Taking the Highway (15 page)

He shut down the pad before Oliver could reply. Cheap bastard. Of course his little brother was expected to attend for free, but heaven forbid he would have to pony up some cash for real talent.

He stashed the pad when Bob came back, smoothing the fold-over lapels of an ornate-style suit. The inside of the lapels were floral print, taking the place of a tie. He caught Andre’s look. “Too formal?”

“Thanks a lot.” Andre squared the lapels of his own basic blue suit. “You make me look like the ass-end of a rhino.”

“If my brown tie weren’t in Livonia, I could—”

“You look fine.”

Exercise had made Andre ravenous, but Bob wouldn’t consider lunch anywhere else but the athletic club, insisting it was his treat. “Please, you’re a guest in the nearest thing I have to a home.”

Andre waited until they’d been seated and made their selections. “Do you know anyone else who’d like to come to the fundraiser tonight?”

Bob played with his silverware. “The trouble isn’t getting people. It’s choosing which ones.”

“Like all the fourths at the union meeting this morning?”

“That’s a start.”

“But not Hugh Ingersol.”

Bob rolled his eyes. “God, no. Can you imagine? He’d go on strike, never show up at your party, and want to get paid anyway.”

Andre laughed with him, until Bob turned serious, straightening and re-straightening his fork and knife. “A strike would be devastating,” Bob half-whispered.

Andre picked up his goblet and took a sip of ice water. “You don’t think it would help at all? Raise our profile a little bit?”

“They could unionize every single fourth in southeast Michigan, have them all go on strike at once, and it still wouldn’t help.”

Andre imagined the possibility. “It would bring the city to its knees.”

“We don’t want the city on its knees.” Bob broke off as the waiter brought their appetizers. He picked up his fork and poked at a crab cake. “Do you remember the satellite crash?”

Andre swallowed a bite of crab. “Who doesn’t?” It had been over five years ago, but he still remembered how they’d had to use telephones and two-way radios with the police communication network out. There had been other, bigger problems in everything from aviation to shipping to medicine, but it was four days of working blind that he remembered most. It had been exhausting and a huge pain in the ass, but also more interesting. He talked to people, not machines. He did what his gut told him, not the computers. Getting any kind of police work done took longer, but somehow felt more satisfying.

Bob continued to play with his food. “How long did it take your phone company to figure out how to reroute your calls?”

“Sometimes I think they still haven’t figured it out.”

“I’m serious.”

Andre put down his fork and considered. “About a day and a half.”

“Exactly.” Bob sat back in his chair. “Banks still did business and people still drove without GPS, and television got a lot more local and a lot more interesting. By the time the satellites were fully restored, it was too late. The techshun movement was born.”

“The origins of techshun go deeper than the sat crash.”

“Yeah, yeah. The historians will say it was the collapse of the Asian economy, or an offshoot of the environmental movement, or that it had its roots in the privacy laws and the death of social networking sites, but trust me, it was the sat crash. For the first time, the masses had an alternative, and they took it.” Bob finally speared a bite of crab cake. “Now, let’s say that every fourth in the city goes on strike at the same time. Do people stay home, or do they find an alternative?” He chewed and swallowed. “And that’s the end of fourthing.”

A
ndre turned off Oakwood
Boulevard into the sprawling historical museum complex and looked for a parking space for his Raven. Next to him, Bob Masterson swiveled in his seat and gave an amused grunt. “I always forget how far the parking lot is from Greenfield Village itself. I mean, how much lawn would you say they had there? Three, four acres? I guess they have to keep all our nasty modern cars as far as possible from the antiquey-feeling.”

“Antiquey?”

“That’s a word.”

Andre parked the car and got out. “They’re using the lawn today. Or were.”

“Old cars!” Bob marveled. “They found the perfect buffer.”

Suddenly, the private fundraiser inside Greenfield Village made sense, as did the absurdly early start time of six o’clock. Oliver wanted his little party to overlap with the September Spectacular, insuring that his guests had to walk past all the classic cars—more specifically, the Challenger.

The car show was getting ready to wrap it up for the night, but there were still a few lookers, and of course, people who wanted to sell them things. A row of snack trucks blasted the area with the aroma of cotton candy and popcorn, as whiny kids tried to extort some of the treats from their frazzled parents.

Andre wondered how anyone could stand having all those sticky fingers near the priceless antiques. The cars—perhaps thirty of them—were on platforms only a few centimeters off the ground, with nothing but a flimsy awning over each one and a single guard per car.

Bob stood near a hundred-year-old Chevy with tail fins. The man next to it on the dais wore an aqua and white argyle sweater the same shade as the car, along with white pants and an aqua touring cap. “Check it out,” Bob said. “The owners match the vehicles. Car nuts are a different breed.”

Andre scanned the area, trying to see under as many overhead tarps as possible. “Those aren’t the owners,” he told Bob. “They’re private security.”

Bob’s eyebrows shot up. “They don’t look dangerous enough to stop anyone.”

Andre pointed to eyedots in the corners of each platform. “Cameras.”

Bob waved his hand in front of his nose. “I’m glad cars don’t smell like this anymore. Can we go in now?”

“Just a second.” He recognized the Challenger under a tent in the exact center of the display and led Bob over to it. The red finish gleamed, even in the dim light under the awning. Maybe Oliver came out and dusted it every night. Andre gave a curt nod to the security guard, who was dressed in jeans and a denim jacket. He looked capable enough.

“Now that’s a ride,” Bob said. He caught sight of the plaque that was bolted into the low dais and did a double take. “Is that—Are you—Oh.”

Andre read the plaque. “On loan from the personal collection of Oliver LaCroix. 2008 Dodge Challenger, made by the Chrysler Corporation. Restored in the LaCroix family garage.” Very clever of Oliver to phrase it that way. As if he’d done the restoration himself, instead of standing by with tools while Dad fabricated parts and changed out fluids. They used to compare hands at the end of a day in the garage—Dad’s black with grease, Andre’s a muddy brown, and Oliver’s as white as angel’s wings.

He turned away, hand in his pocket, worrying the key there. Technically, it was Oliver’s car. Dad had always said they were supposed to share it, but the title was in Oliver’s name. A “temporary measure” that Oliver had never bothered to correct. It wasn’t that Andre didn’t want to show the car. The Challenger was a work of art, and like anything beautiful, it should be displayed and enjoyed. He just wished Oliver was half as interested in sharing the car with his brother as he was in sharing it with the world.

They walked to the Greenfield Village entrance, past iron gates and through a brick archway. Each step seemed to move them back in time. A costumed doorman waited at the other side of the archway, completing the illusion.

“We were expecting you over an hour ago.” The doorman reeked of social disapproval rather than physical menace, but Andre didn’t doubt the man’s power. If the doorman said you weren’t getting in to Greenfield Village today, then you weren’t getting in. “The other fourths are already here,” he said.

Andre glanced at Bob, who had decided to change into his brown suit at the last minute, insisting they go clear out to Livonia to get it from his storage locker.

Bob shrugged. “We’re fashionably late.”

“Fashionably late is for donors.” The doorman tugged at his collar, then bent and pulled on the tight pants cuffs below his knees. The costume seemed to irritate him all over. He stabbed a finger at his guest list. “It says Andre LaCroix. Not Andre LaCroix and guest.”

Bob nudged his elbow. “And that, my friend, is why you paid me in advance.”

“So we’ll leave,” Andre told the doorman. “You can tell my brother that you were the one to kick me out. He might not mind. Have a nice night.”

The doorman sighed a long-suffering sigh and stepped aside to let them pass. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. LaCroix.”

Bob followed him through the brick archway. “Good thing there’s always room for charming single men.”

Andre certainly planned on being charming tonight—schmooze the money people, dance with the ugly women, shun all tech, and always, always, talk up his brother. He glanced over at his peace offering. Bob was snapping his fingers along to the ragtime music wafting from the far end of the green. He already fit right in.

They rambled down a paved lane that led past the glassblower, the tinworks, and a stable. Greenfield Village was a mockup of a real 1890’s town, complete with a schoolhouse, a church, and a dozen shops pretending to sell things like hats and bicycles. Costumed actors and period vehicles completed the illusion. Tonight, with the buildings dark and silent, it was harder to believe in the time-travel fantasy.

“Drinks for phones! Check your phones, your datapads, your handhelds. Keep it real, people. Keep it real. Drinks for phones!”

They were stopped at the edge of the green by a thickset man in full security regalia who was stowing hand-held devices into a row of lockable steamer trunks. Andre recognized him as a first or second-year patrolman, but he couldn’t put a name to the face. Next to him stood a young woman, wearing a long dress with extra padding in the butt and sleeves that puffed over her arms. A small straw hat perched on her head. She offered a silver tray full of embossed tickets.

The cop continued his carnival barking. “Check your phones, your datapads, your handhelds. Keep it real!”

“Why would anyone give up his phone?” Andre asked.

“Because, it’s a cash bar, but if you agree to turn in your tech for the night, you get a coupon for free drinks.”

“I’m game!” Bob slapped his tiny datapad into the security guard’s oversized hand. The cop wrapped a numbered rubber band around the pad and gave Bob its twin. The young woman handed him a drink ticket. Bob disappeared into the party.

Andre mimed shooting himself in the head. “Sorry.”

The gesture was a common one among Detroit police and the security guard got it at once. “Cop?”

“Yeah.”

The guard lowered his voice. “You got a datapad or anything you can turn in? I won’t tell about the implant.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t want you to get fired on my account.”

The security guard shook his massive head. “Not going to happen. I look good out here. Make people feel like their phones are safe.” He leaned in. “This is a bullshit gig. But the pay is good.”

“Better than what I have.” At the guard’s look of confusion, he added, “I have an even more bullshit gig, and it doesn’t pay at all.” He declined a drink ticket and went through the gap in the sawhorses.

The sprawling village green easily contained the party guests, which Andre estimated at about two hundred, not counting staff. The costumed servers looked every bit late-nineteenth century, as if Henry Ford himself would make an appearance any moment. At the far end of the green, musicians finished their ragtime number and started a waltz.

The guests around him, glowing in the soft flicker from artfully-placed gaslights, marveled at the quaintness of it all. So picturesque. So refreshingly honest. Some even claimed that the air smelled authentic. Andre tried to detect a whiff of freshly-cut hay or perhaps some manure, but all he smelled was perfumed guests and fried finger foods. The lawn under his feet had benefited from some very modern chemical fertilizers, and Andre could bet that Henry Ford never drank cosmopolitans and guevaras.

He scanned the crowd, looking for anyone who wanted to give Oliver a lot of money, not that he could imagine what that looked like. The party guests seemed like his typical fourthing customers writ large. Comfortable incomes, but they worked for their money. He supposed the trust fund crowd attended a different sort of fundraiser. More fun to buy a senator or a governor than a city councilman.

Andre would do his job, mingle on command, but he needed a drink first, even if he had to pay for it. He maneuvered through the crowd toward the bar.

“Ka-donk.” A nudge from behind made Andre take a quick step forward to catch himself. He whirled to see his nephew grinning at him. He thought a twenty year old would be above the ka-donk game, but Nikhil still wanted to keep score. “I’m at least five ahead.”

“Doesn’t count,” Andre said. “I saw it coming.”

“You did not.”

“I see all of yours coming. I know everything you’re going to do.”

“Yeah? What am I going to do right now?”