The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination (34 page)

M
ax dropped
into Camille’s parking lot right on the dot, but she wasn’t there. He looked to Lily. She shrugged her shoulders and made a don’t-ask-me face. Max popped the wind dome and looked to the two security guards flanking the door. The bigger one raised his index finger, and shouted, “She’ll be down in a minute.”

Max decompressed. “What could be taking her so long?”

“I don’t know, but let’s take a look.” Lily jumped out and ran toward the Manhattan side of Camille’s building. She was halfway across the lot before Max caught up.

“What’s that smell?” she yelled.

“The ocean.”

“My god, that’s amazing,” she said, coatless and shivering, until she rounded the corner and caught her first glimpse of Manhattan. “Holy Moses on a moped.”

Max remembered Pastor Scott saying that.

“My father used to say that,” she said. “It would’ve been nice to share this with him. He seems so much less an ass now that he’s dead.”

“It’s something, isn’t it?”

Lily looked up the side of Camille’s building. “Where does she live?”

“Way up there, seventeen floors. The view’s even better up there.”

Lily looked up and down and back across. “It’s? I don’t know . . . It’s.”

“Let’s get back. We can always come here again. She’s invited me to stay.”

Lily scowled.

“You too.”

Her scowl turned to jumping delight.

They ran back to the Peregrine. Still no Camille. The security guard raised two index fingers and wiggled them up and down — any second now.

Max leaned against the Peregrine. Lily snuggled against him.

The security guards disappeared inside, then quickly reappeared carrying four shopping bags with Camille towing a suitcase behind. Max and Lily assumed a more dignified posture. But as soon as Camille saw Max’s huge smile, she abandoned the suitcase and ran to him. Lily stepped back as she threw a bear hug on Max and leapt up to plant a quick kiss on his forehead.

Camille turned to Lily. “And who is this?” she asked with an approving wink and a nod.

“Lily. This is Lily. Lily, Camille.”

Camille eyed her up and down, then gave her a nice hug. “Max! You silver-tongued devil, you. Pop the trunk.”

“I don’t know how.”

“And you’re driving? In the back seat, boys.” The security guards lifted all the shopping bags overflowing with men’s wear into the back seat, leaving just enough room for Camille. The wind-dome dropped. “And you, honey, if you were six inches shorter, I’d fill your closet full. You are absolutely adorable!”

Lily relaxed, but she had never met a woman so beautifully dressed, in a black leather parka that broke just above Camille’s knees. Her heavy, grey ski pants dropped into mid-calf boots — a little clunky but still feminine. A black and white hound’s-tooth scarf, cool sunglasses, and two thunderous security guards completed the look. If these were the kind of friends Max had, she was in good company. She decided right then and there to love Camille, like a big sister.

They rocketed off into the western sky.

“Tell me about MacIan.”

“He’s a mess,” said Max. “When they took him away, he was just about breathing. He had a splintered two-by-four right through his guts.”

“OK, OK. I got the picture. Why are you two all smudged and scraped?” she asked, dabbing at a sooty smear on Lily’s already scratched cheek.

“We were in the Quaker Meeting House when it blew. MacIan flew right out the window. We had to fight our way out.”

“Fight who?”

“The Leprechauns.”

Camille blanched. “Fuckin’ Leprechauns!”

“You know that Beretta you gave me, with the ankle holster? Lily blasted two of them with it.” He stared adoringly at Lily. “She saved us both.”

“I love this girl,” said Camille. “She’s just my type.”

Lily was tickled pink. “What type am I?”

“You’re everybody’s type, honey. Believe me. I’m gonna get you one of those of your own. A girl should have her own gun.”

Lily raised her leg to show Camille how she’d strapped the Beretta to her thigh.

“You know the way to a girl’s heart, Max,” said Camille, certain he now had no pistol for himself.

Lily giggled, “And he’s cute as can be, too, isn’t he?”

The ladies burst into howling laughter and Max turned purple.

Camille rubbed it in. “Max? Is it getting hot in here? Hey, gimme that raggedy pea-coat. I got something for you.”

“Miss Camille, don’t lose it, it’s my dad’s and I know he wants it.”

“No problem,” she said, rooting through her luggage, producing a flimsy cleaner’s bag and taking from it a very expensive sage-green hunting jacket made of quilted corduroy, with elk horn buttons, and a suede collar with matching shoulders. It was dapper but warm, with a thin but densely quilted satin lining.

“Oh, man,” swooned Lily, wrestling Max into the coat.

Camille put Fred’s pea-coat into the cleaner’s bag and set it reverently on the pile. The ladies studied Max and made exceedingly judgmental faces at each other. “Fashion show, Max! Fashion show,” they sang. “Fashion show!”

Max lolled his head bashfully.

Camille smoothed the coat’s shoulders into place and said, “Don’t tell me you never did any posing in the mirror, don’t hand me that.” And their laughter grew as Max stammered and blushed before twisting his lips into a good-natured but telling pout — thank god dogs can’t talk.

“Oh,” said Camille, “I’ve got the perfect thing for you, Lily, it’s my dad’s . . . but tall as you are.” She dug out a black cashmere sports coat with a pure white silk lining, and motioned for Lily to sit up so she could slip it on her. “It was his skinny coat. Roll the sleeves up once or twice. It’s extremely soft. It’ll be fine.”

Lily pulled it on in a snap and hinted for a review.

“It’s a little big, but it works,” said Camille.

Max just stared. Lily got better every day.

“Thank you, Camille. I like the way it fits.” Lily rolled up the sleeves. It did work.

Camille’s joy slowly shrank as she settled into a ponderous funk — poor MacIan. She could feel them leveling off and the speed increasing. “How long until we reach the hospital?” asked Camille.

“We’re not going to the hospital,” said Lily. “We’re going to the Spires. The Twin Spires.”

Camille’s lips quivered. “The Spires?”

T
he Office of Zero Sum Games
, ReplayAJ’s domain, was huge alcove with an open side on the ravine. Her hand picked team was very bright, but very young.

“I hate to admit it,” said Chernobella, the youngest of the team, “but I don’t know what a Constantinople is.”

The five others wore equally waffling grins.

AJ said, “It’s an old frame. Pope Urban used it to get all the peasants in Europe to go on a Crusade. He gamified it with the best incentive to play in history. All your sins past, present and future — forgiven. We will create a similar movement by inviting our veterans to go on a crusade — to liberate New York.”

“What’s the play?” they asked.

“The game begins when a vet joins the march to New York City. They stop at various bases along the way, football stadiums, high school up to professional. They participate in a challenge, receive a reward, then advance. That’s the intermediate payoff. If they make it to New York, on time, they’ll receive their own grand prize, a home in NYC.”

The women tossed this around, then a very short one, Deuxmedia, said, “That’s a worthy prize. The incentive to play is irresistible.”

“Home ownership is the key to civilization,” said AJ, opening >New Mission and naming it >Liberate NYC.

“How will we get the word out in such a short time?” asked Allegro138, who wore baggy white coveralls in black polka dots.

“Everyone who has ever even heard of The Massive is sitting in front of their computers waiting for our next post,” cautioned AJ. “What we say next is critical. Any suggestions?”

“Let’s call Turnstyle,” said Cooperatora, whose unpainted white coveralls looked unfinished.

“Fabulous,” said AJ, “who’s got her digits?”

“She’s very stealthy,” said Deuxmedia. “She plays a dangerous game.”

“Levi knows how to contact her,” said AJ.

Bringing Levi into their game raised a sarcastic groan.

“You know he won’t interfere.”

They agreed, reluctantly.

AJ tapped her video app; a projection screen painted the wall behind her, and Levi appeared in mid-sentence. He saw her and smiled.

“We want to talk to Turnstyle.”

“Great! But I shouldn’t be the one to call to her.”

AJ agreed. “So how you want to play it?”

“We’ll cut into their house feed. Nuxplaza said she saw it here somewhere. They were all dancing.”

AJ’s screen went black, then filled with gyrating women and techno-disco — the joy was infectious. AJ was too old to gyrate, but her head bobbed to the beat. When the revelers realized their feed had been hijacked, the dancing slowed, the music stopped, and Turnstyle filled the frame.

“Who the hell are you?!”

“I’m AJ and . . .”

“ReplayAJ?!” shouted Turnstyle.

“We wanted to congratulate you on gaming Petey Hendrix.”

“How’d you know about that?”

AJ played past the question with magisterial discretion. “We have a little problem, and need to ask a favor.”

Turnstyle stared in wonder; this sort of thing never happens with the Tuke.

“We’re developing a counter-game. To stop an NPF attack on the UN Complex Sunday morning, before that awful show. We have to stop that.”

“How?”

“Constantinople.”

Turnstyle’s mouth gaped open. “Genius.”

“Conceptually. But we need a frame.”

“What does Levi Tuke think of all this?” said Turnstyle.

“Let’s ask.”

“You can just call Levi Tuke?”

“Yeah. So could you.”

“Me?”

“He loves you. He’s crazy about you. Manhatmazon is his favorite other-thing. But he’s a little shy. Such a fuckin’ nerd.”

“You’re kiddin’.”

AJ tapped her video app and Tuke appeared, in mid-sentence, but stopped abruptly. “Ms. Turnstyle!” he said, raising both hands and bowing several times. “Best move ever.”

AJ watched Turnstyle’s eyes blink uncontrollably.

“Mr. Tuke,” she said, gasping for air. “Is that really you?”

“Levi, please.”

“No! Mr. Tuke, you are the only man on this planet I have any respect for.”

“OK. But AJ’s in charge. The Constantinople was her idea.”

“I see it as a one-time social game,” said AJ. “The goal is to surround the UN Complex. The NPF won’t fire on the veterans.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Turnstyle. “They’re all about ideological purity. Spilling the blood of their own might be some kind of a sacrament for them.”

AJ raised a reassuring hand. “The men in the Peregrines won’t fire on their own.”

“Social games!” said Turnstyle. “They never get it.”

“If we do this right,” said AJ, “they won’t even know they’re playing.”

“Where are you going to stage all this?”

“At football fields along the way, then the old pro football stadium in New Jersey, the Meadowlands. A few miles from Manhattan.”

Turnstyle thought for moment, then said, “You can get a couple of hundred thousand people on the Great Lawn, in Central Park. They used to have concerts there. We’re planning something there this weekend.”

Tuke took that as his cue. “Why don’t you join us? Park your turnstile in our living room.”

“Where’s that?” said Turnstyle, with a challenging glint in her eye.

“I want you on our side so much, I’m going to tell you where.”

All movement in the dance hall stopped. All eyes focused on Tuke.

“This is my house,” he said. “Our family has been fixing it up for three centuries.”

An exultant gasp erupted as the Twin Spires filled every monitor in the dance hall.

“I’ve read the Tuke Letters,” whispered a misty-eyed Turnstyle.

“We’re right here,” said Tuke as a cartoon hand with a pointing finger aimed at the midpoint of the left spire. “Come join us. A Massive Manhatmazon alliance.”

Turnstyle couldn’t accept her good fortune. “Why would you reveal this to us?”

“If we fail now,” said Tuke in a desperately sincere voice, “if we miss this opportunity, we’re all doomed anyway. It’s now or never.”

Turnstyle looked to Priyanka with a blank stare, then grinned devilishly. “And! What if a million veterans showed up to the horrible
Sunday in America
show . . . with a Plus One?”

* * *

C
amille’s defenses
vanished as Lily reached over the seat for her hand with a tender smile.
I’m on my way to MacIan
, she reminded herserlf.
The Spires? Love’s gift.
The outside world was whizzing by so fast she thought she might faint. Her hands shook uncontrollably.

“We’ll be there soon,” said Lily. “It’s OK.”

Camille drew the high altitude oxygen through her nose. Relax. Relax . . . look where you are. Look where you are. And who you’re with.

Lily answered her stare with a generous grin. “You good?”

“I’m just worried about MacIan,” she said, as though waking from an alarming dream.

“He’s in the best place he could be,” said Max. “Way better than Pittsburgh.”

Lily ignited. “I was only at one hospital in my whole life, for a couple minutes. Not good! Where MacIan is, it’s way better. And! It’s inside a mountain. A mountain!”

“Do you know about that mountain?” asked Camille.

Lily and Max wagged their heads, hoping for a story.

“You didn’t read my posts? The Tuke Letters?”

They hadn’t.

“On the Tuke network?” asked Max. “The Massive?”

“Yeah. I initiated the mission: Who Killed Arthur Gager?”

Max looked over his shoulder with a surprised expression. “Watch this.” He poked the heads-up button and the wind-dome filled with The Massive’s extremely simple home page. “What’s your email?”

Camille started to speak, then blushed, buried her face in her hands and cracked up. She recovered just enough to say, “[email protected].”

They all joined in her laughing-spasm and Max navigated to >Who Killed Arthur Gager?.

“Go to >Story >Tuke Love Letters.”

He clicked through to >Tuke Love Letters.

“Love letters?” said Lily, her face beaming.

“Wait till you see.”

The wind dome was suddenly covered with a large version of the letters: My Dearest Wife and Love’s Gift . . .

Camille swallowed hard . . .

“Oh, oh let me read it. I’m a good reader,” said Lily, and she jumped right in. “‘You have known me to be a man of moderation and certainly of no particular public attention until being called upon as Juror in the case brought by The Lord High Mayor of London against one, William Penn, son of Admiral Sir William Penn’ . . .”

Lily read the letters, beautifully, and when done the trio sat in a blissful silence, soaking them in. Camille felt an even stronger connection to her name-sake, Camillia Tuke, bound by the same excruciating anticipation in their journeys to the Twin Spires.

Max stewed in a simmering rage of injustice, furious at what had so cruelly separated the lovers.

Lily stared off into the distance. She could almost taste that spring onion soup.