Suck It Up (9 page)

11

Vanishing Act

The same stone-faced anchorman filled Penny's living room with his gravitas. Morning stood at a window and peeked through the crack in a closed curtain. Penny's voice drifted out of her office. She had been on the phone for the last hour. He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed a number.

“Hello, Morning,” Birnam answered. “We're off to a fine start.”

“Fine start?” Morning stammered. “Everyone thinks I'm a fake.”

“Of course they do. When they've logged billions of hours watching fictional vampires doing their thing on movie screens, one vampire playing misty for them on the news is not going to turn them into true believers.”

“But there were eyewitnesses.”

Birnam laughed. “UFOs have witnesses too. That doesn't make everyone a believer.”

Morning peeped through the curtain. “If they don't believe me, then why does the street outside Penny's apartment look like a media block party?”

“Morning,” Birnam explained patiently, “they don't even know you're in there. They're there for Penny.”

“Why Penny?”

“She's the witch behind the ‘alleged vampire.' And there's nothing the masses like better than a witch-burning. Believe me, I've seen a few.”

Morning was in no mood to appreciate Birnam's little joke. And the fact that nobody believed him wasn't the only thing on his mind. “How did Sister Flora hear a rumor about me becoming a vampire? Did you plant that?”

“Very good, Morning. Yes, I did it to move things along.” Morning started to speak but Birnam cut him off. “But that's water under the bridge. Or fog under the bridge. For now, just let things play out, and trust Penny. You're the Leaguer, she's the handler. Remember that.”

Birnam hung up as Penny leaned into the room with her portable phone pressed to her chest. “Guess who I'm on hold with.”

He shrugged. “Not a clue.”

“Ally Alfamen.”

“The host of
Wake Up America
?”

“The one and only.” She gestured at the television. “We'll give the spinners of spin city till morning to get it wrong, then, first thing tomorrow, we'll set the record straight.” Hearing a voice on her phone, she disappeared into the office.

Morning tried to absorb the latest development. From Drake Sanders to
Wake Up America
was a huge leap. His next appearance would have dozens of witnesses and millions of viewers. He had to plan it carefully. And there was one place he did his best thinking.

         

The jam of news crews clogging her street didn't surprise Portia. She was glad none of them had done enough homework to know what Penny Dredful's daughter looked like. They didn't fire up cameras and start barking questions until she walked up the stoop of the town house. She ignored them, making sure they didn't see her face. If she stayed incognito she could return later with her own camera and interview some of the media jackals feeding America its daily dose of sensation.

Moving down the hallway to the apartment door, she brimmed with excitement. Her video was getting more Michael Moore by the minute. And she was about to pounce on her two main targets: Penny Truly Dredful and Morning McFaker.

She and her mother lived in the bottom two floors of the four-story town house. The top floors were occupied by an elderly couple who traveled a lot. They'd chosen a good time to be in Europe.

Portia unlocked the door and moved into the kitchen, which looked out on the back garden. She dropped her backpack on the table and ran up the spiral staircase. On the way to her room, she noticed the guest room door was shut. She could burst in on Morning later. Right now it was more important to spring a trap on her mother. She grabbed her Handycam, went back downstairs, and was shooting by the time she entered her mother's office.

Penny looked up from her desk and saw the camera. “What are you doing?”

“How much are they paying you for passing off a missing orphan as a vampire?”

Penny stood up and started to shoo Portia out. “Okay, you think I'm crazy—again. But clients like this only come around once in a lifetime.” She managed to herd Portia, still shooting, into the living room. “Now go. I have a ton to do.”

The door shut in Portia's face. She turned the camera on herself and reported, “Obviously, Ms. Penny Dredful, of Diamond Sky PR, has drunk the Kool-Aid. Now, to find another Kool-Aid drinker: Mr. Morning McCobb.”

She went upstairs, knocked on the guest room door, and made sure the camera was recording. There was no answer. She knocked again. No answer. She opened the door. He wasn't there. She pointed the camera at the neatly made bed and added her commentary. “What do you know? A con artist who makes his bed. The nicer they are, the more dangerous they are, right?” She turned the camera on herself again. “Or have I, Portia Dredful, seen too many horror movies? Whatever the case, I may have reason to fear for my life. Not because he's a”—she bugged her eyes in mock fear—“vampire, but because pathological liars ramp up to psychos when they get caught.” She pushed a little closer to camera and whispered ominously, “I hope you're not watching this on
America's Bloodiest Home Videos.
”

As she turned off the camera, she got a creepy feeling from what she'd just said. She thought about deleting it. “Get over it,” she scolded herself. This was no time for editing. That's what postproduction was about,
after
she got all the footage she could. Which reminded her, she didn't have one frame of Morning yet.
Sucko
wouldn't exactly work if she didn't have footage of the kid con artist.

After checking for him in the upstairs bathroom, she headed back downstairs. Coming down the spiral staircase, she stopped cold. The door to the back garden was slightly ajar. It was always locked. She raised her camera, got a shot, and whispered, “We have an intruder. Or one of those reporters has crossed the line.” Her stomach plunged at another thought. “Or Morning has flown the coop.”

The possibility was devastating. If he was gone for good, she'd never get footage of him. She cursed herself for being a coward the night before, for not knocking on his door and getting the interview. She cursed herself for going to school, for missing the story of a lifetime. She cursed herself for not obeying her first rule of documentary film-making:
Do it like the coolest newswoman to ever report from the hot spots of the world; do it like Christiane Amanpour.
No way would
she
have scurried back to her room. Christiane would have battered down Morning's door and done
anything
to get him to spill the story behind the story of his toddler death march on the Williams Bird Bridge.

“The Williamsburg Bridge!” she blurted. If the bridge meant so much to him when he was three, maybe it still did.

12

Paper Boats

Morning wore a Yankees baseball cap pulled down low and wraparound sunglasses he'd bought after escaping from Penny's apartment through the back garden. He moved along Delancey Street, past stores with their wares spilling onto the sidewalk. Approaching the street St. Giles was on, he considered a detour to see if Sister Flora was all right. But two cops stood at the barricade blocking the street. Not wanting to be recognized, he gave them a wide berth.

At the end of Delancey, rising in the sky like an invading robot was the towering Erector set of the Williamsburg Bridge. It was his favorite bridge in New York because it was no one's favorite. It was the ugly duckling of bridges. And its last paint job made it even uglier. The super-structure was battleship gray, while the walkway running through the center of the bridge was pink. The bridge's name plaque, dating from the time it was spelled “Williamsburgh,” said it all. Two letters had been stripped away so it read
THE WILLIAMS U GH BRIDGE
.

As he headed onto the long walkway, he took off his sunglasses. The setting sun glazed the buildings and docks across the East River in burnt orange. For as long as he could remember, every time he'd left St. Giles for a new foster home, he'd gone to the middle of the bridge to say goodbye to the city. And with each return to St. Giles, he never considered himself home until he'd visited the same spot, and watched the river spill toward the Statue of Liberty. His latest homecoming wasn't any different.

Reaching the middle of the bridge, he closed his eyes and gripped the handrail. He felt the rumble of traffic from the roadway below vibrate into his legs and hands. He opened his eyes, looked beyond the Manhattan and Brooklyn bridges, and found the statue in the harbor. For Morning, she was never just the Statue of Liberty. She was the mother of New York, waving hello or goodbye to everyone who came or went. He returned her wave, and noticed she was wearing another garment to honor his return; the sunset wrapped her in a blood orange cape.

His eyes dropped to the slate-colored water pushing under the bridge, and he began another ritual he always performed on the bridge.

“Hey, Morning!”

He snapped to the voice. A girl with dark curly hair loped along the walkway. She wore jeans and a baggy cargo jacket that flapped open with each step. She looked like a brown ostrich on a bad feather day. Then he recognized her. Portia Dredful.
What's she doing here?
There's no way it was coincidence. He told himself not to ask. From their brief encounter last night, he knew he couldn't count on a straight answer.

Portia joined him at the rail, tossing him a smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He thought her smile looked forced. “Yeah, right.”

She answered his frown with mock concern. “Hey, you didn't come out here to jump, did you?”

“That would be dumb.”

“Well, yeah, jumping is always dumb.”

“No, I mean totally dumb.” He pointed down.

She glanced over the rail. Not far below, two lanes of traffic headed across the bridge.

“If I wanted to make the river I'd have to start with a standing broad jump of twenty-five feet.”

She recovered from him being right. “Okay, but vampires can do that, can't they?”

“Maybe, but whoever heard of a suicidal vampire?”

She laughed. “Good point.” She reminded herself it was too early to talk about vampires. She would only end up challenging his claim to be one. That wouldn't get her anywhere. She wanted to win his trust so she could pull out her camera. She closed her jacket against the breeze. “So, what
are
you doing here?”

“That's what I was about to ask you.”

“I asked you first.”

He paused.

“Okay, I'll go first,” she volunteered, hoping it might win her some trust points. “I thought you might be out here because I Googled you and found the story about how you tried to take back”—she did her single-digit air-quote—“the Williams Bird Bridge for the pigeons.”

Morning had forgotten about the story until Sister Flora had alluded to it earlier that day. “So you figured I came out here to rally the pigeons for another assault on the bridge?”

“It's that or jump, and we ruled out jump.” A subway rumbled under the walkway, launching a few pigeons into flight. She pointed at the birds and raised her voice over the subway. “See, your commandos are here, but they need a leader!”

Morning let himself smile. He glanced at her as the subway rumbled on. She was the first girl he'd met in ten months who wasn't a vampire, or drop-dead gorgeous. She didn't make his heart race, his palms sweat, and his mouth say inane things he regretted a second later. She was a regular girl. She had some major attitude, but what girl worth talking to didn't? “I came out here because whenever I come back to the city I do this stupid ritual.”

“Most rituals
are
stupid,” she replied, “but that's not the point. People do them because it makes them feel good. You wanna know my dumbest ritual?”

“Sure.”

“Before I take a test, I shake my pencil like a thermometer because I think it'll knock the right answers down to the tip.”

Morning nodded. “That's pretty stupid.”

“Exactly, but it makes me feel like the pencil is on my side. I bet you can't top that for stupid.”

“I bet I can.” He gazed out at the river. “I look for paper boats.”

Portia chuckled. “Paper boats?”

“See, I win the stupid bet.”

“Maybe not,” she said with a straight face. “I mean, hey, everyone knows about the Annual Paper Boat Regatta. I go every year. And I've read about drug smugglers who use paper boats to bring marijuana to New York, one joint at a time.” Her eyes popped wide. “I even heard a rumor about a terrorist plot to use a paper boat to bring in a dirty firecracker.”

As Morning laughed, she grinned in triumph. She was racking up trust points. “But none of those are
your
paper boats, right?”

“My boats aren't as funny as yours.”

“I hope not,” she said playfully. “But I still want to hear about 'em.”

His eyes returned to the water sliding toward the harbor. “When I was about seven, I got sent to a foster family in Poughkeepsie, way up the Hudson River. I didn't like the family, and pretty soon they didn't like me. So, whenever I got the chance, I'd sneak down to the riverbank and launch a paper boat with a message on it.”

“Who was the message for?”

“Sister Flora at St. Giles. I figured the message would float down the river, she'd get it and come rescue me. Then one day, she called to check on me. I asked her if she'd gotten my messages. She told me that if I wanted to send her a message on a paper boat, I had to start putting rudders on 'em because a boat had to go down the Hudson, take a left at the Harlem River, and then a right at the East River to reach her on the Lower East Side.”

“Why didn't you just tell her on the phone you wanted to be rescued?”

“My foster parents were in the kitchen, listening, and they liked using a belt. Anyway, after that, I launched a bunch of paper boats with rudders. But Sister Flora still didn't get the message to rescue me. So, one day, I stole a canoe and paddled a mile down the river before I got caught. But some kind of message got through because Sister Flora showed up the next day and took me back to St. Giles.”

“So you come out here to see if one of your paper boats finally made it down the river?”

Morning shrugged. “Yeah, something like that.”

She smiled. “That's nice.”

He didn't think her smile looked forced this time. “And stupid,” he added.

Portia wanted to say,
No, what's stupid is that I didn't catch one frame of your story on camera!
She kicked herself for not having a secret camera. Suddenly something else gnawed at her. The same thing that bugged her when she realized he had made his bed. What kind of con artist goes out on a river and looks for paper boats? Either he wasn't a con artist or he was such a good one he could con a mother out of her firstborn child. She kicked herself again for the triple sin of doubting whom she was dealing with, not staying on task, and not being more like Christiane Amanpour. It was time to change tactics. Being friendly had only drawn her into his web. It was time to go hardnose. “I've got another question.”

Morning had enjoyed the long silence. He liked the feeling that, for a moment, he'd forgotten she was even there when he knew she was. “About paper boats?”

“No. I'm doing a school video project on my mom's business and her clients. Kind of a take-your-daughter-to-work thing. Can I tape your answer to my next question?”

Morning tensed. “I didn't know I was being interviewed.”

She regretted her new tact, but it was too late: You don't go hardnose, then ask for a nose job. “My documentary teacher says even small talk is an ‘interview,'” she said, air-quoting again. “And everything is ‘on camera.' Some cameras roll tape”—she pointed at her eyes—“some cameras roll memory.”

Morning couldn't stand it anymore; he had to ask. “Why do you air-quote with single fingers? Is that the latest thing?”

“Hardly.” She jumped at the chance to change the subject until he was more receptive. “When Americans write a sentence with quotation marks, we start with double quotes, then go to single quotes. But the British start with single quotes, than go to doubles. I think going from single to double makes more sense 'cause it's a more natural build. But if I did it like the Brits on my homework, my teachers would totally freak. So I do it the Brit way whenever I air-quote.” She demonstrated with single fingers, then noticed his glazed look. “And after hearing that you probably
do
wanna jump.”

He shook his head. “I've never met someone who thought so much about punctuation.”

She suddenly realized the light was perfect: the “golden light” filmmakers called it. The golden light didn't wait for the right moment, it
was
the right moment. “And I bet you never met someone who was so pushy about sticking a camera in your face.”

Her persistence made him remember that in about twelve hours he was going to be interviewed by Ally Alfamen in front of millions of people. If he was going come across as the relaxed, polite, honest vampire Birnam wanted him to be, he needed practice. Besides, there was something about the way Portia looked at him that he liked. He couldn't remember the last time a pair of girl eyes had looked at him with real interest.

“Okay,” he said. “Lights, camera, whatev.”