This choice: Introduce Keith to the group • Go Back...Chapter #44We're In the Money by: Seuzz   While waiting for Keith to show up you go for a jog: something to loosen your mind and body while figuring out how to keep him introduce him to your new recruits.
Maybe you lose track of the time, or maybe Keith was just so freaked out he rushed right over. Whatever the reason, you find his car out front when you get back. Inside, Keith is perched on the edge of the sofa, looking very nervous. Frank is watching him with a gnomic expression on his face.
You nod at them as you collect your breath. "So what have you two been talking about?"
"Nothing," Frank says. "Your friend was full of questions. I just kept still."
"Is that you, Will?" Keith asks. His face is pale, and his eyes dart.
"Yeah, and that's Frank. Don't worry about him. He does what I tell him. Lemme change, I'll be right back."
You're less than worried about your smelly clothes; you want a moment to think. Frank is under your control, but you've left enough of his personality in place that you have to worry a little bit about any deductions he might be making. As far as his golem knows, you're just preparing an elaborate trap for Patterson. You'll have to give him a story about Keith.
But you'll need to get Keith set up, too. You settled on a target for him while you were jogging, so as you pull on a new shirt you call Jonathan Straussler. "How's Mr. Moneybags?" you ask when he answers.
"I haven't seen my dad today," he retorts. "Life is sweet."
"Want it sweeter? Invite me over."
"I like it sweet, not stupid. Or would Frank be coming over too?"
"Actually, that's the idea. Lemme hustle you at pool." He makes a confused noise. "Listen, Frank's giving me all kinds of shit about geometry. I was thinking we could come over, do a few racks, and I could show I know a few things about angles."
"Is that the only kind of math you're good at?" He laughs. "How many degrees are there in a triangle, Joe?" he asks.
"Fahrenheit or Celsius?"
"Funny, but I know you're not that dumb. Yeah, come on over. We'll play for money. I could use an advance on my allowance."
"You'd only win enough to buy some bubblegum."
Back in the main part of the house you chuck your chin at the other two. "Come on, we're gonna go see a friend, make a score. Frank, take the truck. I'll ride with Keith."
"Why separate cars?" Frank asks.
"Because Keith'll be going home separate. You brought a mask, didn't you, Tilley?" He fumbles at his backpack. "Good. I'll fill you in on the way. Straussler's, Frank."
* * * * *
"So, you never could get Yumi, huh?" you chide Keith after you're in the car. As Joe, you feel too mellow to give him the reaming he probably deserves.
"No one would help me!" he exclaims. "Patterson's a bastard and Caleb is all smug now that he's a senior member. You disappeared. Forget Lynch or Black." He turns a pale face toward you. "I didn't think I was getting out of there alive!"
"Well, you've got a second chance now. I won't be able to help you out—"
"Jesus, Will, come on!"
"You won't need my help. You could probably make your quota inside forty-eight hours with the face I'm about to get you." His expression acquires a dog-like mien: earnest, hopeful, pleading. "I won't tell you about him, because you'll have him figured out as soon as we're there. What kind of people is Patterson wanting copied?"
"He didn't say, but I assume it's like the ones he's been getting at Westside. You know, cheerleaders and girls. A guy or two, so he can get with girls he hasn't had us copy."
"You have any idea what else he's been up to?" Keith shakes his head. "What about Caleb?"
"He's like a pig in slop. He's playing Javits, and he's having a hell of a lot of fun hazing me." His expression turns petulant again. "It's like I don't even know him anymore!"
That catches your ear, and you mentally pen a memo to yourself about getting together with your old friend.
"Who are these guys?" Keith continues. He jerks his chin at you, and at the rearview mirror.
"Just a couple of jocks. Brothers. Joe—that's this guy—is a moron, you'll see." You drum your chest. "Makes for a good hiding place, though. Frank's smart. What did he say to you when you got there?"
"Well, I thought it was you, so I was all, like, Hi Will, thanks for helping me out."
"And he said?"
"'You're welcome. What am I supposed to do for you?' I said, Save me from Patterson. Put me in Eastman. Help me make my new quota." You grunt to yourself. There's some data for the fake Frank to chew on. "I asked what we were going to do, and he said, 'Wait for your friend to get back. He's out taking a jog.' So, I was, like, really nervous before you got back. Thought maybe I'd fucked things up."
"Well, Frank's a fake. You know that special stuff that lets Caleb keep control of his old self? Frank's got some of it on him. I can switch between these two guys—" You look back at the truck. "And I might have to. But you'll like it better if I'm being Joe. I'll tell you if I make a switch."
You drum your fingers against the window. You wonder what Joe will get up to if you do switch with Frank.
* * * * *
Jonathan Straussler is out front when you arrive at his place. "Out front" is a bit of a misnomer. There are no other houses visible; there are no neighbors, and, anyway, they'd all be hidden behind a screen of tall trees, which are themselves several hundred yards away from the house. The house is the biggest you've ever seen, and looks more like a small English castle that has been plopped—verdant lawn and all—in the midst of the countryside. Straussler—tall, lean, blonder even than Joe—is casually hurling a ball and sending a trim German shepherd to retrieve it. He's dressed in cream-colored khaki shorts and a crisp white shirt: casual but expensive looking.
Keith gapes. "This isn't for me, is it?"
"It is. And you're going to be our piggybank. So keep your mouth shut until we get him out of the way."
Jonathan's smile is serene as you and Keith and Frank pile out. He greets Keith warmly with a blinding smile and a firm handshake, and points around the corner of the house. "You haven't been out here before, have you? We'll go in through the back. I wouldn't want anyone calling the guy at the front door 'Mr. Butler'." He gives you a sidelong glance; Frank shoves you.
The back entrance—one of several—opens directly between an immense porch that leads down to a swimming pool and an airy atrium lined with vintage pinball machines and dominated by a pool table. There's a small kitchen/bar area, and Jonathan fetches each of you a cola. "Where's Monique?" you ask.
"Off with friends. We saw a lot of each other this week. Brett and Jordan were here earlier."
"They didn't run off just because of us, did they."
"Nah, they were just looking for a distraction. Jordan and Hannah, you know." He shrugs.
You decline to pick up the topic of Jordan and his on again/off again relationship with the captain of the girls' basketball team, and instead pick up a pool cue. "What are you doing?" Frank challenges you.
"Getting ready to break." The balls are already set up.
"We play to see who breaks. Go on, pick a number between one and ten."
You keep your face straight. "Seven."
"Sorry, it was eight." He takes the cue from you.
But you grab it back. "What's this 'Sorry' business? You pick a number between one and ten!"
"Okay. Seven." He looks very smug.
You stare at him, then hand the cue over with a muttered oath. "I don't know how you always do it."
"It's your favorite number, Joe." He bends and readies the cue.
"Fore!" you shout as he strikes the ball, and he lurches. None of the balls makes it into a pocket. He glares. "Okay, now it's my turn."
"It's my turn," says Jonathan. You frown; he sighs. "Okay, Joe, pick a number between one and ten."
"Seven. No, eight!"
"Sorry, it was six. But you were close." He sinks two balls with one shot.
You turn and mutter at Keith. He blinks back. You can't tell if he can't believe that Joe is that stupid, or if he's as puzzled as you supposedly are by what just happened.
* * * * *
"Christ, you're an idiot," Jonathan Straussler says as he sits up. He tugs at Tilley's shirt, which is rather too small for him.
"Who's the idiot for not changing first, like I told him too," you retort.
"Someone coulda come in."
"Well, you're gonna have to change now." You take the bundle of light-colored clothes from the naked Keith golem, which is huddled under the pool table, and toss them to him. "Come on, before Mr. Butler comes in."
"Who's Mr. Butler?" the new Jonathan Straussler asks.
You roll your eyes. "You're the one who's supposed to know the servants' names."
He gives you a look as he starts cramming himself inside his new clothes. "Ask me tomorrow when I've got the memories."
"What do you mean?" you ask.
* * * * *
That's the start of a tedious conversation, the horrifying upshot of which is that you learn that you're the only one in the gang who gets mask-memories more or less instantaneously. For everyone else, it takes up to twelve hours before the memories start filtering in.
That's bad enough. But it also means that you've just substituted a new Jonathan Straussler for the old, who won't know how to act like Jonathan until tomorrow morning at the earliest.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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