Okaaaaaaaaaay, Michelle thought. This isn’t going to help stop him at all. She was about to try bursting Joe’s bubble, and then hit him with something concussive enough to knock him out, but she didn’t have the chance. Joe stopped. He gave a happy grunt, sat down, and looked over his shoulder.
Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody;
Gone are the cares of life’s busy throngs,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Joe began to shake and an electric pool formed underneath him. The bubble burst. And then he rapidly started to shrink. His fur began to slide into his skin, revealing pale flesh.
In an instant, Adesina flew to him and encircled them both with her wings. When they opened again, there was an eight-limbed joker there. It had four hands and four feet. It cartwheeled off fantastically fast, zipping across Alamo Street in the direction of the River Walk. Adesina rose up into the air, then flew to the other players.
“Okay, guys,” she yelled. “Let’s make it swing!”
The band kids began to riff on “Beautiful Dreamer.” LoriAnne, Antonia, and Basilio started using the garbage cans as drums. Suddenly, the sedate song had a fast, syncopated beat. Bacho started playing his bass; it was a little hard to hear him over the drums, but he did manage to get the bottom going. Just as Michelle thought he’d be drowned out altogether, Greg, the bass player from the Funkalicious Four, showed up with his upright bass. Together they thickened the sound up.
Kimmie did a quick, fluttery flute solo. Ghost ended up taking a wicked alto sax solo, trading back and forth with Sean and the sax player from the Plano Originals, who was the only Original aside from Kimmie who’d shown up to play.
And as Peter took his trumpet solo, Adesina nodded at Sharon, who took over and directed the musicians to start slowing the tempo of the song. It developed a cool, bluesy quality.
As the kids played, slowly the tourists came back to hear them. People smiled and bobbed their heads in time with the music. When “Beautiful Dreamer” was finally done, Mindy-Lou taking an impressive scat solo at the end, there was a clamor for more from the audience.
Sharon signed “Yardbird Suite,” and the Mob started playing. It was a hot and fast bebop standard. After a couple of bars, the rest of the band kids joined in.
“You do know this is going to be a huge problem,” Officer Reyes said to Michelle as they listened to the kids play. But he had a smile on his face.
“Yeah,” she replied. “But there wasn’t really any damage done. And see, the Alamo is fine. And no dead tourists—or anyone—so that’s a plus.”
“Texans are pretty emotional about the Alamo,” Reyes said. “It’s a good thing it’s intact.”
“I wouldn’t have let anything happen to it,” she replied. At least she was pretty sure she wouldn’t have.
“You going to come with me to make a statement? Or are you going to be a pain in my ass?”
Michelle pretended to think it over. “Hmmmm, you’re making it hard to decide there, Officer Krupke. Being a pain in your ass these last few days has really been a high point of this trip. But you did help out with the whole who-wanted-to-kill-my-kids thing, so I’ll do my best to comply.”
“You’re not going to be very popular with the locals.”
Michelle tucked her hair behind her ears, then jammed her hands in her pockets. “Wow, something I’m so not used to,” she said sarcastically.
They reached the cop car. The bent-in fender and human-size dent in the hood was worse than she remembered. “I’m guessing I’ll be paying for that,” Michelle said. “And for that other guy’s phone. And for some other stuff I’ve forgotten. And for those fines the city will be ladling on me.”
“What about your daughter? Sure looked like she aided and abetted the ape dude.”
“The ape dude? Is that really what you’re going to go with? The ape dude?”
Officer Reyes blushed. “I’ll come up with something better.”
“I hope so. He has a name. Joe.” Michelle sighed. “There are probably fifty people here who’ve recorded all this on their phones. It’s all over the Internet already. There’ll be a huge shitstorm for a few days until the next click-baity thing comes along. Adesina did what teenagers do: impulsive, stupid shit. And she was the one who stopped him.”
“And let him get away!”
“You’re really into the details, aren’t you? Look, I’ll come and see your superiors.” She let a quince-sized bubble float above her hand, then another. Eventually she had five and she began to let them spin in a circle hovering above her palm. “I’ll talk about how you and the Little Private over there helped me stop the giant ape—with help from all those band kids, of course. There won’t be a dry eye in the house by the time I’m done.”
“You think you can do that?” He gave her the side-eye.
“Cake.”
He smiled. “I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“Ha! More like a one-night stand gone horribly awry. The full Fatal Attraction,” she replied.
“That doesn’t sound pleasant.”
“I know. Right?!”
SUNDAY
Bubbles and the Band Trip
Part 13
THE WEATHER HAD HELD and it was a beautiful cool morning when Michelle and the Mob stepped outside the Gunter to board their bus home. Both God’s Weenies and the joker protesters were gone. The media had vanished as well. No doubt there was some other Drama of the Moment that they needed to feed on.
Her phone gave a chirp and she checked her text messages. There was a short one from Creighton: Thanks for the help. Sorry about Joe. Maybe we can make an adjustment on your bill.
“Wait! Wait up!” Kimmie called. She dashed across the sidewalk to Adesina and Peter. “I’m going to miss you guys so much!” Then she threw her arms around Adesina. They hugged and then Kimmie turned her attention to Peter. Michelle expected a big emotional scene, but this was just a friendly goodbye, nothing Michelle would have expected after the past week.
Adesina got on the bus, and a few moments later rushed out. “OMG! Mom! You totes won’t believe this! It’s the best thing ever!” She grabbed Michelle by the hand and dragged her onto the bus. There, on one of the front seats, was Adesina’s bass. On the seat next to it was Peter’s trumpet.
There was a note written on an evidence tag attached to the bass. It said:
You’d never believe it, but sometimes evidence goes missing in certain police cases. It would be awkward should this ever be mentioned again. Try to stay out of San Antonio, Mrs. Bubbles.
“Mom,” Adesina said, looking as if she was about to cry. “You told me I wasn’t going to get it back.”
“I guess you just got lucky,” Michelle said. “Go get your case. And tell Peter to grab his, too.” Adesina leapt off the bus with a whoop.
Michelle picked up Adesina’s bass. It was heavy. Its purple sparkle finish was beautiful, though nothing Michelle would ever have chosen. But it was Adesina’s style, at least for now.
A few moments later, Adesina and Peter climbed back aboard. Adesina turned to Michelle and pulled her into a fierce hug. “Thank you so much for being the most awesome mother ever! You were amaze balls!” Adesina giggled. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Michelle kissed Adesina’s forehead. “But you’re still grounded for forever when we get home.”
Adesina pouted. Michelle wanted to laugh. “Okay, maybe just for a month.” She returned Adesina’s hug, then released her. A bubble began to form in her right hand, then one in her left. Michelle made them rubbery tough, but light enough to float. Then she batted both to the back of the bus. “Go on, get those instruments packed up.”
While Adesina and Peter were putting their instruments away, Michelle got off the bus. Outside, she saw that the cinnamon-haired drummer, LoriAnne from the Funkalicious Four, was giving
Asti a big hug and sniffing him at the same time. Cesar Chao seemed to have recovered from his date with Jade Blossom and was awkwardly asking Marissa to keep in touch. All around her, the members of the Mob were saying goodbye to the friends they’d made during the course of the competition.
For a moment, she relaxed. She’d made it to the end of the competition and was still standing. Maybe she had a handle on this teenager thing after all. A surge of pride and happiness soared through her. Her kids were going to be all right. Michelle smiled and decided she wouldn’t rush them, and then turned around and got back on the bus. In the last row, she saw Adesina and Peter. They began to kiss, and as they did, Adesina’s wings enveloped them.
Oh no, Michelle thought. No, no, nope. I am not ready for this. Nope. Nope. Nope.
But to her horror, she was going to have to face it. There was no going back.
Adesina really was a teenager now.
Keep reading for an excerpt of Knaves Over Queens
A Flint Lies in the Mud
by Kevin Andrew Murphy
September 15th, 1946
‘AND THEN,’ PADDY O’REILLY continued, whisky tumbler upraised, ‘we thundered down the mountainside, clutching the canopy poles of our elephant’s howdah, a hundred angry Kali cultists behind us, waving their knives and their crimson Thuggee sashes!’
‘My darling Timothy Patrick Xavier,’ the beautiful Chandra Ratri intoned in her Bengali lilt, ‘there were no more than fifty,’ she laid a delicate brown hand upon his freckled forearm, ‘and half were from the temple of Ganesh.’ Her fingers squeezed gently but firmly, flashing a diamond-encrusted wedding ring, ‘and most were my relatives and not,’ she shook her head, making the maang tikka pendant on her forehead sway, the pigeon’s blood star ruby at its heart winking above her bindi, ‘cultists,’ she added emphatically, pouting her coral-painted lips up at him from where she sat nestled in the silk damask loveseat.
‘Forgive my Fenian poetics, my lotus,’ Paddy gazed down, emerald eyes pleading, ‘I meant “worshippers”.’ Paddy’s name and colouring might be Irish, but his accent and demeanour were decidedly American.
Chandra turned away, her tawny topaz eyes flashing. ‘I will consider it,’ she pronounced, then took a sip of her cocktail, still unmollified.
Brigadier Kenneth Foxworthy sweltered in the armchair nearer the fireplace, puffing his pipe as he observed the couple with considerable amusement. They had retired to the far end of the Queen’s Salon for post-prandials. Foxworthy wished he could remove his dress jacket, but it would be unbecoming of an officer of His Majesty’s Army. Yet the O’Reillys’ company was worth some discomfort: the Irish American animal trapper and the Bengali princess or priestess or some such were easily the two most engaging dining companions he’d found and a distraction Foxworthy desperately needed.
‘We Bengalis do not forgive so easily,’ Chandra chided Paddy, setting her cocktail on the coffee table. ‘Nor forget. I am the elephant’s daughter.’ She smiled then, flashing teeth white as ivory. ‘I will require a kiss.’
Paddy leaned down, paying his fine honourably, while Foxworthy hid his smile with another sip of excellent single malt. Then suddenly the whisky sloshed out of his glass and into his face as Paddy stumbled forward, barking his shins on the table. Chandra’s highball glass tipped over and shattered, filling the air with the scent of cognac and champagne.
‘Merciful Kali!’ Chandra exclaimed. ‘What was that?’
A purserette ran up and threw a bar towel over the mess. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ she reassured Chandra, ‘just a patch of rough water. Another King’s Ruin?’
‘That, my lotus, was not “rough water”,’ Paddy told his bride as soon as the purserette left. ‘That was trouble.’
Foxworthy agreed: the Queen Mary had slowed, suddenly and precipitously. And if they’d felt the lurch here in first class, the stable centre section, Foxworthy did not like to think how it had been felt in cabin class at the stern, let alone tourist class in the bow.
Foxworthy exchanged a glance with Paddy. The animal trapper nodded curtly, saying, ‘Brigadier, perhaps you might speak with the commodore while I check on my tigers?’
Foxworthy removed his pipe. ‘You have tigers on board?’
‘In the kennels,’ Paddy explained. ‘A pair for the Hyde Park Zoo, but young so I was able to reserve the St Bernard crates. Hyde Park New York, not London.’
‘Ah,’ said Foxworthy, ‘last I saw tigers, I was a boy.’ Well, living tigers. The bombing of Berlin’s Tiergarten had been horrid. ‘But a sound plan.’ Foxworthy rose, looking up at the American. Paddy was a strapping fellow, standing half a head taller than him for all that Foxworthy stood an even six foot one. ‘Reconvene here once we have our intelligence?’
Paddy nodded as Chandra rose. She was no delicate flower either, only appearing dainty in comparison to her husband. ‘I shall remain. Gossip has five hundred tongues and a thousand eyes and the monkeys chatter most when they visit the watering hole.’ She indicated the bar, her diamonds flashing. ‘I will listen with the ears of Ganesh.’
‘Very good.’ Foxworthy puffed his pipe and left the honeymooners to their parting kiss while he went to see the commodore.
Foxworthy wondered what the trouble might be. The Atlantic, while not particularly calm now, was not notably rough either. He knew that just four years ago, in ’42, the Queen Mary, in her zigzagging to evade Nazi U-boats, had hit one of her escort vessels, the Curacoa, slicing straight through. Over three hundred died that day, and all the Queen Mary had felt was a bump. He’d read the reports. And once, while transporting over sixteen thousand American soldiers from New York to England, she had been struck by a rogue wave so great she had almost capsized.
But that was almost. If she’d capsized, it would have been the greatest maritime disaster since the Titanic. It wasn’t.
That dubious distinction was one Foxworthy was all too familiar with, to his everlasting shame. It had been only a year ago, in Lübeck. The day before, the British Army had taken the city without resistance. That day, in a show of force, the RAF sank three ships in the harbour.
In between the sinking of the first vessel and the second, one of Lübeck’s citizens somehow made her way through the gauntlet of junior officers to beg him to stop the bombings. Her son, the woman had cried, was aboard the Cap Arcona. Foxworthy rebuffed her pleas: the Cap Arcona had not surrendered, and, like the Queen Mary, she had been a luxury liner. She could hold battalions. If she disgorged them, the battle for Lübeck would be bloody.
The woman swore only her son and a few other soldiers were aboard, but by the time she told him who else it held, it had been too late. He’d watched the bombs drop.
The Cap Arcona was no troop transport but a floating prison, packed with inmates from the concentration camps. The SS Thielbek as well. And the Deutschland was a hospital ship, her funnels painted white, a red cross on the side. Seven thousand innocents perished at British hands that day.
But the war was over, and the Queen Mary was not perilously overloaded with troops, just fully booked for the last days of summer with everyone from American soldiers returning home with British brides to the wealthy resuming their former pastime of taking the ‘shuttle’ to enjoy the splendours of New York. Which meant over two thousand passengers and one thousand crew at risk.
Foxworthy rounded through Piccadilly Circus, the nexus of luxury shops at the heart of first class, and took the stairs up to the bridge. He hoped he was overreacting, but six years of war bred a certain wariness. Men who relaxed ended up dead, often taking many others with them.
When he arrived at the bridge he found the door closed, but activity could be observed through the windows. Commodore Ford was talking animatedly, his great head looking down at one of the junior officers. Foxworthy was unable to get Ford’s attention, or anyone else’s for that matter, but it was bright inside and dark out and they were deeply engaged. He rapped sharply, then waited, puffing his pipe.
It had gone out.
He took out his lighter. It had been his father’s, carried through the trenches of the Great War, adorned with Edward VII on one side, Britannia on the other, the lighter’s sides formed from two pennies from almost half a century ago.
The flint wheel spun expertly beneath Foxworthy’s thumb, steel striking stone, a cascade of sparks catching the wick alight. He clenched the amber bit, puffing until the tobacco caught and he was able to pull in a proper draw, savouring the taste of Ye Olde Signe, his favourite blend, a parting gift from his sweetheart, Alice. He wished he could taste her lips instead: Lady Alice Camden, with her chestnut-brown curls and cornflower-blue eyes, whom he would see again at the end of this deplorable journey, whom he could at last ask to be his wife …
Then another pair of blue eyes caught his and he snapped to attention.
‘Good evening, Brigadier Foxworthy,’ said the crewman. He was young, athletic, of medium height, with a public school accent and a peculiarly rich voice. ‘Lieutenant Waters. I am afraid the bridge is off-limits to passengers at the moment. ‘Commodore Ford—’
‘—can speak for himself,’ said Commodore Ford, patting the young lieutenant on the shoulder. ‘That will be all, Waters.’ Waters made his exit and the commodore took his place, looming in the doorframe. ‘Brigadier Foxworthy, this is not the most opportune—’
‘I’ve noticed,’ Foxworthy said. ‘How may I be of assistance?’
Commodore Ford stared down at him. ‘Help prevent a panic. We don’t want wild rumours circulating.’ The commodore glanced around, then said in a low tone, ‘The port of New York is closed. Reports as to why are confused to say the least. We may need to divert to Baltimore, but for now we’re idling the engines.’
‘Confused in what way?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’ He waved a large hand as if he were shooing invisible flies. ‘Reports of a bomb but then that the dropping of the bomb had been prevented. A small aircraft colliding with a weather balloon. And some mention of Jetboy.’
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