He wasn’t entirely sure how to explain himself. After the encounters with Captain Montaigne and Caitlyn, he was less sure of his mission.
“I’m just trying to help people, you know? After last night, I started looking around and seeing how much crap goes on—I thought maybe I could help.” His ears drooped; his tail dragged on the floor.
“How’s that going?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe not as good as I hoped.”
“What, people aren’t hoisting you on their shoulders and putting your name in lights?”
He chuckled in spite of himself. “A simple thank-you would be enough.”
She leaned over the table to kiss him on the nose. “Thank you, honey. Now let’s get some food.”
The whole meal, Andrew scanned the dining room, glancing over guests, studying the people entering and leaving, searching for anything suspicious. Someone walking a little too sneaky. Someone reaching into a bag that wasn’t theirs.
Sylvia waved in front of his face to catch his attention and he flinched, startled.
“You know we’ve got another late set tonight, right?” she said.
Actually, he’d forgotten. He winced and tried to come up with a bunch of excuses—reasonable excuses that would get rid of that worried crease in her brow. But he couldn’t think of anything.
“Yeah, I know.”
She frowned. She always knew when he was giving her the show business grin. When he wasn’t entirely on the same page.
“Babe, are you happy?”
“What? Of course I’m happy, what are you—”
She held out her arm. Shook her hand at him, a clear instruction for him to take hold of it. So he did, contritely, and she pulled herself to his side of the table, settling in his lap. Cuddling up, she put her arms around him and tousled his hair, rubbing his ears, and he just about started crying because no, maybe he wasn’t entirely happy, and how had she figured that out just by looking at him?
“I think,” he said, and sighed. “I think I may be having a midlife crisis.”
“Wishing you’d maybe made a different choice at the end of American Hero way back when?”
“What? Oh hell no, I never wanted to go to Egypt, people died there. It’s just … it’s just maybe I’m not entirely sure where to go from here.”
“Let’s just take it a day at a time till the end of the cruise. Then maybe try for that booking in New York. That sound like a plan?”
“Sylvia, are you happy?”
“I wake up every single day grateful that I get to make music and don’t have to have a real job.”
“That’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. And I have this pretty cute guy to hang out with.”
“Oh yeah, who?”
She slapped his shoulder. “That joke’s older than dirt. Like Burns and Allen old.” But she giggled anyway.
“So that makes it retro and we should try to work it into the show, yeah?”
“Love you, honey.” She touched her nose to his, inviting him to kiss her, which he did.
“Love you, too. I’ll be at the stage at eleven. Promise. I just have to check a couple of things first.”
“I know. I trust you.”
And the words stabbed him in the heart, because he had such a clear picture then of the worst thing that could ever happen to him, and it wasn’t dying or being maimed or tortured or anything like that. It would be Sylvia deciding she didn’t trust him. His heart raced just thinking of it.
He made sure his watch was strapped on tight, and he checked it often.
Andrew couldn’t be chastised for just looking, could he? He was supposed to be circulating anyway, and nobody could fault him for keeping an eye out while he was circulating. Just a little.
In the casino, that one guy he’d spotted palming cards was at the blackjack table. Andrew knew better than to confront the cheater himself, but he did think of a whole list of disruptive scenarios that might expose what he was up to. Jump on the table and start singing show tunes, swing from the chandelier, pull a fire alarm. Actually that last one would get him in a huge amount of trouble, cause the launching of lifeboats, the end of the whole cruise maybe. So no. Instead, he talked to the pit boss. Pointed out what he’d seen before, asked the boss to keep an eye on him. Was gratified a few minutes later when, as he was just about to leave, the pit boss and his security guy politely escorted the guy away from the table and out the door.
That may not have been a huge victory, but it was a victory. One tiny blow for justice.
He took time out for a bathroom break. Public restrooms on this deck were toward the stern, and he didn’t expect to see anything out of the ordinary here—but he did. A kid coming out of the men’s room, a big bag tucked under his arm, looking both ways as if to make sure the coast was clear. Lips clamped together like he was nervous.
That right there was a suspicious figure. Hunched over, looking out with a startled, anxious gaze, the kid wore boots and jeans, a sweater and a jacket over the sweater, messy hair swept under a stocking cap. The boat’s air-conditioning was good but not that good. He wasn’t dressed for a vacation, but like he’d just come from hiding out in a basement. Brushing against the wall, the kid furtively rounded the corner and went through a door that led to a staircase down to the main deck, clearly trying to avoid attention.
Andrew followed him because guests weren’t supposed to be on the lower deck. He moved quietly—these stairs were bare, utilitarian. Not meant to be seen by the public. He’d assumed the kid was stealing something. Obviously up to something nefarious. But this was a boat on a river, en route to someplace else. He had no place to go, no place to escape. Best bet was to blend in with everyone else until he could leave, right?
Maybe he was a stowaway. Maybe he had a hiding place.
Andrew had never been down to this lowest deck, which was all engines, electrical systems, machinery. He had no reason to be here. And neither did this kid, he was betting. He moved quietly as he knew how, which was an effort. But he was able to stay just out of sight, and even though he seemed to be looking over his shoulder every five seconds, the kid didn’t spot him. He fled into one of the lower deck’s back corridors. The boat showed its age here, with scuffed floorboards, wood laminate doors cracked with wear. The incandescent lightbulbs made the whole place seem washed out.
Andrew had an idea. He couldn’t make himself invisible, but he could pull something of a chameleon act, wrapping himself in a kind of imaginary robe, then painting the robe with whatever colors happened to be around him. It wasn’t perfect, but he could blend in enough to escape a cursory search. An onlooker might spot movement, and if someone was taking pictures he’d show up clear as anything since his illusions didn’t appear on camera—so long, television career. The age of ubiquitous smartphone cameras and Instagram accounts made his power little more than a parlor trick. But you know, if no one was actually looking for him, he was fine.
He was pretty sure no one was looking for him.
Andrew followed his quarry into the corridor. The kid had slowed, checking ahead and behind him one more time. Andrew made himself appear blank and dark, and stood very still. The kid didn’t see him. He stopped at what looked like the steam room door and quickly knocked a pattern like a code.
What was going on? Smuggling? Human trafficking? Was this some kind of underground mafioso crime ring organized under everyone’s nose? Terrorist attack? This last idea gave him pause. There’d been so much in the news lately, so many disasters. It might seem ludicrous to think that some international terrorist group would decide to target some C-string tourist cruise on the Mississippi, but stranger things had happened. What better way to strike at the American heartland—
The door opened, and the kid began handing items out of the bag to the people within. And what was he smuggling? Toilet paper. Ragged hands grabbed a roll and pulled back. The kid smiled and slipped inside.
Toilet paper and
paper towels. That was what the kid had been carrying. Smuggling. Stealing. Whatever. Items so basic they were hard to even comprehend as a target for theft.
What was going on here?
The door closed, a latch slid home, and the corridor appeared as if nothing had happened.
Andrew stared for a long time, wondering what he should do. Knock on the door, talk to the people inside to find out what was going on. Tell someone that there seemed to be stowaways on the lowest deck. But who?
This felt weird, this felt bigger than him, and he didn’t know what to do.
“Mr. Yamauchi, are you supposed to be down here?”
The voice came from behind him, and he jumped, gasping. When the door shut, he’d let his camouflage illusion drop. Which meant the person standing behind him saw him.
The boat’s head clerk, JoHanna Potts, stood at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, glaring with enough focus that she might spontaneously develop laser vision and make Andrew explode right there. He wouldn’t mind so much—it would save him from having to get through the next few minutes. She was an older black woman, impeccable, precise, and the kind of personality you just didn’t argue with. Ever. He’d met her when they’d come on board in New Orleans and filled out tax forms and direct deposit paperwork. And she was right, he was not supposed to be down here.
He put on his biggest bullshitting smile. “Hey, JoHanna! How the heck are you?” He marched to the end of the hallway, hoping maybe she would step aside and let him flee as if nothing was wrong.
She didn’t budge an inch but remained a wall, blocking his way out. “Seriously. Are you supposed to be here?”
He felt like he was fourteen and playing hooky. “Well I guess, I mean. It’s not like I’m not supposed to be down here—”
“But do you have a reason to be here?” She casually glanced at her phone. “Don’t you have a performance you’re supposed to be at?”
“Yeah, in half an hour maybe—”
She glared. That was all she did. Andrew took a step back. “But I thought I saw … is something going on down here?”
“Nothing you need to be concerned with.”
So that was weird. Andrew seemed to have run up firmly against the limits of what he could confront as the Natchez’s resident vigilante hero. If JoHanna was behind it, it likely wasn’t bad, right? A mystery, yes, but not criminal.
“In fact, how about you just forget you saw anything at all and I won’t make a complaint to Ms. Beaumont about you getting in trouble in your off hours?”
He was already one strike down with Caitlyn. This was a deal he could accept.
“Right. Okay. You have a good evening.” He winked and clicked finger guns at her, because that was what he always did to make himself appear harmless. She didn’t even scowl.
He fled.
It was a truism that if you went looking hard enough you were bound to find something you didn’t want to see. He wanted to talk to Sylvia. Ask her what he should do about what he’d seen and JoHanna’s involvement. Then again, if this was something really dangerous and skeevy, he didn’t want Sylvia anywhere near it. So he should just handle it on his own.
Being a hero was tough. Maybe it wasn’t worth the anguished moral quandary. Besides, he was pretty sure his true mission in life was making an ass of himself onstage for other peoples’ enjoyment.
Speaking of which, their next show was coming up soon and he ought to get back to the cabin to change clothes, maybe take a quick shower and freshen up. As of now, he was officially off superhero duty. Stretching his shoulders, unkinking his neck, thinking of which obnoxious dinner jacket with bedazzled lapels he ought to wear that night, he turned the corner into the hallway of cabins on the way to his and Sylvia’s room.
A whole gang jumped him from behind, not ten steps away from his own door. Like they knew just where to find him and were waiting in ambush. Ninjas, a million of them. No, turned out it was just two guys and a woman. That was all it took to completely overpower Andrew Yamauchi.
Each guy grabbed an arm and wrenched back, almost lifting Andrew off his feet. He yelled and tried to twist out of their grips, but that nearly popped his shoulders out of their sockets so he settled on kicking wildly. That was when the woman moved in front of him and punched him in the junk.
That really hurt. He doubled over, his yell turning into a groan. She grabbed his chin and lifted, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Quiet, you,” she sneered.
He knew her. Recognized her—the pickpocket from earlier in the afternoon. But he’d turned her in! He’d told security all about her! And … they hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t had enough proof, enough probable cause to lock her up until they could kick her off the boat. Well, shoot.
It suddenly occurred to him that when he confronted the pickpocket he maybe should have disguised himself. Just a little, maybe. All the rest of that afternoon he’d done such a good job of looking around, keeping a close watch, noticing everything he wasn’t supposed to notice. Tracking down real, actual crime. But he hadn’t seen these guys coming. But—they must have noticed him. Damn.
Andrew tried to think of how he could get out of this, and the only idea he came up with was running his mouth. “Hey, I’m pretty sure I don’t owe anyone any money, but maybe I’m wrong?” His laugh sounded weak.
“We had a sweet gig going here,” the woman murmured. “No one expects anything bad to happen on a boat like this. No one expects dirty tricks here in the small time. But then you had to go and be a hero.”
“I’ve learned my lesson on that. Really. I’m not a hero, I’m not—”
“Can it,” she said, and stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth, tying it in the back of his head for a gag.
Okay, this was bad. Something was going around his wrists. Some kind of nylon cord, which would be hard to twist out of. Goon One hoisted him off his feet so Goon Two could tie those together—and yes, he now recognized both goons as the grifters from the casino. They hefted him over their shoulders and carried him bodily away, while the woman kept watch. They squished his tail in their grips.
Keeping out of sight, they hauled him to the stern. Lots of shadows on a riverboat at night. The grinding rumble of the wheel turning, water splashing off the slats, sounded monstrous back here. Even if he hadn’t been gagged, no one would have heard him shout.
Andrew fought the best way he knew how. Did everything he could think of, which admittedly wasn’t much. He slammed illusions at them as fast as he could think of them, conjuring whatever he thought might distract them. The ace Lohengrin, a hulking knight in full armor wielding a glowing sword, came marching along the walkway. The trio of thugs flinched, almost dropping Andrew. If he twisted just right—
But the illusion could only stand there, swinging the sword without striking anything, and the woman muttered, “It’s fake. Ignore it.”
Andrew tried again and again. Mafia thugs with baseball bats charged from one side and a swarm of katana-wielding ninjas from the other. Trouble was, his illusions were just that, and they couldn’t make contact with the bad guys without vanishing, which they promptly did, washing against the thugs like a fog bank. He hoped the flurry of movement and light would distract them, maybe give Andrew a chance to break free.
But no. They didn’t even look. He tried something a little more believable than mafiosi and ninjas. Sorority girls, a whole bunch of them, like they’d come on board for drunken revels and were now running wild all over the boat. All of them in tight little candy-colored dresses with their boobs ready to burst out, big hairsprayed hair forming an actual canopy over them when they all squeezed together. All screaming crazy high-pitched shrieks of either terror or delight, who could say which.
Surely this would get the bad guys to back off. Flee in horror. At least look up from what they were doing. But no, they didn’t do a thing, stayed right on task, and the illusory crowd of sorority girls disappeared.
Andrew gave a muffled wail through the gag. He worked h
is jaw a little—the knot wasn’t very tight, if he could just work it a little more. The fabric tasted terrible, like old socks.
His next gambit, a herd of angry velociraptors with knife-long claws and snapping mouths of angry teeth, had no effect on them. Maybe if he rained seagulls down on their heads. Maybe if he could make a giant tidal wave appear alongside the boat—
He was pretty sure he couldn’t generate that much of a convincing illusion. Maybe if he’d spent the last ten years actually practicing being a hero instead of playing Vegas and corporate shindigs, he’d have a better idea of how to get out of this.
He finally spit out the gag and immediately started talking. “I’m famous, you know,” he pleaded. “You can’t just make me disappear and expect to get away with it.”
“Watch us. Oh, sorry, you won’t be around to watch!”
She said it like they’d done this kind of thing before. The two men hoisted him up on the rail. Andrew was trying to be brave but he screamed in spite of himself.
His phone rang. The notes of “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down” from Looney Tunes jangled out. That made everyone stop.
“Is that a phone?” one of the guys asked.
They all looked at Andrew.
The phone was in his pocket, and that was Sylvia calling. Sylvia, wanting to know where he was because their next set started in ten minutes, and he wasn’t there. He had promised she wouldn’t have to track him down. And here she was, tracking him down. He had disappointed her. His shoulders slumped; he hadn’t really felt defeated until that moment.
Maybe he could butt-dial and get the phone to pick up. Maybe she would hear what was happening and send help. Maybe he could tell her he loved her one last time.
The woman found his pocket, wrenched his tail out of the way—which really hurt—grabbed the phone, and stared at it a moment.
Andrew shouted, “Sylvia! I’m in trouble! Goons kidnapped me, get help! Love you, babe!”
But the woman had already tossed it over the side. Andrew was still yelling as it splashed into the waters of the Mississippi below. Andrew would no doubt follow in a moment, and Sylvia would never know what happened to him.