Texas Hold 'Em

by George R. R. Martin

  “Isn’t that the Plano Originals?” Greg asked around a mini-taco.

  LoriAnne followed his gaze several tables over to where half a dozen teens sat—including the ones who’d acted like jerks outside the ballroom.

  “Yes, that’s Plano,” Cassie said.

  “What are they doing?” Greg wondered aloud as two of them bumped chests then staggered around, laughing. “And why do they keep looking over at us?”

  They were miming falling into a pool, LoriAnne realized. A flush crept up her cheeks. “’Cause they’re jerks,” she said with a savage stab of her fork into a tamale. No way was she going to tell her bandmates about her “big splash.” Instead she informed every skeeter within a thousand yards exactly where to get themselves a nice juicy meal. “When I was walking with one of the Jokertown Mob players earlier, a bunch of them acted like they didn’t want to get near him and made nasty faces like he smelled.” She took a bite then realized everyone was looking at her. Cassie was outright staring.

  “You were hanging out with a joker?” Greg breathed at the same time Cassie said, “Which one?”

  LoriAnne put her fork down, relieved to see that Mr. Sloane, at least, was smiling. “The guitarist. Asti. I met him down at the pool. We talked and, well, he’s really nice. I ran into him again when I got off the elevator.”

  Greg muttered something LoriAnne couldn’t catch, but he looked more envious than upset. Howard wiped his mouth with a napkin. “That’s the guy with the peach-fuzz skin, right, LoriAnne?”

  “Yeah. And his head fizzes.” Then she smiled. “Plus, he smells ah-maze-ing.”

  “He can really shred a guitar,” Howard said. “He was killing it before the smoke bomb went off.”

  “The Plano shitbrains are still looking at us,” Greg said with a scowl. “And now they’re doing that stupid laughing-behind-their-hands thing.”

  “Ignore them,” Mr. Sloane said. “If you rise to the bait, you lower yourself to their level.”

  Greg’s forehead puckered. “If you rise up then lower down, don’t you end up in the same place?” He ducked as Cassie, Howard, and LoriAnne flung tortilla chips at him.

  Mr. Sloane laughed under his breath and placed his napkin on the table. “On that philosophical note, I believe it’s time for me to retire. Enjoy your evening, don’t forget the curfew, and be sure to get plenty of sleep tonight. We get to do it all again tomorrow, but even better.”

  He left to a chorus of “Good night!”

  “I’m going to head upstairs, too,” Cassie said, then added to LoriAnne, “I might be asleep by the time you come in, so please be quiet.”

  “Gee, no impromptu drum solo?”

  Cassie laughed and pointed to the sticks beside LoriAnne’s plate. “Never know with you.”

  After Cassie left, Greg and Howard fell to talking about sports. LoriAnne grabbed her sticks and escaped the table, scanning for Asti. She spotted him on the other side of the room, peering at his phone. Not far from him, Basilio sat slumped and alone except for a scrawny busboy clearing plates from the next table over.

  Basilio was the last person she felt like talking to at the moment, but fortunately he had his back to her and didn’t notice as she worked her way past him.

  However, she was close enough to clearly hear the busboy grumble, “Don’t get paid enough to clean up after joker slime.”

  She whirled, ready to rip the kid a new one, but Basilio shot to his feet.

  “Joker slime? Do you have the guts to say that to a joker’s face?” He made a sweeping gesture toward a startled Asti. “No? That’s what I thought.” Basilio took a step closer. “I bet you’ve never even talked to a joker before, but your bigoted little brain tells you it’s okay to spout insulting bullshit.”

  The busboy’s face went white as everyone nearby stared at him. With a gulp, he scuttled away like a roach seeking cover. Basilio turned to stalk off then stopped in his tracks at the sight of LoriAnne.

  He flushed. “Um. Hey, LoriAnne.”

  “Wow. Basilio. That was incredible.” No way was that staged. “I don’t get it,” she said, shaking her head. “What was all that by the pool?”

  His blush went crimson. “I was just trying to flatter you,” he said miserably. “It was so stupid. I swear I’m not really like that.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled. “I see that now.”

  Asti ran up, grinning. “Bas, that was the coolest thing ever.”

  Basilio managed a sickly smile. “Um, thanks, but I probably came down too hard on the guy. I can be a real ass.”

  “Pretty sure that applies to everyone,” Asti replied. “It was still wicked impressive.”

  A man in a suit approached, wearing a hotel name tag that read Mr. Summit.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said smoothly to Basilio, “but I noticed you had an altercation with Melvin.” He flicked a glance toward the busboy just as the awkward teen knocked over a glass of water. Summit’s face tightened as Melvin struggled to mop it up with his apron.

  “It’s all right,” Basilio said. “I overreacted. I don’t want him to get into any trouble because of me.”

  Mr. Summit pressed his lips together as if holding back from speaking his mind. LoriAnne had a feeling this wasn’t Melvin’s first screwup.

  An incredibly tall and slender man stepped up to them. “Is everything all right?”

  LoriAnne glanced up then stared. It was Rubberband. From American Hero. Beside her.

  “It’s no big deal,” Basilio insisted, clearly growing uncomfortable with the attention. “We’re good. I promise.”

  Mr. Summit looked at Rubberband then back to Basilio. He forced a tight smile. “Thank you for being so understanding,” he said, then marched off. LoriAnne half expected him to smack the back of Melvin’s head, but he settled for a death-glare.

  “Thanks, Mr. Ruttiger,” Asti said to Rubberband. “None of us wanted a scene.”

  “I understand completely, Asti. I’m glad it all worked out.” He gave polite nods to Basilio and LoriAnne then walked off in an odd, flowing gait.

  LoriAnne suppressed a groan as she plopped to sit at Basilio’s table. An American Hero contestant had been right next to her, and she’d stood there like a lump of cheese. “Is Rubberband one of your teachers?” she asked Asti.

  “Guidance counselor.” He smacked his forehead, sending up a fountain of bubbles. “I forgot to introduce you! I’m so sorry. Let me go get him.” He started to move off, but LoriAnne seized his arm.

  “Jeez, not now! I’ll look like a weird, pathetic fangirl.”

  Basilio sat and mock-furrowed his brow. “You’re saying you aren’t a weird, pathetic fangirl?”

  “Guilty as charged.” LoriAnne laughed and tugged Asti into a seat. “But that doesn’t mean I want to advertise it.”

  “Speaking of pathetic,” Asti said in a low voice. “Our friend Melvin is on his phone in the corner. Anyone else figure he’s calling Mommy?”

  “Nonsense,” LoriAnne said with a straight face. “I’m sure he’s simply checking in with his hot girlfriend.”

  Basilio snickered. “You mean his right hand?”

  All three erupted in laughter.

  “Okay, enough picking on poor Melvin,” LoriAnne said, wiping her eyes. “Poor dude wishes he could be a wild card instead of a loser in the genetic lottery.”

  Asti winced. “You’re probably right, LoriAnne. ‘I’m not ugly, I’m a joker.’”

  “Oh, crap!” She cringed. “Asti, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m so sorry.”

  “I know. It’s cool. Really.” He smiled, but there was a whisper of sadness in it that made her chest tighten.

  Basilio narrowed his eyes. “Please don’t tell me you ever think of yourself as ugly—joker or not.”

  To LoriAnne’s relief, a true smile bloomed across Asti’s face. “Not lately, but everyone has their own insecurities.”

  She leaned forward. “Speaking of wild cards, have either of you heard of TheFeels?
”

  “Sure have!” Asti said. “I found his YouTube channel last month. Absolutely kickass.”

  “I’ve memorized all of his recordings,” she gushed. “He’s incredible.”

  Basilio looked at them blankly. “Who is TheFeels?”

  “Nobody knows.” Asti spread his hands. “‘TheFeels’ is just his online handle. He’s this mysterious joker-ace musician who only comes out at night and never stays in any one place for long. No one’s ever seen his face, but I’ve heard rumors that he’s in town.”

  LoriAnne nodded emphatically. “I’m absolutely determined to hear him play while I’m in San Antonio.”

  “Wait.” Basilio frowned. “Is that the guy Bambi Coldwater posted about? Wears a hood and has really white hands?”

  “That’s the one,” LoriAnne said, with an Ugh! face for the Bambi mention.

  “Okay. Yeah. Sure. TheFeels.” Basilio rubbed his jaw, eyes flicking from Asti to LoriAnne. “Y’know, I heard someone talking about him in the elevator earlier today. Said they’d seen him busking down at the Alamo the last couple of nights.”

  LoriAnne lunged across the table and seized Basilio’s arm. “They did? When? Where?”

  “Ow! Yikes. Um, all they said was the Alamo. And I dunno when, but it would have to be after dark, right?”

  LoriAnne released Basilio and eased back, pulse quickening as she checked her watch. “It’s nine fifteen. Curfew isn’t until ten. The Alamo is only four blocks away. A ten-minute walk at most. Plenty of time to get there, look around for him, and get back.”

  “And what if he’s there?” Asti asked, eyebrow cocked.

  “Then I’ll have twenty minutes to listen!” And with luck, she could also warn him about Bambi Coldwater’s nastiness.

  “I’ll go with you,” Basilio said quickly, then gave a diffident shrug. “I mean, because it’s a strange city and all. Probably best to not walk alone at night.”

  “Count me in,” Asti said.

  Basilio grimaced. “That’s probably not a good idea,” he said, waving a hand at Asti’s fizzy head. “I mean, there’s no mistaking you’re a joker. And with those protesters around …”

  Asti pulled the hood of his jacket up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “It’s dark. No one will see my fuzz or fizz.” He grinned. “Relax. This’ll be fun.”

  “Yeah,” Basilio said with a weak smile. “Fun.”

  Excitement rose within LoriAnne, fierce and sharp. “Perfect. Let’s roll.”

  They slipped out of the ballroom then sauntered out to the street and headed east. Yet they’d barely reached the first intersection when Asti stiffened.

  “Crap. That’s one of our chaperones.” At the far end of the next block, streetlights glinted off the distinctive metallic form of Rustbelt. “Damn. He’s really nice, but he won’t want to take any chances on us getting back in time.”

  “Then we’ll avoid the problem,” Basilio said, and steered them left at the corner. “Did he see us?”

  “Can’t imagine he did,” Asti said. “I only knew it was him because of the metal.”

  They hustled up the street with a weird jostling for position. Basilio kept trying to walk next to LoriAnne, which was fine with her as long as she had Asti on the other side. But Asti kept shifting to put Basilio between them.

  Is Asti mad at me for something? she wondered. Or maybe I’ve been coming on too strong, and he’s trying to get some distance from me. What if he doesn’t really like nats? What if he thinks of me as just a kid?

  To distract herself from silly fretting, she pulled a drumstick from her pocket and began to twirl it between her fingers. At the next corner, they hung a right onto a one-lane street called Peacock Alley. Barred windows and NO PARKING signs dotted the walls along with unmarked metal doors that LoriAnne figured led to storage or maintenance rooms or the backs of shops. It wasn’t scary, but she wouldn’t have minded one bit if there were more streetlights and fewer shadows.

  The who-stood-next-to-whom issue became moot as it ceased to be practical to walk three abreast. Asti fell back as a group of adults in dressy clothes walked by with barely a glance in the trio’s direction. A few seconds later, a college-aged guy skateboarded past from behind, all the while jabbering into his cell phone about the appetizers at the new bar and grill on Houston Street. As he rounded the far corner, a metal door opened on the right, and three guys stepped out, followed by a purple-haired girl wearing a beat-up leather jacket about ten sizes too big.

  One of the guys paused to light a cigarette, then all four headed down the alley in LoriAnne’s direction. They were older than high school age, but not by much. Eighteen or nineteen, she figured. The smoking guy and the girl led the way while the other two shuffled after them. One was tall and skinny with a wispy goatee. The other had a pirate tattoo on his forearm and a zombie-pirate face on his black T-shirt—with a rip through the eye patch, just big enough for a few scraggly chest hairs to poke out.

  A shiver of worry ran down LoriAnne’s spine. She was walking down a friggin’ alley in a strange city … at night. Mr. Sloane’s warning swam through her head, but LoriAnne didn’t need to wonder if this was stupid. She knew.

  Forget the Alamo. Forget TheFeels, she thought, gulping back a swell of panic. If she managed to make it out of this alley alive, she’d drag the others straight back to the hotel.

  The smoker gave them a chin lift and a “’Sup?” then all four continued on by without showing the slightest desire to murder her or her friends.

  LoriAnne released the breath she’d been holding. Jeez, overreact much? She checked her watch. Only nine twenty-five, and they were already more than halfway to the Alamo. She twirled and flipped her stick. They could still do this. No point chickening out now.

  At the far end of the block, heavy bass pounded from a passing car, vibrating the ground beneath their feet, and loud enough that LoriAnne barely heard Asti’s startled cry.

  She spun to see him staggering back, fizzy head exposed. Behind him, Pirate Guy gripped Asti’s hood in one hand.

  “It is them!” Pirate Guy exclaimed, to LoriAnne’s bafflement.

  “I knew I smelled a freak,” the girl said with an ugly laugh.

  “Let him go!” LoriAnne demanded as she silently called for her skeeter friends. To her dismay, the closest ones were at least a hundred yards away, by a stand of palm trees around the corner. Why hadn’t she thought to call her Louisiana skeeter back to her before she left the pool? Mosquitoes weren’t fast fliers. Heck, butterflies could lap them. They were buzzing in her direction even now, but it would be a few minutes before any of them reached her.

  Pirate Guy yanked hard on Asti’s hood, sending him sprawling to the asphalt.

  “Hey, peach smoothie!” Dumb Goatee jeered. “Is your girlfriend a freak, too?”

  Basilio let out a howl of rage then charged Dumb Goatee and slammed him up against the wall. He managed one good punch to Goatee’s ribs before Smoker grabbed him and hauled him back. Goatee punched Basilio hard in the gut. Basilio let out a choked gasp and folded.

  LoriAnne snatched her phone from her pocket then yelped as Pirate Guy smacked it out of her grasp. It skittered down the alley and into the shadows. “Help!” she shrieked.

  Smoker slapped a hand over her mouth and threw his arm around her waist, then hung on for dear life as she kicked and elbowed and bit. “Ow! Jesus, stop trying to scream—ow, fuck!”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Jacket Girl said with a disgusted roll of her eyes. “These asshole kids can’t take a fucking joke. Just get ’em inside.”

  LoriAnne jabbed her drumstick hard at Smoker’s thigh while she thrashed and twisted, but despite her best dirty-fighting efforts, the thugs succeeded in dragging her and her friends through the doorway.

  The metal door clanged shut. Smoker released LoriAnne and shoved her away. Asti caught her as she staggered, then they backed against the wall with Basilio. They were in a workshop of some sort, with benches and tables and tools
. A half-dozen empty beer cans littered the floor along with cigarette butts and a potato-chip bag.

  “Get their phones,” the girl ordered. “Don’t want any of them calling nine one one.”

  Smoker scowled and shook his hand as Goatee relieved Basilio and Asti of their phones. “The little bitch bit me!”

  “You attacked us,” LoriAnne shouted, her fierce defiance somewhat spoiled by the awful quaver in her voice.

  “Well, you attacked my little bro,” Pirate Guy said with a sneer. “Fair’s fair.”

  “We haven’t attacked anyone,” Asti retorted.

  “Oh yeah?” Pirate Guy pulled out his phone and thumbed his pass code in. “Hang on,” he muttered as it buzzed a rejection of the code. “I, uh, changed it the other day.” It buzzed again, and he swore. “Fuck. What the hell is my birthday?”

  Smoker gave him a perplexed frown. “You don’t know your own birthday?”

  “I know my birthday, dammit. I mean what number month is August?”

  Goatee started counting on his fingers, muttering, “January, February, March—”

  “Eight,” LoriAnne said, then exchanged a What the heck? look with the others.

  “Right. I knew that.” He entered the correct code then spent several seconds swiping and scrolling before finally announcing, “See?” He thrust the phone screen at them in triumph.

  LoriAnne, Basilio, and Asti peered at the image of the three of them after dinner, sitting at Basilio’s table.

  “What the hell?” Basilio said, echoed by Asti. LoriAnne stared, dumbfounded. Had Pirate Guy been at the hotel? And who was his little brother?

  “Melvin!” she cried out. “Your little brother is Melvin.”

  “Uh-huh.” Pirate Guy glared down his nose at them. “And you lot fucked with him.”

  “Oh my God, are you kidding me?” LoriAnne rolled her eyes.