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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Sacking a Ballplayer"  Evans had texted you during the day to say that Trantham would be over to the school at a little after four. You meet him outside B wing at three-forty. "What did you tell him," you ask as you lead him toward the portables. "What you told me," he says, looking very anxious. "That I wanted to talk to him about Gardinhire. He wanted to know why." "And you didn't tell him? Good. Well, when he gets here—" Then you hear voices coming from the portables. Fuck. You peer around a corner and spot Justin Roth, Shep Tsosie and Tim Gerard. Laughing, passing around a joint, and blocking your way. There's no telling how long they'll be there. You pull Evans back to where no one can see you. "Okay, when Trantham gets here, tell him that Gardinhire is getting out of the business, but that you can step in to keep him supplied. Ask him what he's paying, for how much. No matter what he says, tell him that if ups his order by three ounces, you'll cut his price by a ten percent an ounce. He'll probably argue he can't do that, 'cos he's incompetent, but you just keep making promises and negotiating with him. Doesn't matter what you say. But all the time you're talking—don't stop for nothing—you lead him back here, back to the portable where we had our conference yesterday." "Uh huh?" "Then when you get him inside and the door's closed, you take him from behind like this." You show him the move, like you showed Mendoza. "Lay him on the floor and take his clothes off. God, don't be such a fucking pussy about it, okay?" You sneer at his expression of distaste. "I'll give you ninety seconds exactly to pull this shit off, then I'll come in and join you." "Where are you going to be?" "Depends on what Roth and them are up to. If they're still here, I'll be yukking it up with them. Otherwise I'll be in another portable. But I'll be watching and I'll join you, help you finish up. Okay? Go wait for him." You push him back toward B wing. Then with a deep sigh you walk out to meet the other three. Roth looks up with a friendly smile as you approach; Tsosie, who is always a lot more circumspect than his friends, only gives you a flat, mica-colored glance. Gerard leans away. "Ladies," you say as you squat next to them. "How's the pussy business?" Roth guffaws, and hands the joint over to Shep. You take out a cigarette. "Likin' school so much you can't leave it?" "What're you still doing here?" Roth asks. "Waitin' for someone. Business. You know." Silence. Roth takes the joint back from Tsosie, takes a deep toke, muses on it. "If we're in your way, we can take off." "I'd appreciate it. You don't gotta go yet. It'll be fifteen, twenty minutes before he shows." "Who?" Gerard asks, like the utter tool he is. "Franny Upshaw," you reply. "Know her? Hot little number. Smoking body." He looks confused. "I thought you said it was a guy." "You weren't paying attention," you say. Out of the corner of your eye you notice Roth grinning to himself. "Lemme explain. Franny Upshaw. That's short for Francine Upshaw. Initials F. U." You draw down a solid quarter inch of the cigarette and expel the smoke in Gerard's face. "Ever heard of F.U.?" Roth laughs hoarsely as Gerard looks away. "You are one fucking funny son of a bitch," Roth says. "Maybe. But I ain't got nothin' to contribute to this conversation. You guys carry on. Sounds like you were having fun." But you've killed the talk and the mood. When it resumes, it's classes and teachers and homework. Only at the end does a note of gossip catch your interest. "You gonna go find Dane,\?" Roth asks Gerard. "He's being weird," Gerard says. "Weirder." "How so?" "He's being sober." That causes Roth to gasp asthmatically with laughter. "I'm serious. Today, in History, he was raising his hand every couple minutes with questions. And they were show-offy questions, like he already knew the answers and just wanted everyone to know it. Like, isn't it true that Georgia was originally a penal colony, like Australia? I mean, who asks shit like that?" "Penile?" asks Tsosie. "You mean like cock?" And with much laughter the subject shifts again. * * * * * Eventually there are footsteps, and Tanner Evans and Chris Trantham come into view. "Hey, I know that guy," says Gerard, and waves at Trantham. "Dudes," you say in a heavy voice. That at first draws bewildered stares; then Roth sighs deeply, and with a groan gets to his feet, dusting himself elaborately off. Tsosie and Gerard follow his cue; and only a minute after Evans and Trantham have disappeared into the portable, you are alone on the grass. You nurse the last of the cigarette, grind it out, and walk into the portable. * * * * * Chris Trantham isn't fat, not in the conventional sense, but he is pear-shaped, with a wide bottom and a paunch that droops toward his dick. He is blonde, with long hair that he pulls back over his ears and down to the bottom of his neck. He dresses down in sloppy khakis and long-sleeve shirts, has a weedy moustache, and wears glasses. His ears are too big. All in all, he'll be a step up for the pimply-faced, beetle-browed Tanner Evans. Evans, though, is looking a little sick as he squats nakedly beside the naked Trantham. "Smart of you," you say. "I didn't tell you to get undressed, but you did." "I talked to, uh, Kevin Hall—" He pauses with evident confusion about which name to use for his friend. "After first. He told me basically what would happen." "Good. Then help me get him dressed in your stuff." Since Trantham is quite a bit bigger and heavier than Evans, that's a formidable task, but you get it done before the mask comes out of him; then Evans gets in Trantham's voluminous clothes. You tell your fellow conspirator to keep an eye on Trantham for reviving consciousness while you creep into a corner, out of sight, to seal up the inside of the mask. You end by dropping Evans's mask onto Trantham, Trantham's onto Evans; and you wake the latter quickly with the standard suffocation trick. He looks very confused as he rises—and to prevent worse confusion, you shield the sight of the Tanner Evans on the floor—and push him outside. In a tight space between two neighboring portables you give him a lecture like the one you gave Hall. Go someplace quiet and lonely, concentrate on getting memories back, review Trantham's life, rehearse the fact that he is now Chris Trantham. To your surprise, he asks one very penetrating question, albeit in a tone of quiet horror: "Am I going to forget who I really am?" "I don't think so," you tell him. "Anyway, we'll be getting together, and I'll keep reminding you." Like Chen keeps reminding me that I'm Will Prescott. "By the way, you're going to see me tonight at the country club." "I am?" "Jesus, yes. Don't be late. Oh, and when we have our smoke break, I want you to hand over a list of everyone that Trantham's being selling to over at Eastman. And the next time after that we talk, I want you to tell me about the whole social scene over there. Who's connected to who, who might be interested in buying, everything. Full web." He nods, and you push him away. You yourself return via A wing to the front of the school, and take the long way back around to the student lot. * * * * * You're very tired by now, but not loopy as you were during first, and you get some energy at the Panda Garden, where you eat in. It may be the largest Chinese restaurant in the city, with a massive open dining room and buffet space, but at four forty-five, just before the dinner time crowd starts showing up, it's comparatively empty. Aunt Sue personally brings out some lunchtime leftovers for you. "How is your grandfather?" she asks with brusque interest. "Same old same old," you shrug. It's never been explained to you why Aunt Sue and Uncle Lee don't help support the old man. So far as you can gather, it goes back to some kind of bad business relationship between the your dad and uncle (who are only brothers-in-law). Whether Mr. Chen has refused help, or whether Uncle Lee has refused to provide it, you don't know. "Where you going after here?" "Work." "That's right. The country club. When you getting a job on wait staff there?" When I can pass as a fuck named Chip Havenhurst, you mutter. "What?" "I think only kids whose parents are members get hired as waiters." "Maybe your mom and dad could join," she says. "Or your uncle and I." That would be hilarious, you think bitterly. Especially in your Aunt Sue's case. Her accent is still easily detectable, especially when she starts cursing the kitchen help. She chats with you a little longer, then leaves you to play with your phone. There's one message from Thomason: Everything OK? You text back, Sure, hang loose. Nothing from the Mendoza or Evans numbers. You decide to wait until tomorrow before inquiring after your bitches' replacements. And there is one message from Chelsea Cooper. You tense all over at the sight of the sender's name. Chances are she's just checking up on progress. It'll just be gossip, right, about the way "she" dumped "Gordon Black" as her boyfriend. It's gotta be bullshit, you can safely ignore it until tomorrow. Can't you? Next: "Criss Cross Consequences" |
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