Lowball: A Wild Cards Novel (26 page)

“It’s good to see you, man. What are you doing in town?” Michael hadn’t seen Sandip in months—it only cost a couple hundred to fly down from Toronto, but that was a lot for a seventeen-year-old working odd jobs. “You finally checking out colleges?” Sandip was still living at home, and had decided to take a year off between high school and college; his parents weren’t thrilled.

“Can’t I come to visit my sister? See my adorable niece?” Sandip turned and stuck out his tongue at Isai, delighting her—she grinned and returned the gesture. In that moment, he looked closer to twelve than seventeen.

Kavitha slowed her spinning, long enough to say, “You know, I’d be happy to take you up to Columbia tomorrow. They have a great poli sci department.” She smiled hopefully at her little brother.

Sandip groaned. “Aw, let it go, okay? I don’t want to study politics, like some geek—I want to be in it, making shit happen.”

Michael’s pulse quickened. God, if the kid was getting involved with the Tamil separatists—that shit was dangerous. There were quite a few, up in Toronto; some people just couldn’t accept that the war was over, like it or not. And yes, the Tamils back in Sri Lanka were getting treated like shit, again, but that wasn’t a reason to return to the killing. On that subject, Michael and Kavitha were in complete agreement. But this hothead—the kid was just like Franny, wanting to skip the work, jump the queue. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair. “You need to grow up, Sandip. Go to college, learn something about how the world really works.” Michael snapped the words, and laid a warning hand on Sandip’s arm.

The boy hesitated, and for a moment, Michael thought he had managed to get through to him. But then Sandip’s face hardened, and he shook off Michael’s hand. “You’re not my father, bro. And I’m not an American—you don’t need to police me.”

Damn it. He’d come on too strong, as if he were questioning a suspect. Michael gentled his tone. “Sandip, I wasn’t trying to—”

Sandip flung up a warning hand. “Yeah,
machan
, I don’t need this kind of crap from you. I just came here to get a meal, see my sister and my niece. Minal Acca, thanks for the food—it was delish. I gotta get going. Later.”

“Sandip, wait!” But it was too late. The kid had already grabbed his leather jacket and was out the door, slamming it behind him.

Kavitha came to an abrupt stop in the middle of a spin, her eyes wide. “Michael. What the hell just happened? Where’s Sandip going?” Minal was sitting up on the sofa now, and Isai came running up to Michael. He bent down and scooped her up into his arms, bending his head down to smell the sweet child scent of her. Almost five, and she still smelled like a baby, vanilla and cinnamon mixed together.

“Uncle Sandip went away?” Isai asked, her eyes wide and confused.

“He’ll be back soon, sweetheart,” Michael said, forcing a smile. “He just went for a walk.”

Typical teenager—Sandip would probably walk the streets for hours, but he’d be back when he got hungry and tired enough. Isai snuggled down into his arms, reassured. Kavitha seemed less convinced, but she let it go for now. Tension still lingered in the air. Probably not the best time to break out two engagement rings. Besides, he was starving, and the food smelled great. Michael smothered a twinge of guilt. The kid would be fine.

They were in bed that night, the three of them, Isai safely asleep, when Sandip’s call finally came. Michael had just shifted over to the middle of the bed, to take his turn for some extra attention. Minal’s mouth was moving on his, her hands tangled in his tight black curls. Kavitha was sliding down the bed, her body slick with sweat. When they were together like this, warm and sweet and hot as hell, that’s when Michael realized how lucky he was, how all he wanted was for this sweetness to go on forever. That was why he’d bought those rings in the first place. But today had been a rotten day, and right now, he couldn’t think about getting married. Maybe later; proposing in bed could be romantic, right? But right now, all Michael wanted was to forget himself in their bodies for a while. Kavitha was just lowering her mouth onto him when the phone rang. Michael groaned.

“I’m sorry,” Kavitha said. “When people call at this hour it’s usually important … or bad.” And she was up, rolling out of bed, picking up the handset and walking out of the room, still gloriously naked. Her tight dancer’s ass lifting and releasing with every step.

“Sandip? Where the hell are you?” Michael was relieved the kid had finally called, but damn, his timing sucked.

Minal grinned at him sympathetically. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I think I can keep you occupied until she gets back.” She rolled over so that her body was braced above his, and Michael slid his hands up her hips, feeling his dick get painfully hard. There, just above his fingertips, the nipples started. He’d tried to count them more than once, with fingers and lips, but he never got very far. Tonight would be no different. She was just lowering her lush body down to his when Kavitha started yelling from the hall. “What? What are you talking about? Sandip, don’t be an idiot!”

Michael groaned, and reluctantly slid out from under Minal. Cop training—respond to trouble. There was a phone extension in the hall; five steps had him there, picking it up, hearing Sandip ranting. “I don’t need school, I don’t need Amma and Appa, I don’t need you! I got a job, sis. I’ve got people who appreciate me and my skills!”

Kavitha spat out, “What skills?”

Sandip snapped, “Wouldn’t you like to know? I’m not a little kid anymore. I can do shit.”

What kind of mess was the kid getting involved in? Michael tried to intervene in the sibling shouting match. “Hey, no one doubts you have skills, Sandip. We just want you to come home.” He’d come on too strong before; Michael tried to keep his voice calm and coaxing this time.

But to no avail—the kid was too far gone, practically screaming into the phone, “I’ll come home when I’m ready! When I’ve proved myself. Then you’ll see. You’ll all see!”

Kavitha said, “Sandip, shut up and listen to me!”

“Go to hell, sis!” And then the click—they’d lost him. Well, that was a terrific end to a truly crappy day. Michael stood, naked in the hall, staring at an equally naked Kavitha. This night really hadn’t gone the way he’d planned. Now what was he supposed to do? Wander the streets looking for his girlfriend’s brother? The kid was almost an adult—surely he could manage in Jokertown for one night? Minal came out of the bedroom, wrapped in a blanket, and leaned against the doorway, her face worried.

“Was he calling on his cell?” Michael asked. They could track that at the station.

“No,” Kavitha said, shaking her head. “His cheap phone doesn’t work in the States. He must have used a pay phone.”

Damn it. The kid could be anywhere. “Look, I’m sure he’ll come back in the morning.” He wasn’t actually sure of that, not anymore.

“I have to call my parents,” Kavitha said.

“Of course you do,” Minal agreed. She came forward then, wrapped an arm around Kavitha and clumsily draped the blanket around both of them.

“I thought they weren’t talking to you?” Michael asked tentatively. It was something they didn’t talk about much.

Kavitha’s face was stark, wiped clean of all expression. “They’ll talk to me for this,” she said flatly.

Michael groaned inwardly. It was going to be a long night. “I’ll make you some tea.” It was something to do, at least. He didn’t know why it was that both women always wanted tea when they were upset, but after all this time, he’d learned that much, at least. Tea wasn’t going to find the kid, but maybe it would give them the strength to start looking.

The Big Bleed

Part Six

“WE CAUGHT HIM,” SHEEBA
said. “And he’s singing.”

“Good,” Jamal croaked.

“But it’s not what anyone expected.” She went on to relate the details of an exotic smuggling and manufacturing cartel, only the product wasn’t heroin or meth. “It’s
food
.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“There’s no need for that language. The product is illegal—endangered species used for entrées, magic mushrooms, other stuff that isn’t supposed to be imported because it could get loose and wipe out indigenous plant life—”

Jamal tuned out at that point. The only relevant thing he heard was: “Everyone at
HQ
is happy with our results,” implying that Carnifex had not been entirely enthusiastic about the mission—no surprise there. “And now that that’s behind us—”

“That’s it?” Jamal said. “No follow-up?” Jamal Norwood was sitting up in a bed at the Jokertown Clinic. He had been taken first to St. Vincent’s, but the single attending there was over-burdened (there had been a bad fire several blocks away, with four people brought in suffering from burns and smoke inhalation), and claimed to know nothing about aces.

Loaded with painkillers, Jamal had waited, conscious or dozing, for four hours until an ambulance arrived to move him to Jokertown Clinic and Dr. Finn.

Who examined him yet again, and again just shook his head. “This obviously can’t be considered part of your … syndrome.”

“Is that anything like illness?”

The joker doc smiled. “We still don’t know that whatever is … afflicting you doesn’t have, say, an environmental trigger. So, no, syndrome, not illness.”

“Not yet.”

“Do you want to be ill, Mr. Norwood?”

“Have you added shrink to your job title?” Jamal had snapped. “Consider this a firm ‘no.’”

Finn wanted to keep him for the day, for observation. And in truth, Jamal was not eager to be discharged. He was
finally
feeling bounceback, and was confident that he would be a hundred percent in a day … but he wanted that figure to be closer to sixty percent before he chanced the streets.

And told Julia. And his parents. Because each notification would be as good as telling the recipient that something was seriously wrong with Jamal Norwood—because his ace power should have put him back on his feet within the hour.

Not forty-eight.

The door hadn’t even closed before Sheeba slid onto the corner of Jamal’s bed and, assuming what must have been her idea of a motherly manner, said, “What’s wrong, Jamal?”

He saw no benefit to denying the obvious: the Midnight Angel had worked with him for years. She knew how Stuntman was
supposed
to bounce back; she’d seen him hit harder. So he gave her the quick version.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I can’t let you back on active duty in this state, Jamal.”

“Okay, Sheeba, two things.” He was getting angry. “One, I’m not fit for duty today and could probably use another twenty-four hours off. Fine.

“But, two, I
am
bouncing back. A nat would be out of duty for months, maybe crippled for life. So whatever rules you’re trying to access … they just don’t apply.” He smiled. “Don’t make me charge you with discrimination.”

Sheeba was so shocked she actually stood up and struggled for a response.

Jamal spared her. “I’m kidding,” he said. “Really, really kidding.”

But maybe he hadn’t been kidding. He owed his whole
SCARE
career to his win on
American Hero
 … and he owed that win to his confrontation with Wally Gunderson, the ace known as Rustbelt, a big, goofy, iron-skinned hoser from Minnesota, a world without African-Americans or anyone other than white Lutherans. Rusty had bugged Jamal from the moment he showed up at the
American Hero
house … he was too obviously trying to be nice, too simple. No one was really like that. No one outside of a group home, that is. And in one of the contests, with cameras rolling, Jamal was convinced he had heard Rusty come out with what he was really feeling, the words, “I’m gonna beat his black ass.”

Or so he remembered it after all these years. It wasn’t as though he had ever watched any footage of
American Hero
since the day it ended for him.…

Jamal had confronted him. Rusty had denied it, of course, but Jamal had been shaken … enough to lose. Days later, with what his mother would have called more charity, he realized it was possible Rusty had said “black ace.” Which wasn’t really objectionable, though whenever a white person threw “black” into a sentence, it was usually loaded—