to get a height advantage, his face losing color the angrier he got. Bob stared into his eyes, beginning the intimate dance of violence. Andre automatically tensed, ready to get between them if things escalated too quickly.
He glanced at the gathering crowd. On the other hand, the fourths were here for show. They were for spectacle. What better spectacle than to let Bob kick Topher’s ass? And he was fairly sure that was the way it was going to go. There was too much untutored arrogance in Topher and the more Andre thought about it, the harder it was to suppress his desire to see that arrogance shattered. Why not let them have at it?
Andre caught purposeful movement out of the corner of his eye. A small, dark presence moved behind Topher and grabbed his ear. Sofia Gao. Before Andre could even register his shock, she had used Topher’s ear to pull him backward and also spun him a hundred and eighty degrees, putting herself between the two men and leaving Topher with his back to Bob. She pointed a menacing finger and Bob immediately raised both palms in surrender. She pointed to the side and Bob melted into the crowd, leaving her to deal with Topher, who was dancing in place and swatting at her hand.
“Ow, ow, ow. Quit it, lady!”
“I am going to let go of your ear, and you are going to calm down, got it?”
“Yes, yes.”
She released him, but stood in a martial arts stance—bent knees, straight back, and hands at face level. Her voice was soft but commanding. “Sorry about that. We’re all friends here, but you need to stay away from that guy.”
Andre stepped between Topher and Sofia. He turned his back on Sofia, faced Topher, and planted himself. He wasn’t afraid of a punk like Topher, but there was something about the younger man. Not dangerous so much as calculating, like he’d sized up the odds and already won. The brash assurance seemed to have no source, making it more disturbing. Andre watched Topher—his eyes for intention, his hands for weapons.
Topher dropped his hand from his ear and spoke past Andre, to Sofia. “Whatever you say, bitch. I’m going to stay away from you too.”
“Can I get you some ice for your ear?” Sofia asked.
“I’ll get it myself.” Topher stumbled toward the bar.
Sofia turned to Andre. “Why didn’t you stop that?”
“Stop what?”
“The fight.”
“It was more of a debate. They weren’t bothering anyone but each other.”
“It was two seconds away from becoming physical. You couldn’t see that?”
Andre took in Sofia’s black pants, shirt and blazer—tasteful enough for an evening out, but probably hiding some serious hardware. “What are you even doing here?”
“Working. When Oliver LaCroix hired me for private security, I should have known you two were related. Why didn’t he just ask you?”
“He did.”
Sofia looked him up and down. “Oh, that is . . .” She bit her bottom lip. “I’d heard that some fourths were here, but I never imagined . . .”
Andre smoothed the lapels of the suit he’d been wearing since that morning, wishing he’d had the luxury of changing twice like Bob had. “So tell me, how does the head of an important task force have time for my brother’s stupid party?”
“Oliver set this up months ago. I keep my commitments.”
Andre threw a thumb toward the place where Topher and Bob had squared off. “Anyway, I thought it was entertaining. What’s more fun at an uptight shindig than a good bar brawl?”
“The guests aren’t here for that kind of entertainment.”
Andre craned his neck to scan the crowd. How much of a disturbance had Topher and Bob made? People seemed happy in their own bubbles of conversation, but a party was nothing but talk, and things always rippled back to the host. Sooner or later, Oliver would hear something. He focused on Sofia. “Um, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to my brother.”
Sofia put her hands on her hips. “Who do you think sent me over here to break it up? And he wants to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Does it matter?”
“No.” He needed to be seen with Oliver. Like Nikhil, Andre was here as window dressing. Look at my handsome son. Look at my eligible bachelor brother. Andre sighed. “Where is he?”
“Come with me.” She grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the crowd. Fourth, cop, and brother battled inside him, making him second-guess all his responses. He found the gentle pressure of her fingertips on his pulse points much more enjoyable than a pinch on the ear, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to go wherever she was taking him.
The crowd parted at a clearing near the bar, revealing Oliver holding a clear, fizzy drink and looking pissed. “Good,” he said to Sofia. He jerked his head to the side. “I need you to go shore up the sawhorses on the east side. People keep ducking under them to walk by the pond.”
Sofia gave a crisp nod and walked off. Oliver watched her go. “Now there is a solid eighty-nine.”
“That’s it, huh?”
Oliver swirled the ice in his glass. “Close, but not close enough. If she’s not at least ninety percent, she’s not for me. I once dated an eighty-four point six, but that was an exception.”
“I’m sure she felt lucky to have you.”
“Not lucky enough, kid. That was the problem.”
Andre remembered a time when he’d anxiously waited for Oliver to rate his girlfriends. He wanted them to score high, but not too high. Something he could respect, but not so good that they’d attract the attention of his one-decade-more-sophisticated brother. He ran his hand over the back of his collar and watched Sofia gently herding people onto the green.
What score would he give her? He knew Oliver’s scale was always weighed toward the physical, but for Andre, it was more a question of enthusiasm. How would the physical, the mental, and the spirit of adventure mix in the sheets? Pretty high, he imagined. Higher than eighty-nine. Of course, he was crazy to even consider Sofia. Nominally his boss, pushy as hell, and as by-the-book as he could imagine. Not to mention the fact that she thought him an arrogant asshole.
None of those things would bother his brother. He watched Oliver take a healthy gulp of his drink, his eyes on Sofia’s ass. It would be so easy to bump his arm, call it an accident, run to the bar to grab handfuls of napkins and knock Oliver around some more while pretending to clean him up. That thought was followed by a rush of guilt. He was supposed to be making Oliver look good, and he was supposed to do that by having a good time himself.
Ordinarily, he liked parties. He liked meeting new people, seeing fresh perspectives, learning new things. But this entire event left him drained. The energy of the place was all
wrong. Maybe having to pay a steep admission fee perverted the whole idea of a party, and nobody was really having any fun.
“You know what’s wrong with this picture?” Oliver asked. “Your hands are empty. You need a drink.”
Andre patted his pockets. “I’m short of cash.”
“Like I’m going to charge you.”
He held up his datapad and wagged it in front of his brother. “Free drinks aren’t worth going blind and deaf.”
Oliver patted his own pockets and came up with a wad of silver tickets. He handed one to Andre. “You’re my brother. You can do what you want.”
Andre weighed the datapad in his pocket against the heavy, embossed tickets. Losing his frustration in the bottom of a bottle—especially a bottle that his brother had to pay for—wouldn’t make him feel like less of a lackey, but it might make him feel less like punching Oliver on the nose. He reached for the ticket.
Oliver snatched it away at the last second. “And tell your friend to quit antagonizing my guests.”
For a moment, Andre wondered how Oliver knew that Bob was his friend. But it made sense. Oliver had personally invited everyone here, so he’d know them, at least by sight. Staff wore those hundred-fifty-year-old costumes, making Bob stand out, and not in a good way.
“It’s a political fundraiser,” Andre said. “He was talking politics. Why’d you let Nikhil bring Price-Powell anyway?”
“I invited him. He’s a donor.” Oliver waved away Andre’s skeptical look. “He’s a press-conference radical. He complains a lot, but at the end of the day, he knows what money can buy.”
“What he doesn’t know is when to close his mouth. Topher’s the one antagonizing your guests. Bob Masterson is backing you a hundred percent, and he doesn’t even know you. He picked up the general vibe and went with it. I’m telling you, this guy is good. Any minute now he’s going to start in against datapads.”
Oliver’s eyes widened. “Jesus Christ.”
“No, it’s true. He’ll shit all over them. I fronted him three hundred bucks. Told him you were good for it. Believe me, this guy returns full value on investment.”
Oliver was looking past him. “I don’t believe it.”