by Dick Wybrow
Hood blinked quickly and glanced down, fighting every urge to move his feet.
"What?" the massive holographic head asked someone on his side of the transmission. "I don't know! I'm not a tech person!"
"Sir," Hood said and cleared his throat. "Maybe if you train the camera—"
"Now I can only see a Coke can." The head shuddered and rolled. "I have said clearly in the past, I do not talk to feet or beverages!"
"No, Mr. Janus, sir, it's me. Hood."
"Hood?" Janus asked, screwing up his face. "Are you talking… from a can?"
The Hooded One walked over to the large circular disk, being sure to avoid the flames shooting up at its edges. He ran his hands across the black base, found the camera with his fingertips, and tilted it upward.
He returned to his seat, crossing his feet at the ankles.
"Ah!" Janus's large floating head grinned, showing both layers of teeth. "There you are."
"You pinged me, sir?"
"Yes, I haven't heard about our little acquisition for a while," Janus said, the holographic head throbbing. "How is that going?"
"On track."
"What does that mean, 'on track'? Do you have the little cretin or not?"
Hood shifted in his seat, took a sip of his soda, and leaned forward. "It, well…" He cleared his throat. "It's just taking a little time. We've had an alert that he's been spotted, but there is another… challenge."
"Do you mean problem?" Janus asked, his floating head growing slightly larger. "Are you saying challenge instead of problem?"
The man in the hoodie cleared his throat. "The what when?"
"Challenge! I invented that corporate double-talk!" Janus said. "Came up with it when I was CEO of Baby Gap—"
"Oh, Christ," Hood muttered.
"We had a terrible run. Awful," Janus said, staring off. "Not my doing. Some other flake. Indestructible bibs! So much promise."
"Right."
"But the lead was too heavy, it seems." A hand came up from nowhere and scratched the large forehead. "Stupid babies kept, you know, falling forward into their smashed peas or something. Very strange. Couldn't be avoided despite what the class action suit ruled."
"Courts, am I right?"
"However, those challenges, as I'd brilliantly framed them, were in fact problems." Janus leered with raised eyebrows. "Do we have a problem?"
"Hopefully not," Hood said. "It seems the old man has sent some, uh, cowboy… cowgirl after the Actor."
"The Devil, uh, the 'old man,'" Janus said, two hands doing the air quote thing, "is temporarily out of commission after that business last year at the crossroads. Doing some me time in the seventh dimension for a while, I've heard."
"Then whoever is running the show," Hood said, "they've got this gunslinger chasing him. Sally Scull. The other side is trying to kill the actor before we can get to him."
The head suddenly grew twice its size. "What difference does it make? He'll be compelled to arrive at your door in two days' time!"
"Not if the other side kills him first. We've had run-ins with Sally Scull before. She's good."
"Whatever," Janus said. "Get rid of her."
"Can't. She's part of their admin team," Hood said, sighing. "Can't be killed. At least not without starting a war."
"Then buy her an old saloon or something!"
Hood laughed softly. "Thought of that. We can't seem to get ahold of her. She's kind of… old-timey."
"You run a social network! Can't you, uh, social her? In some way?"
"It doesn't really work that way."
"What does that mean?"
Hood bent his thin lips into a smile and reached down for his Coke. "Well, she's not one of our users. She's a nineteenth-century gunslinger. Not really our demographic."
The head spun in place for a moment. "I thought gunslinging was eighteenth century."
"Either way," Hood said, taking a sip and replacing the can. "One of our low-level peons spotted her motorcycle, so we're now tracking its GPS signal. At the moment, she's moving very quickly across Mexico." The social network boss pulled out his phone and tapped on it a few times. "In fact, unbelievably fast. Hmm. That doesn't seem right."
"What? It… so she has the Actor or not?"
"I think, so far… not."
"Good! Then get someone in there and nab him!"
"Already on it. One of our freelancers—"
"Words, words, words." Janus's massive floating head rolled briefly. "If you want to save your 'friends network' from ruin, you need to get a handle on this. Just do it!"
The holographic head shrank into a singular dot then disappeared with a pop.
The Hooded One sighed and finished off his soda, staring into the shooting flames and the big empty space where the chairman of Hell Inc. had been moments earlier.
One day, I'll be running the whole show, he thought and was warmed by the idea. Or it might have been the flames.
He looked down at his phone after the freelancer he'd tried to tell Janus about, Digger, pinged him. Digger had found the Actor.
Chapter Seventeen
The Greyhound bus was still two hours outside of El Paso, but the couple felt it was quiet enough, dark enough on the bus for a bit of fooling around. The driver had extinguished the lights sometime after Tuscaloosa, but it had taken a while for the passengers to get the hint.
After the old guy behind them finally put down his paperback and switched off the light, the time was right.
"We're going to get caught," the woman said, her voice sounding more hopeful than worried. Her husband tucked the gray blanket behind her shoulder and began fumbling for his belt.
For her part, she had stripped off her black underwear fifty miles back and stuffed them into his pocket. Her skirt was lifted just above her hips.
There wasn't any sort of plan, just a bit of lust fun to pass the time on a remote part of I-20. The anticipation had taken both of them to the brink. It would only take a few minutes.
And the conditions were right. The hum of the old diesel engine would cover any sort of grunts, rude noises, and last-minute refusals. The lights were dimmed. They were ready.
"Mom."
They were not ready.
"What?" the woman said, fumbling with the blanket. Dad barely seemed to notice. "I mean, sweetheart, you said you wanted to look at the stars."
"I know, but—"
"Well, the seat in the back, way at the back, has the best view. You can look up and—"
"Mom, I was looking. I even found the Pleiades when we came over the ridge."
"Stop it!" the woman scolded.
"Stop what?" the girl asked as her mother's hand pushed her father's face toward the glass. Thunk. "Can I sit up there with you guys?"
"No," the man said, and his wife pressed his face harder against the window.
"Do you want to use the binoculars, sweetheart?" Mom asked.
"No." The girl pointed at the aisle seat. "I want to sit up there. There's a woman back here in a cowboy hat talking and acting weird."
"Oh, honey," her mother said. "It's public transportation. You'll have to lower your standards."
"But she's arguing. With her hand!"
"What?"
"She's got her hand up to her face, her finger's in her ear, and she's arguing with it!"
* * *
"Miss Sally," the Advocate said through the tip of the gunslinger's finger. "Please understand that we already approved a suitable vehicle for your task. We are not Hertz, by Devil!"
"Sure, but you do own Hertz, right?"
"We have majority holdings with all of the world's car hires, yes—they do wonders to jack up humankind's misery index. But merely because we own the lot doesn't mean you can just get another like you change your underwear."
"I don't change my underwear."
"Jesus wept," the Advocate said. "Retrieve what you had before making any other requisitions."
Sally eyeballed the young girl arguing with
her parents in the aisle ahead.
She'd successfully taken up the rear seat of the motor coach, far from the prying ears and eyes of the normies. It had taken a succession of carefully choreographed scowls to finally get the young girl to leave.
"Fine. I'm following their trail right now. I should have one hell-born motorcycle and one dead actor before too long."
"Tracking? Oooh, that is impressive," the Advocate said. "The skills of the western frontier woman never cease to amaze. However, those skill have yet to put a hole in the head of your target."
She silently gave the finger to her other fingertip, still hearing the tinny voice bleeding from it. She'd never been a phone person because when she'd been living her "normal" life, they hadn't existed.
Hell's version of cell phones, known as FU Mobility, was mainly used for the handlers down in the home office to talk to those on Earth. The process was simple—agents would cup a hand to their head, speak into the palm and listen through the tip of the middle finger.
It was surprisingly clever, which led Sally to believe the technology had been stolen from someone else, probably the Chinese.
"I'll get it done, but there is a wrinkle. He's got help."
"Help?"
"He's picked up some loser friend of his. That's the prick who stole my bike."
"Who is it?"
"There was a stack of unpaid bills on his counter of his horrible little home. His name is Rasputin Frewer."
Sally could hear the Advocate grind his teeth over the line. "He is a particularly annoying festering thorn in the side, but don't shoot him."
"Why not?"
A sigh. "Just stick to your task," the Advocate said. "Time is running out."
"Time for what? Why do y'all want this one guy dead so bad?"
"That's not your concern. Your job is to kill him so we've got the little bastard down here with us. Get it done." With that, he clicked off.
Sally dug into her satchel and took a pull from her flask. A moment later, she chucked a bit of dried meat into her mouth and chewed but didn't enjoy it. Inside her bag, something buzzed.
She pulled out her backup mobile phone—her other was currently strapped between the handlebars of her motorcycle—and tapped on the screen. Hours ago, she'd seen the little dot was in Mexico, so she had switched coaches at the Shreveport station.
Watching the dot for a moment, she smiled. The Actor was on the move again, and he was heading in her direction.
Chapter Eighteen
Uncle Jerry licked his fingertip before turning the page. He stared over the top of the book and watched the young boy in the chair bobbing his tiny leg in and out of the reddening sliver of sunlight pouring into the room.
"I hope my storytelling ain't boring you, lil' man." The old man smiled with cracked lips. "Thought you liked this one, Pablo."
Pablo rested his head on the armrest of the chair, his crown tucked into the crook of his elbow, as he watched the old man, who'd grown skinnier in recent weeks, sitting on the bed and leaning against the wall.
"No comes lo suficiente," Pablo muttered, frowning.
"Uh, well…" Uncle Jerry scratched the scruff on his chin. "I can only read what you bring me. But hell, I can't really understand much of your language anyhow." The old man sat up and leaned forward then started coughing. He bent in half, wheezing, trying to get it to stop because his fits would sometimes scare Pablo. After a few moments, he got it under control.
When he looked up, Pablo was standing in front of him, holding a glass of water.
"Much obliged." Uncle Jerry smiled. He took the glass. The water was warm and had a strange metallic aftertaste, but he was glad for it. Or maybe just glad for the kindness of someone in that place.
"¿Estás bien, Uncle Jerry?"
"Bien… bien… good?" the old man asked. "Yeah, yeah, it's good. Water's best thing for you! You know, your body is made up of ninety-nine percent water. And as far as a I know, one percent bullshit!"
The boy laughed, mainly because his friend did, his brown eyes twinkling.
"That's just adults, though," he said. "Kids are all right. But one day… they do grow into adults."
Pablo smiled, looking down at his hands, getting up from his chair, and sitting down next to Jerry. He kicked his tiny legs, banging his calves softly on the harsh metal edge of the bed.
Uncle Jerry looked back at the book. He had no idea what the title meant, but it showed what he imagined was an Old West scene. A saloon, a woman in a fancy dress playing a piano, and two men nearby playing cards. One man was looking at the woman. The other man was watching the other man.
He'd guessed it was probably some love triangle story, but the tale he "read" from it to little Pablo was about a quest for treasure. The man dressed in black, he explained to the boy, his name was Captain Jack, and he rode a horse named Pearl.
The other man was named Orlando, and the woman in the fancy dress was called Keira, and they were searching for some old hidden pirates' cave full of treasure.
The boy never questioned why there would be a pirate cave out in the Old West. In part because he likely enjoyed listening to Uncle Jerry talk. Also, he knew about as much English as the old man knew Spanish.
"Listen," Uncle Jerry said, scooting back and leaning on the wall again. "Let's read the book again, but you see, there's another version of this very same book." He tapped the faded cover with a big smile on his face.
Pablo looked up and smiled back, nodding slowly.
"You see, it's about a guy named Frodo… that's the one at the table holding the jack and the ace of spades," Uncle Jerry said. "And the other guy is Sam. Sam Wise. You see, they're both something called hobbits."
"Hobbits?" the boy asked, perking up.
"You know hobbits, yeah?" The old man laughed. "Well, that's good. This is one of their stories, very famous. I'm not exactly sure who the woman is here… there weren't a lot of women in the whole running around through the hills stuff. Could be a dude in women's clothing, who know—"
The door flew open, making the two in the room jump.
A large man, reeking of whiskey and cigarettes, hand still on the bent knob, leered at Uncle Jerry. Then his eyes slid to Pablo sitting near Uncle Jerry's feet. "What the hell is this, old man?" the gunman at the door snarled. "Fuck you doing?"
"Reading to Pablo."
"What?" The greasy man laughed. "What the hell for? He doesn't understand you. And," he said, grabbing the little boy by the wrist and wrenching him off the bed, "he's not supposed to be within an arm's length of you. You know that."
"He sat there"—Uncle Jerry closed his book and put it on the bed beside him—"on his own."
"Right. Maybe. Maybe not," the man said. "Too close. Silvio would shit kittens if he knew his boy was anywhere near you."
"Pablo is always safe with me," Uncle Jerry said. He nodded to the door with his chin. "Out there? I'm thinking not so much."
"You're not here to think, old man." The man's eyes were glassy, his stance unsteady. "And it gives me the creeps to see you sitting close to the boy."
Uncle Jerry looked over at Pablo and saw the fear in the boy's eyes. When Pablo looked over at him, he realized Pablo's fear wasn't for himself.
"Hey, little man," Uncle Jerry said and smiled. "Why don't you go play with your Legos?"
"Legos?" The boy's face lit up.
"Yeah, Legos," Uncle Jerry said. "Me and Mr. Fuckwit are going to talk about our favorite authors for a while."
"Shut up!" the man in the door said. He eyeballed the boy as he got closer to the door.
Pablo turned to Uncle Jerry who, once again, smiled and made a gentle shoo shoo motion with his hand. After a long moment, the gunman moved halfway out of the door, and Pablo slipped from the room.
Uncle Jerry looked up and, for the first time, noticed a brown greasy bag in the man's hands. "Is that dinner?"
The man frowned. "It was." He looked down at it then threw it in the corner, far out of Uncle J
erry's reach. "You're flying tomorrow. No more reading. Get some sleep."
The old man eyeballed the corner and thought about saying something but instead lay back and closed his eyes. A moment later, he heard the door close, and he sat up, looking into the corner. Sorrow passed over him as he scanned the room, searching for anything he might use to retrieve whatever was in the greasy sack. He fought hard to not feel sad about it or start bawling.
Maybe the chair? If I could…
Then he heard a slight creak in the next room.
A moment later, Pablo's little face poked around Jerry's door. He smiled when he saw Jerry, put a finger to his lips, and said, "Shhh." On his tiptoes, he went to the corner, retrieved the bag, ran to the old man, and dropped down on the bed next to him. Again, he held a finger to his lips, and he held his other hand, palm up, facing Uncle Jerry.
The old man smiled through a sob and sucked in a deep breath. Then he sat up, patted the bag softly, and said, "Thank you, Pablo."
The boy frowned—but still smiled as he did—and twiddled the fingers of his upright hand. "Qui… qui-et high five," Pablo whispered.
"Si," the old man said. "Quiet high five."
Their palms met silently, then the boy skipped out of the room, leaving the old man to eat his dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast. Uncle Jerry couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.
Chapter Nineteen
The Actor wasn't happy, but since it seemed to be his natural disposition, I wasn't worried about his current position. That said, his current position was watching the world slip away, propped up on the motorcycle's luggage and strapped down securely with four bungee cords.
Anza yelled over the wind, "How much farther?"
I shook my head but then saw her pointing over my shoulder to a black rectangle between the handlebars. Tapping it brought the screen to life, displaying a map in the middle of which was a tiny dot capped with a tiny arrowhead, which looked a bit like a dunce hat on a head.