Mississippi Roll_A Wild Cards Novel Read online

  He’d fallen hard for her backstage at a corporate entertainment junket and woke up every single day shocked that she chose to spend time with him. She picked him! How did that happen? He was a nerd. A dork. Lame. Weird. He got by on schtick and little else. And yet, when he walked into a room, she smiled. They’d been together for six years now and he’d just about gotten to the point where he believed she didn’t stay just to be nice. Maybe, just maybe, she liked him, too.

  Dogs and cats, living together. He made that joke every night and people always laughed.

  She glanced at her phone, slipped it back in her bag, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Showtime, babe. Ready?”

  He couldn’t go on in a funk so he smiled broadly and spread his arms. “I’m always ready, hon.” He swished his tail, wiggled his ears. Yeah, he was ready.

  First, before they even went out onstage, he started with an illusion. Besides Sylvia’s music, this was what set them apart: Andrew could conjure illusions that looked and sounded like anything he wanted. They didn’t hold up to physical contact, but he didn’t need them to.

  First he made a kind of wall, a secondary curtain—really useful for a stage like this. Sylvia could set up without anyone seeing her. He could make the wall or curtain look scintillating, way more interesting that just a length of fabric. A waterfall coming out of the ceiling. A curtain of flowers. A rain of diamonds. People couldn’t help but pay attention.

  So the audience saw a waterfall right there onstage that looked and sounded real except that nothing got wet. Then a kind of jungle-y, rhumba-y version of “Bolero” played, and the waterfall parted, revealing Andrew and Sylvia transitioning to their first real number, a Latin-beat version of the Sinatra staple “Come Fly with Me.” It was meant to be retro and exotic and cheesy all at the same time, an elaborate tiki bar setting from an old movie.

  Andrew wasn’t a great singer—he’d had to take lessons when he went into show business. But what he lacked in skill he made up for with bravado. Expansive gestures, heartfelt crooning, winks to the audience.

  The song ended, and the banter started with Andrew announcing, “Hey, welcome to the Bayou Lounge, I’m so glad to see all your smiling faces. I see we’ve taken on some new folks at Baton Rouge—welcome to the Natchez, and the romance of the Mississippi. Hey, Sylvia, you up for a little romance?”

  “I love romance!”

  Andrew turned to the crowd with a lascivious grin and wink that really shouldn’t have gotten a laugh but did.

  Sylvia had worked up a slew of new arrangements for songs that weren’t usually part of the lounge singer routine. Instead of drawing on the Great American Songbook, she’d put together old-style swing and ragtime versions of grunge hits, crooner versions of heavy metal classics that most of their audience didn’t even recognize until they sang the chorus. Old Cole Porter songs done salsa and hip-hop style. They were hoping the new material would appeal to a younger crowd. Give them something new and amazing to work with. Show off Sylvia’s talent as a musician.

  The Bayou Lounge wasn’t really a theater, but a bar area with a stage big enough for a jazz trio and not much else. Plenty of room for him, Sylvia, and her keyboard and synthesizer setup. The bar ran along one side of the room, which occupied most of the rear of the Natchez’s middle boiler deck. Groups of tables and comfortable seating were clustered throughout the room. The stage lighting wasn’t much brighter than the house lights—the waitstaff had to be able to see to circulate among tables throughout the show. The bar and tables were polished wood, and brass fixtures on the lights and barstools gave the place a vintage look, but the whole veneer of the place was tired rather than antique. The Natchez was clean but she’d seen better days.

  Andrew was competent enough at this that he could look out and take stock. He noted a couple of the old biddies who’d been to every single one of their shows and made sure to smile just for them. Plenty of small groups didn’t seem to be paying attention to the show at all; an undercurrent of conversation ran under the music as people bent together to talk and sip their drinks. They’d probably have a better time if they went somewhere else on the boat, but it wasn’t like he could kick them out. Now, if they were being charged thirty bucks a head to get in …

  But no, this wasn’t Vegas. As much as he was tempted to drop an illusion of an exploding bomb or a giant scorpion in the middle of them, he let them be.

  A group of young things was at the bar. Recent college grads, looked like, the women in tiny cocktail dresses and the men in silk shirts and slacks. No older than mid-twenties, out partying on the money they got from brand-new professional jobs. Or maybe from brand-new newly vested trust funds, judging by the quality of some of the footwear.

  Andrew smirked inwardly, congratulating himself on being able to make an honest living—comparatively speaking—when he spotted something he shouldn’t have, and sort of wished he hadn’t. One of the men, a president-of-the frat, future-politician-looking white guy with a perfect blond haircut and a practiced smile, slipped a couple of pills in a tumbler of rum and Coke before sliding it over to a woman in a red flowered sheath dress and long black hair, stylishly tousled. The guy had very carefully blocked the view from her as he did so, deftly holding one hand just so as he dropped in the pills. But he didn’t block Andrew’s view of the act. Probably didn’t think he needed to. Andrew was just part of the background, after all. Hired help.

  In a tribute to his long experience, Andrew didn’t miss a beat, but kept on with their lounge version of Britney Spears’s “Toxic” even as he wanted to leap off the stage and bat the drink out of the woman’s hand. Even if he’d done so, he couldn’t have gotten to her in time before she lifted the glass and sipped, oblivious. The guy kept grinning. He’d wear that same grin on some future election-day press conference if he got the chance.

  Andrew couldn’t let it go. He just couldn’t.

  He finished the verse, and as Sylvia kept playing he announced, “All right, we’re going to take a quick break now. I just need a minute to adjust my tail. Don’t go anywhere!”

  The music trailed out as Sylvia gave him a confused look. Grabbing her hand, he rushed her backstage behind the curtain.

  “Hey, babe, call security.”

  “What? What’s wrong—”

  “Tell you in a sec.”

  He took a deep breath, concentrated, held the picture in his mind of what he wanted to do—then breathed out. Phone to her ear, Sylvia watched him. “Hi, yeah, this is Sylvia over at the Bayou Lounge, Andrew says there’s something going on—” She mouthed the word what? at him.

  “Date rape drug situation,” he whispered back. Her eyes went wide and she repeated the info.

  “Yeah, okay, see ya.” She clicked off and glared. “Andrew—”

  A wavy light flickered around him, his illusion settling into place. To an outside observer he now appeared to be someone else. He was about to ask Sylvia how he looked when she shook her head.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What, what’s wrong—”

  “I don’t think Conan-era Arnold Schwarzenegger is really what you want to go for.”

  “I want to be intimidating!”

  “Yeah, I know. Just be big, okay? Big, not famous.”

  Story of their lives, that.

  He breathed out again and shifted his mental image before slipping out from behind the curtain. As far as everyone in the lounge was concerned, he was no longer manic Asian thirtysomething Andrew Yamauchi. He was a big white linebacker with muscles ready to burst out of his suit. He walked straight to the bar.

  The woman’s rum and Coke was half gone. Her giggle was turning shrill, and the guy was looming over her, leering. Getting ready to lean in in a way that was totally skeezy even if he hadn’t drugged her drink.

  Andrew had to be careful. He couldn’t physically confront the guy. He couldn’t knock him over, punch his shoulder, or even nudge his arm, or the illusion would vanish. Not that Andrew could ph
ysically affect the guy anyway. Mostly, he had to keep the guy from doing anything to him. He hoped if he looked like enough of a badass the guy would back off. Sylvia was right, looking like Arnold was probably too much. So this had to be all about attitude.

  He marched over, sidled up to the bar, and reached around the woman to take the tumbler of drugged cocktail out of her hand and set it out of her reach.

  “Hey!” she said. Her would-be assailant clenched his hands into fists, looking like he might punch Andrew right there.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he exclaimed.

  Andrew said to the woman, “I saw him slip pills into your drink. But, you know, maybe they were just vitamins. Maybe he’s just worried about your health.”

  “Wait, what?” She got off the stool to face him down, but stumbled. Her legs seemed to go out from under her for just a second before she grabbed the bar and steadied herself. She was still with it enough to turn to the frat-boy type. “Greg?”

  He missed a beat before managing to defend himself. “What? No, I don’t know what he’s talking about! I would never—”

  “Still, you know. Maybe a fresh drink?” Andrew said. “Just in case.”

  “Molly, this guy’s a creep, whatever he thinks he saw, he didn’t see. Now, come on, you look tired, maybe I should walk you back—”

  A guy in the audience with thick ram’s horns curving out of his head, who’d been sitting in back and sipping on a tumbler of bourbon the whole show, leaned in to whisper to the woman next to him, then stood and sauntered over to the bar. He was an older guy, but he had a bearing to him. A serious gaze and an easy way of standing with his hands at his belt, like he might just be getting ready to reach for a gun. He wore a nondescript dark suit jacket, no tie, but he could just as easily have been wearing a uniform.

  “There a problem here?” the joker said, in that casual way every single cop Andrew had ever encountered asked that exact question. Sylvia appeared at the guy’s side, talking quickly and quietly and gesturing at the ruckus.

  To the woman, Molly, Andrew said, “Do you have a friend who can maybe stay with you, make sure you’re okay?”

  “Molly, listen to me—”

  “You can always save the drink and get it tested if you don’t believe me,” Andrew added, shrugging nonchalantly, trying to play it cool. Smarmy Greg hadn’t tried to hit him yet, but there was still time.

  Greg grabbed the drink and threw it out, right on the floor behind the bar. No possibility of testing it now.

  Molly snarled at him. “It’s true! You asshole! Trying to drug me? I probably would have slept with you anyway, you didn’t have to drug me! Fuck you!”

  She shoved him; Andrew stepped out of the way. But Greg took the moment to turn on Andrew, throwing a punch. “You cockblocking fag!”

  Andrew tried to duck, he really did. But Greg clipped him—a lot harder than he was expecting, and the room turned upside down as he went spinning, and the sparkling aura of his illusion faded.

  The joker with the ram’s horns stepped in and deftly took the guy’s wrist and shoulder, cranking him back into a lock that had douche-Greg groaning. “Get your hands off me! I’ll sue you, I swear to God—”

  “Not before you get brought up on a couple of charges of assault, I’m betting. Let’s get you to security, hm?”

  Andrew stared up at the guy—ex-cop, wanna bet?—with more than a little awe. Dreamed of a day when maybe he could afford a bodyguard. “Hey, thanks,” he said, though the words sounded a little mushy.

  “No problem,” the guy said, and frog-marched the guy to the door, where a couple of tuxedo-wearing security guards from the casino waited.

  Sylvia dropped to the floor by Andrew. “Aw, you okay?”

  That probably could have gone better. He maybe should have done some more planning. Like, he should have known a big frat boy–type lunk wouldn’t have any problem throwing a punch and that Andrew wouldn’t have been able to maintain the illusion. That was all entirely clear in hindsight.

  He sighed and leaned into Sylvia’s touch. “Yeah. Just woozy.”

  “Honey, you know what you did? You saved the day!”

  The woman, Molly, had not been completely roofied. If preventing that was the primary goal, Andrew had succeeded. He’d saved her. He perked up.

  “Yeah—I guess I did!”

  “I’m so proud of you!”

  Light applause from the audience greeted the scene. They probably didn’t know exactly what they’d seen, only that something momentous had happened. Maybe part of the show? Andrew didn’t really care; clapping was usually a good sign.

  Molly was getting consoled by her friends, one of the security guys took statements from the women and from Andrew, who described seeing the guy drop pills in the drink. They got confirmation a little later that security found more pills in the guy’s pocket. When they arrived at Natchez, Molly could charge the guy with attempted assault. In any case, he’d get thrown off the boat then.

  In the meantime, as hoary an old cliché as it was, the show must go on. They had a couple of songs left in their set, and a bunch of guests to distract from recent unpleasantness. The whole left side of Andrew’s face ached from that punch, but he didn’t care. He was kind of buzzing on the good deed he’d done. He’d saved the day!

  Sylvia must have seen him wincing, but never mind because she just worked it into the show. Back onstage, speaking into the mike, she said, “Hey, Wild Fox, think maybe you should get some ice on that shiner?” She glissandoed a sad trombone-sounding run on the keyboard.

  He continued the banter. “Looking pretty bad, is it?” He made sure to turn that part of his face to the light. He had no idea how it looked, but maybe it’d get him some sympathy.

  “I think it makes you look like a tough guy.”

  “It does? Well, that’s not so bad then!”

  “No! You know why?”

  “Tell me why, Sylvia!”

  Without missing a beat, as if this rambling intro—including the truncated bar fight—had all been planned, she launched in their own crazy rendition of “I Got You Babe,” with Sylvia turning it into a jazz improv piece, riffing on the keyboard, paying homage to the Sonny and Cher version while adding her own flourishes that somehow made the music sound young and hip. They got to the end, and Andrew held the “I” out in the last line while gazing adoringly at Sylvia, which wasn’t hard to do. Meanwhile, a giant cartoon heart appeared in the air between them, glittering with a sheen of light, sparkles popping out of it, basically looking like a greeting card made by a four-year-old with too many art supplies. A couple of aws drifted out from the crowd, which was gratifying.

  “You’ve been a great crowd tonight”—a dozen people was a crowd, right?—“really amazing. Thank you so much for being here and putting up with me—because we all know who the real talent in this outfit is, am I right?” He gestured widely to Sylvia, who blushed and smiled and twitched her feline tail, and as he knew it would the applause tripled and actually started to fill the place. “Just a couple of announcements. Tomorrow at noon there’ll be karaoke right here at the Bayou Lounge, with half-off cocktails! Tomorrow, Sylvia and I will be back with a whole new show for you—because the fun never ends around here!” There, that ought to make Caitlyn happy, talking up her schedule. “Let me tell you, you’re all stars in my book, every one of you, and don’t let anyone tell you different.”

  Delivering his most charming wink and wiggling his fox ears, Andrew aimed and fired a finger gun at the audience, and the fake shots rained out a swarm of glittering gold stars, which settled on the crowd and vanished harmlessly. And people applauded. The key to pulling off grade-A showbiz cheese was to embrace it with enthusiasm. People came for the cheese, and Andrew knew how to lay it on.

  He and Sylvia ended up backstage, and he was about to ask her how it went like he always did, but she put her hand on his shoulder. “Okay, honey, now you really need to get some ice on that eye.”

  And
that was when he realized his face really hurt.

  Sylvia led him to the bar and got the bartender, Jack, to fill a Baggie with ice and wrap it in a towel. She helped him hold it in place while cooing over him, and he basked in the attention. Quietly, for a change. The place had emptied out after the show. Which meant people had stayed to see them. That was something at least.

  Jack seemed ancient, his face weathered, his body thin. He had a methodical way of moving and talking in a rich Cajun accent. Probably been hired for atmosphere as much as for his bartending skills.

  “You folk need anythin’ else?” he asked.

  Sylvia smiled. “We’re fine, Jack. Thanks.”

  “Ma’am, if I might say, you are one lovely cat.”

  “Ocelot, but thank you.” The distinction might have been little more than semantics, but it was important to Sylvia, so she was an ocelot. Sounded cooler that way. And she was very pretty.

  “You seen a lot of cats, old man?” Andrew asked.

  Andrew had maybe expected a laugh, but Jack leaned on the bar and gave him a significant look, like he was telling war stories. “Son, more than you will ever know.” He moved off to wipe down another part of the bar.

  He’d saved someone. Maybe it wasn’t flashy, maybe it wasn’t as big and spectacular as going off to Egypt to try to save an entire country from war. But he’d done it, stopped something bad from happening … and it felt good. His hands itched, his limbs were on fire. Spent adrenaline, he knew. But he’d never felt like this on American Hero. They’d done plenty of fake scenarios and fake missions, rescued actors from fake burning buildings and fake kidnapping victims. It had all felt like a high school play, inconsequential and ultimately kind of embarrassing. He literally hadn’t understood it when a big chunk of the contestants quit the show to go be heroes for real, because at the time, to Andrew, there was no real. It was all publicity stunts and self-righteous nonsense.