The Texas Twist (31 page)

“I don't understand,” said Sarah.

Vic explained impatiently, “Look, we figured Adam for a Texas Twist, a straightforward money hustle. We figured out how to hustle him back, but now he's gone, so… no hustle, no Twist, no payday for anyone.” Vic turned back to Radar. “That's weird that he backed out. How'd he wriggle off the hook?”

“I don't know. I mean, I had him on the ropes pretty good, especially after he failed to show true green, but that wouldn't—” Suddenly Radar blurted, “Oh, shitfuck!”

“Radar, what is it?” asked Sarah.

“God, I overplayed my hand. Christ, what a screwup!”
Panic bloomed on his face. “Vic, we have to find Allie. We've got to get out of here now! Where is she? At the chapel?”

“Probably.”

Radar tried to push past Sarah, but she blocked his path. “Sarah,” hissed Radar, “get out of my way!”

“Not till you tell me what's going on. What did you just think of?”

“It's none of your business.”

“Well, Mr. Smartypants, it looks to me like you're afraid. And if you're afraid of Adam—my boyfriend, as you yourself pointed out—then I think it is my business, don't you?”

“God,” said Radar to no one in particular, “the scales on this one's eyes.” Then he addressed her directly. “Sarah, look, first and foremost, a con game is a game. Practiced at the highest levels, it's an art. Whatever you imagine Adam to be, to me he's a practitioner of a pretty high art. We were playing a game, and he quit. I can't make it make sense that he quit. Not while there's still money on the table.”

“But what's the problem? If he quit, you win, right?”

“Not while there's still money on the table,” repeated Radar in a nearly feral tone that Sarah had not heard from him before. It seemed to her that Adam had him rattled—like all the way rattled, and that was new, too. It further destabilized her, for who had the power to flap the unflappable Radar Hoverlander?

Vic, meanwhile, seemed to have fully digested Radar's news, and he said in a dread-filled voice, “Radar, if he thinks he can't get what he wants by wits, he'll go to the other thing.”

“The other thing?” asked Sarah, her breath bated.

“Violence,” said Radar plainly. “He'll have to. There's too
much cash not to.”

“I told you we shouldn't show true green,” said Vic. “That was a mook move.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Radar. “Flog me with that later, okay? Right now, we have to find Allie. We have to shade and fade, like pronto.” He turned back to Sarah one last time. “Babe, I still don't know who you are to Adam in this—his moll or his doll or his dupe or his dope—but for the love of God, if you have any affection for me at all, or Vic or Allie—especially Allie—go to Adam and tell him we fold.”

“Fold?” asked Sarah.

“Quit. Surrender. While we still can.
If
we can.” Radar made no effort to hide his incipient hysteria. “Tell him he can have the money, all of it, no questions asked.” Then he said to Vic, “Come on, let's find Allie!”

They skittered off, and Sarah soon lost sight of them in the crush of gold rushers.
Poor Radar,
she thought. She went off to find Ames.

Once outside the Fool's Rush Inn, Radar and Vic came down from their fabricat panic. They worked their way methodically through the teeming installations back to the Midway, which was now so packed that it formed a solid, sluggish, surging two-way human traffic jam, impossible to cross. “Now what?” asked Radar. “Go around?”

“Got a better idea,” said Vic. “We'll surf it. Come on.” He walked up to the river of flesh, forced an opening with his bindle stick, and wormed his way into the flow. Radar followed, holding the waistband of Vic's
calzon flojos
to keep from getting separated and swept away. They angled across the current, verging slowly but steadily toward the middle.
When they got there, they simply reversed their field and surfed out on the other side, emerging almost directly opposite where they'd gone in. Ahead they saw a skeletal steeple rising to the rafters, topped with a pulsing red neon heart. They moved away quickly, following the neon beacon until they arrived at its base, where stood a cheesy sitcom version of a wedding chapel. At this installation, called
Love Is on the Air!
you and your insignificant other (laugh track!) could take each other to half and to whole (laugh track!) for better or worse—mostly worse (laugh track!) in sickness and in hell (laugh track!) for as long as you both shall last (laugh track!). Camera operators captured the whole scene, recording a digital video that you could take away on a souvenir data chip—of course for a price. A long line of couples stood patiently waiting their turn, laughing and playing grabass. It was romance at its most ersatz, not at all the sort of place that any thoughtful couple would choose to wed.

Yet there sat Allie, alone in a pew, her gorgeous gown splayed out around her. “Hello, lover,” she said when she saw Radar. “Took you long enough.”

“Traffic was murder,” he said. “Come on. We don't want to be here when they arrive.” He took her hand and led her away from the tacky TV set. A few strides away they found a cleft of deep darkness made inky black by the back-shadow of strategically placed, impossibly bright halogen flood lamps. Stepping into this installation was like stepping behind a velvet drape. “What's this one called?” asked Radar.

“
Black Hole
,” said Vic. “We're functionally invisible in here.”

“And none too soon,” said Radar. “Here they come.”

Peering out of the darkness, they saw Adam walking up to the sitcom set. Sarah was with him, holding his hand—clutching it, Radar thought. Trailing behind were two thick-necked, broad-shouldered goons in bouncer outfits of black suits, kick boots, earpieces, and Ray-Ban sunglasses. Mirplo sneered at this hopelessly clichéd version of nightclub monkey men, saying, “Little on the nose, why don't you?” Allie slapped his hand to shush him.

Ames and Sarah searched the set, carefully inspecting the line of waiting daters, but of course not finding Allie and Radar. Adam circled the set again, then hand-commanded Sarah to stay put as he collected his sidewheels and headed back toward the Midway. Sarah stood there alone for a moment, watching the mock matrimonials before becoming bored and wandering afield. She passed close to the
Black Hole
installation but seemed to be safely moving away until Radar unleashed an ungodly (and wholly artificial) loud sneeze. Sarah's head swiveled to the sound. She shielded her eyes from the floodlights and peered into the gloom. “Radar? Is that you?” She walked into the pool of darkness, where she found Radar sheepishly wiping his nose. “It
is
you!” said Sarah, delighted. “What are you doing in here?” Before anyone could answer, she said, “Hey, look, you guys, you don't have to hide. I talked to Adam and he says everything's cool.”

“Everything's cool?” repeated Radar, clearly skeptical.

Sarah smiled and patted his hand. “That's right,” she said. “I lobbied for you, mister.” She turned to Allie and said reassuringly, “And no, this has nothing to do with old crushes. Just a friend being a friend to her friends.” She turned back
to Radar. “Honestly? Adam thinks you're a little nutso. He said, and I quote, ‘I told him that it's over and it's over. Why is he bent out of shape?'”

“I'll tell you why,” Vic chipped in. “Because of the sidewheels.”

“Sidewheels?”

“Those beefy monkey men with Adam.”

“What, they're just friends of his. Look, you guys, listen: It's all all good. There's nothing to do now but enjoy the party.” She turned to Allie and smiled her best best-girlfriend smile. “So before I decide to get all handsy with Radar again, can someone please tell me: When are you two kids getting hitched?”

Allie looked at Radar. Radar looked at Vic. It seemed to Sarah that all three of them let go of their anxiety together. That pleased her. It made her feel all
mission accomplished.
Vic opened his bindle and pulled out his Rabota. He poised his finger over a touch screen button and said to Radar, “Something like now?”

Radar looked at Allie, whose eyes sparkled with anticipation. He looked back at Vic and gave him a nod. “Yeah,” he said, “something like now.”

V
ic touched the button. At first nothing happened. Sarah watched the nothing happen for a moment, looking more perplexed than usual. Then, in ones and twos, members of a uniformed work crew began to drift in. They converged on the sitcom set and quickly struck it, disassembling the modular chapel walls, rolling out the cameras, and hauling off the pews. Vic pressed another button and an intricate play of laser lights sprang to life, creating within the former chapel space a forest of strong and slender birch trees: holograms, and very convincing ones, right down to the peeling papery bark and termite trails on the trunks.

“Wow,” said Sarah.

“I know, huh?” said Allie. “I always wanted an outdoor wedding.”

The crew continued its alchemy, transmuting the chapel into a bucolic glen. They laid down a lawn of lush, fresh sod,
arranged rows of hand-hewn wicker chairs, and erected an arbor twined with lily vines and white roses. Allie inhaled deeply, drawing in the heady scent of fresh grass. “Yeah,” she sighed, “that's more like it.” The sound of chirping birds could be heard, and the distant
thock-thock
of a woodpecker. From somewhere a gentle breeze rose. Amazing what you can do with soundtracks and fans.

Sarah stared at it all through Barbie-colored eyes. “It's beautiful,” she sighed. Unconsciously, she took Allie's hand.

Vic clicked a couple more buttons on the Rabota, then said with satisfaction, “Okay, word is out. The guests will be here soon.” He turned to Radar. “Are you ready? Do you know what to do?”

Radar grinned. “Absolutely,” he said. “This part is easy.”

“Righty-right, then. We rock, we roll.” Vic walked off, whistling an air.

Radar turned to Allie. “How about you? Ready to be my bride?”

“Like you said, lover: This part's easy.”

They walked together into the birch forest. Though the trees were made only of light, they were careful to keep to the path created by the laser illusion. Sarah trailed behind, saying to no one in particular, “I'm sorry, but this is
so
romantic.”

When they reached the glen, Radar came to a halt. Allie kissed his cheek and sailed off across the clearing, moving out of sight beyond the line of trees on the far side. Guests started filtering in, some counterfeits, some random invitees. Henry Wellinov walked in alone, wearing a stoic, stony look. “What's the matter with him?” Sarah asked Radar. Before he could answer, she saw Kadyn walk in on Cal Jessup's
arm. How Kadyn had ended up there was not immediately evident, but the blow to Wellinov's dignity was. Despite herself, Sarah felt sorry for the old man. She could practically see his heart breaking from here.

For his costume, Jessup had gone for the General Custer look, fully authentic with vintage fringe buckskins, a wig of golden curls, and a thick blond moustache. Chewing on a piece of licorice root, he seated Kadyn, then walked over to Radar, his shiny black leather riding boots making soft shovel-heads in the living sod. On his head he wore a Union blue felt hat with a broad brim and a low crown.

On his hip he wore a holster.

The long snout of his weapon extended almost to his knee: the blued, tapered hexagonal barrel of an authentic period piece, fully eight inches long with an angled steel loading lever that looked like a pelican's neck.

“Pretty sharp hardware,” said Radar.

“A Remington New Model Army,” said Jessup, proudly patting its walnut grip. “Of course it's a black-powder gun, so it's really just a heavy, expensive prop, but what the hell. It was Kadyn's idea.” He waved a hand to indicate the totality of his outfit. “Most of this was. She's quite a gal.”

“Yep,” said Radar. “She's a talent, that one.”

Jessup suddenly loomed in close, close enough for Radar to see the spirit gum adhering his moustache and smell the licorice on his breath. Sarah watched, rapt, as Jessup muttered with constrained fury, “Ames says you didn't show green.”