Playing For Keeps Page 6

  “Ian, chill,” Michelle said. “You’ll just get yourself in trouble if you attack cops. Come on.”

  Keepsie hadn’t spoken. She stared at the men. Without looking at her friends, she walked forward with a “welcoming a new customer she didn’t know” smile on her face.

  “Gentlemen, the bar doesn’t open for a couple of hours. But I’ll be happy to serve you when it does,” she said.

  “Ms. Laura Branson?” asked the shorter man, pulling aside his jacket to indicate a silver badge hanging on his belt.

  “Please, call me Keepsie,” she said, stretching her hand out. “And you are?”

  “Michael Orson of the State Alcohol Board.” He did not shake her hand. She dropped it after a moment’s hesitation, but her smile did not waver. “Ms. Branson, we are here to suspend your alcohol license; your last report to us listed you making fiftytwo percent of your net profits from alcohol sales instead of food sales, which violates Statute 756-A stating that every restaurant must make fifty-one percent of profit from food sales or call itself a private club.”

  Keepsie’s smile evaporated as her jaw dropped. “That can’t be, I track the books myself before I send to my accountant.”

  Orson hooked his thumbs through his belt and sighed. “Well, Ms. Branson, if that is indeed true, it will show up in your next audit in sixty days time. Until then, we have to suspend your license and close your bar. We’d appreciate your cooperation with us.” The officers at his back puffed themselves up menacingly.

  “You can’t do that, you can’t take anything from her without her permission,” Ian said.

  “That may be true for Ms. Branson’s possessions, but an alcohol license is something that belongs to the state, and can be taken by the state, just like a driver’s license,” Orson said.

  Keepsie eyed him warily. “If you know that, then you must have friends at the Academy.”

  “Academy officials are acquainted with many other government agencies, ma’am,” Orson said. “We do talk on occasion.”

  Cold comprehension washed over Peter. This was the only thing they could take from her, and possibly the thing that meant the most to her.

  Keepsie allowed Orson to lead her mutely down the stairs into the bar. They came out with the alcohol license—Keepsie had removed it from her frame—and Orson instructed her to lock the door. One officer came downstairs with a drill and a padlock and quickly installed another lock in Keepsie’s door.

  “They can’t do this, can they?” Michelle asked.

  “They can do anything they want,” Peter said. “I’m sure if Keepsie has a change of heart about the device, then the audit will show no such numerical errors.”

  “But she was going to give it to them anyway!” said Ian. “Hey, Keepsie!” he called down the stairs. “Tell them you were—”

  Keepsie looked up at him and shook her head sharply, her eyes cold and dry.

  “Oh dude,” he said. “She is pissed.”

  They watched as the officer finished his work and the three came up the stairs. Orson handed Keepsie his card and said, “We’ll be in touch. And, if you wish to tell me anything, I’ll be available to listen.”

  “This is bullshit!” Ian cried. “This is utter bullshit! You can’t do this to her just cause she pissed off the heroes! She didn’t break any laws, you’re just Academy puppets!”

  “Sir, I’ll appreciate it if you keep calm,” Orson said, but the officers behind him exchanged nervous looks.

  They must have read the files on all of us, Peter thought.

  “Ian, don’t—” said Keepsie, but it was too late.

  Ian raised his fists and his terrible talent spewed forth. Filth and excrement shot from his hands with firehose-like pressure, coating the men in feces and knocking them back.

  “Oh no,” groaned Michelle.

  Ian laughed as he effortlessly kept the scrambling men at bay, slipping and falling again in the shit. He allowed them to get up only to knock them down again with a fresh stream.

  Peter held a handkerchief to his nose, gagging. Keepsie lifted her arm to her face. She and Peter exchanged anguished looks, but before they could do anything, they heard a voice behind them.

  “Thanks for finally giving me an excuse,” said White Lightning, and he punched Ian in the back of the head. Ian fell forward. Peter leaped to try to catch him but he had edged too far away to avoid the stench. Ian was already unconscious as he hit the pavement.

  “You’re under arrest,” White Lightning said to the prone Third Waver. He lifted him into his arms and flew toward the Academy.

  7

  Dimly aware that Michelle was ranting and Peter was escorting them both down the street, Keepsie walked. The world was a flat image; a picture of the Seventh City Main Street that she walked twice every day, rain, shine, snow, heroes, villains, or, apparently, shit. There was shit on her pants and shoes.

  “They took him, Keepsie, they took Ian, what are we going to do?” Michelle said. “They’ve gone too far this time!”

  “Come on, Michelle, calm down, it’ll be OK,” Peter said, still pulling both women along by their elbows. “Keepsie, I believe you live closest, can we go to your apartment?”

  Her apartment. They couldn’t go to her apartment; it was locked. Her bar was locked; they couldn’t go there either. They couldn’t go anywhere. She felt Peter’s hold tighten on her elbow.

  “Keepsie, you have to hold it together, I can’t take care of both of you,” Peter said, desperation seeping through cracks in his usually calm voice.

  Keepsie shook her head. No one had barricaded her apartment—she’d locked it herself. “Right, sorry, yeah, let’s head back to my place. We can, uh, wash up.” She lifted one leg and then the other, grimacing at the foul splatters covering her sneakers and her jeans.

  Still feeling as if she were acting in a movie, moving stiffly through blocking set by a director, she helped Peter urge the enraged Michelle down the street. Other people on the street were the actors who took their cues and turned their heads to stare at them: a concerned, well-dressed man, a furious tall woman with cornrows and a Keepsie Branson, the star of the show who was horribly miscast, played by a woman who couldn’t for the life of her remember her lines.

  Michelle had calmed down to grumbling by the fourth block and was only fuming in silence by the time they got to Keepsie’s apartment.

  Keepsie tried the door and found it locked. She stood there dumbly for a moment, staring at the door, feeling the fear and helplessness well up inside her again.

  “Do you have your keys?” Peter asked.

  Keys. Of course. Keepsie searched her jacket pockets and found the keys. She tried three before coming to the one that opened her apartment. She led the way inside and looked around. It was her place; it looked like the set where she pretended to live her life, secure in her hubris that the Academy could never hurt her. She was too small, too below the radar, too insignificant. Anyway, they couldn’t take anything away from her.

  Peter was talking. Why was he always talking? “I mean, you were already going to give it to them, now it seems the way is clear. You can give them the device and get your bar back. They are only doing this to intimidate you. And maybe we can get Ian back if you negotiate right.”

  Keepsie looked for her cue card. Keepsie the character was supposed to agree with him, take the easy way out. Giving the device back was the obvious choice, as Peter said. And it was what she was going to do anyway. It might get Ian back. Keepsie the character would get her bar back and go back to work, cowed and ready to live in a city run by those who considered her a second-rate citizen. Her lines were on the cue card, and the stage manager in her head had started prompting her with a loud and desperate whisper. The dawning realization came to her that it was time for improvisation.

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry?” Peter said, confused.

  “No. I’m not going to give it to the heroes.”

  “But—why?”

 
; Her words were coming faster and easier now. “They are bullies. Bullies and manipulators and thugs and, as Ian said, assholes.” The stage manager gave a horrified gasp and the cue card holder checked the cards, flipping through them to find the right spot in her lines, but Keepsie was beyond them.

  “The villains have been straight with me, the heroes haven’t. The villains have treated me with respect, something I’ve never gotten from the heroes.”

  “Keepsie,” Peter said, “they are called villains for a reason. They have hurt people, caused citywide destruction. I’ve seen it with my own eyes! Doodad kidnapped you, for God’s sake!”

  “And still I can’t find it in my heart to root for the heroes. The villains have never hurt me. The heroes have.”

  “Awesome,” Michelle said, slapping her hands together. “But what about Ian?”

  Keepsie felt a smile lift the corners of her mouth, and the sensation was foreign. “I didn’t say that I was going to give it to Clever Jack for free.”

  * * * * *

  Keepsie paced the apartment, going from living room to kitchen and back again. Michelle and Peter sat on the couch; she relaxed back and he sat stiffly, his gaze flicking from the clock to Keepsie and back again.

  It was six-thirty. At seven o’clock, many of the bar’s regulars were to arrive at Keepsie’s apartment. Between their own memories, and a quick phone call to Wanda the memory-perfect waitress (who, although she refused to work there, had been known to have a drink or three in Keepsie’s Bar), Keepsie and the others had figured out most of the regular customers’ last names. They looked up phone numbers and called the regulars, explaining to them the short version of the day’s happenings. They included the bar’s closing and Ian’s arrest, but left out dealing with Clever Jack and Doodad. Several were eager to help.

  “I’ll tell them everything when they get here,” Keepsie had said, crossing the last person, Samantha, off the list.

  “Keepsie, what about Patricia?” Michelle asked.

  Keepsie stopped pacing and bit her lip. “I don’t know. We don’t want her knowing what we’re going to do. She’ll tell the heroes. But if she hears about this meeting through someone else, she’ll tell the heroes then.”

  “We could invite her and reveal her as the spy here,” Michelle said.

  Keepsie frowned. Patricia had a talent that was less powerful—offensively, at least—than her own, and that was hard to come by. It’s not like she could sober them all up and then make a break for it. But Ian was their strongest offensive power, and he was gone.

  “I think that might be the safest. Let’s see how she reacts when we tell her about what we know.”

  Michelle nodded and picked up the phone. Keepsie resumed her pacing as she listened to Michelle’s side of the conversation.

  “Well, I know it’s your night off, but it’s important...well, no, not as important as last night...but...oh, I’m glad the date wasn’t ruined. But I think you should know the bar is closed and we’re meeting at Keepsie’s apartment to discuss further action...it’s closed because of the books...yes, you’ll still get your check...well, I think you should be here, we’re meeting with some of the regular customers...No, you’re not expected to serve everyone...” Michelle rolled her eyes.

  As they argued, Keepsie paced. Michelle finally slammed down the phone and said, “There was nothing I could say to entice her to come. She just wants to collect her check, and she wants us to call her when the bar is back in business.”

  Keepsie shook her head. “Amazing.”

  “It doesn’t sound like she’s your spy,” Peter said. “If she were, she would want to be here to find out what we’re doing. The Academy would love to catch us forming a vigilante group. Look at how fast they came down on Ian.”

  “What do you think they’re doing to him?” Michelle asked.

  “I would guess interrogation and incarceration in some sort of cell where he either can’t use his powers or it would be very inconvenient to,” Peter said. “If what Clever Jack says is true, it seems the Academy has cells that are well-equipped to handle any kind of powers, and Third Wave powers shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Interrogation? About what?” Michelle asked.

  “Whatever secret society they think we’re forming, I expect. They want to fill in any holes their spy may have left.”

  “Whoever the spy is,” Keepsie said.

  “Is it possible there isn’t a spy?” Michelle asked. “I mean, the Academy is full of superheroes for God’s sake. They might have people who can read minds or something. Or people who can tell the future. Or locate people or items. Who knows how they knew Clever Jack was in the bar trying to steal the device?”

  Keepsie plopped down on the couch and propped her head in her hands. “I don’t know. They surpass us in everything. Resources, skills, powers, everything. And then they forced us to fight with them. This is not good.”

  “That has already been established,” Peter said mildly. “What happens next is what’s important.”

  Keepsie turned her head as the doorbell rang. “And here they are.”

  * * * * *

  “You’re insane,” said Jason. “We can’t do this.” The dark, thin man sat cross-legged on Keepsie’s floor, an untouched mug of tea cooling beside him.

  “We don’t have a choice!” said Michelle. “They have Ian.”

  “But you don’t know that they’ll give him back! He broke the law; you can’t attack police! That was insane,” Jason said.

  Keepsie perched on a stool and listened to the argument. She had presented her plan calmly and clearly, and then watched the room erupt around her.

  There were the people clearly behind her: Peter, Michelle and Samantha were on her side. The others, Tomas, Barry and Jason were not so sure.

  “Keepsie, I understand the need to free Ian. If it happens to him, it can happen to any of us, and that’s scary,” said Barry.

  Jason nodded. “That’s an understatement.” Jason was one of Keepsie’s most bitter customers, hating not only the Academy but also his own powers. Jason had power over elevators; he could summon them, make them skip floors or cause them to stop completely. He only talked about his power during periods of extreme drunkenness, and then only if prodded.

  “Jason has a point,” Tomas, a tall Norwegian, said. “This is not pulling a prank. This is breaking the law and messing with heroes. This is dangerous.” Keepsie’s heart sank as he looked at her with level blue eyes. “You will need all the help you can get. I am with you.”

  She let out a held breath and smiled. Tomas had superstrength, but he could only sustain it in five-second bursts.

  Barry cleared his throat and everyone looked at him. “Me too. We’re being bullied. My parents always told me to stand up to bullies.”

  Jason stood up. “You guys are insane. Try not to die, OK?” He handed Keepsie his mug and left. Keepsie shut her eyes and sighed as the door clicked shut.

  “Keepsie.” Peter’s soft voice snapped her out of her despair. He was looking significantly at the clock. It was seven forty-five.

  “All right. Does anyone else want to leave?” Keepsie asked, sliding off the kitchen counter and looking around the living room. “I’d prefer anyone who’s not on board to leave now. That way you can’t be incriminated for knowing too much.”

  The remaining people seated on the floor and on stools looked around at each other. Her army was small: Michelle, Barry, Tomas, Peter, Samantha, and Keepsie made six. It would have to be enough. She thought fleetingly of the tough cook, Colette, who had been unreachable.

  “Fine. Now, in about five minutes—” a knock at the door interrupted her.

  She frowned. “He’s early.” She went to the door, but it opened before she got there. She looked at the figure in the door and stopped cold.

  Dr. Timson stood at the door, smiling.

  8

  Dr. Timson, dressed in street clothes, watched Keepsie attempt to regain her composure. Keepsie
stepped into the hall, closing her apartment door behind her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, hoping to sound cold and bored and not at all terrified.

  “I just came to talk,” Timson said. “Can I come in?”

  Enough Third Wavers were in her apartment to cause suspicion, not to mention that Clever Jack was due to arrive any minute. Which was worse, consorting with a supervillain or forming a vigilante hero group? It was best not to find out.

  “I don’t think so,” Keepsie said, frowning. “We can go for a walk, I guess.”

  “I can’t come inside?” Timson asked, her eyebrows raised. “Why not? Something you don’t want me to see?”

  “No,” Keepsie said quickly. “It’s because I don’t like you very much.”

  Timson smiled thinly and followed Keepsie down the stairs. Keepsie checked her watch: seven fifty-eight. She had a feeling Clever Jack was the kind of guy to arrive on time. She scanned the street briefly, and no one stood out as a red flag, which of course meant nothing. They walked away from her apartment building.

  Keepsie sighed. “What do you want, Dr. Timson?”

  “You know what I want,” she said. “And now we have something you want.”

  “You have two somethings I want,” Keepsie said.

  “Ah,” Timson said. “Mr. Jacobsen. Yes, I thought his arrest would have upset you. But that is a matter for the courts to decide, not us.”

  “No,” Keepsie said. “Like you guys don’t have your fingers in every bit of politics in this city. You use your heroes to intimidate us and to shut down my bar, you arrested my friend—you, not the police—and you say you can’t help me. Well, I can’t help you, lady. Sorry.” She turned to head back to her apartment, praying Timson would let her go.

  Timson grabbed her arm. “Now, Keepsie, be reasonable. Even if we could influence the courts, how would it look if we released a Third Wave man who attacked police officers in public?”