Sidekick (2 page)

“No, but can I get one?”

She tiredly reached for a form underneath her desk and began to slide it across the imitation wood counter. She got halfway when her hand froze. “Do you have a job?”

“No.”

The hand slid back, and the form disappeared.

“Then you can’t have a credit card.”

“Isn’t that discrimination?”

“Yes, against the stupid.”

“I’m starting to hate you.”

“My heart’s breaking.”

I handed her my bankcard. “Okay. In that case, I would like to take out the balance of my account.”

I watched her purple nails fly over the stained keyboard of the computer at her desk. “Wait a minute,” she said, almost showing a flicker of interest. “Your name is Brianna St. James?”

“Yeah, I’m not that Brianna St. James.”

Actually, I was
that
Brianna St. James. The media always used my nickname, Bremy, though. As kids, Jenny and I had trouble figuring out where one of us began and the other ended.
Jenny
mixed with
Brianna
got us
Bremy
, but somehow the nickname only stuck to me.

“Didn’t think so,” she said, attacking the lipstick on her teeth with her tongue. “She would have more than nine hundred dollars in her account.” Then she made a noise, which sounded something like the dead relative of a laugh. “She’s better looking too.”

We stared at each other for a moment while her coffee and cigarette laced breath wafted over the partition.

“You want the entire nine hundred dollars?”

I nodded.

“It would probably be better for you to write a check to whoever you owe. I don’t feel right giving you that kind of money in cash.” She shook her head. “I would feel better giving that kind of money to a gerbil.”

“Mean with a conscience. That’s an interesting mix.”

She half-shrugged her rounded shoulders.

“Well, how do I get checks?”

“Normally it costs twenty-five dollars, but you can get ten free sample checks.”

“Fine. Sign me up. But give me the balance too.”

She looked skeptical but began typing away. I doubted that Mr. Pushkin would take a check, but if he did, not only would it buy me a few days, but maybe the overdraft would save me a couple of fingers. If he didn’t, I would still have most of the cash to throw at him before running away.

Suddenly the teller’s computer began making music. Her hands stopped, fingers hovering over the keys.

“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“You won.”

“Won what?”

“Our monthly draw for opening a checking account.” She moved to count out bills.

“That sounds exciting. What do I get?” I asked. “I’m hoping for service with a smile.”

“A hundred dollars.”

My brain slammed into a brick wall. A hundred dollars. That couldn’t be right. That was the exact amount of money I needed. And that couldn’t be right because the universe had been spitting all over me for the last thirty days without so much as offering an umbrella. It just couldn’t be right.

“Did you say a hundred dollars?”

“Yeah, the irony of it all is making me weepy.” She scratched at the hairs on her chin. “I suppose you want the hundred in cash too.”

“Uh huh,” I said holding out my hand, making the universal gimme-gimme gesture.

A warm tingly sensation came over me. The universe was still on the side of Bremy St. James after all. Karma. I had done the right thing a month ago, and now I could collect my hundred dollar reward.

A party kicked off in my head. Champagne bottles exploded. Balloons popped. Bells clanged.

“I think you had better get down,” I heard the teller say, which was funny, because she had suddenly disappeared.

Then I realized the bells weren’t just in my head.

Alarms rang frantically from every wall.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and Girls! The show’s about to begin!”

Chapter Two

“That’s right! Hurry now!” a male voice screeched. “Take your places on the floor! She’s coming!”

Somebody killed the alarm.

I peeked underneath my armpit in the direction of the voice. The man with the hyena-sounding shriek stood in the middle of the bank floor, arms outstretched, hands clawing at the air. He wore an undershirt, black and white striped pants held up by suspenders, and a beaten-up top hat with a daisy. When he turned to look about the room, a long, thin Pinocchio nose sliced through the air.

Great, a clown.

I hated clowns, and this one must have consulted a scary clown stylist because his look scored a ten on the heebie-jeebie meter.

Just then, an entire crew of characters tumbled into the bank through the giant glass doors.

I didn’t know where to look first.

A bald man with no shirt and black genie pants swallowed a sword while another identically dressed performer blew fire. Around them swirled a small woman juggling balls that gave off plumes of smoke, making the air hazy, and an outrageously tall, thin man with boxing gloves danced circles around a ridiculously short, fat man throwing air punches. In the other direction, a woman in a silver leotard rolled around the bank like a wagon wheel, dodging a little person with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. I say
his
because he had a beard, but his floral dress and heels made me wonder if I was being too hasty. Finally, an old woman in a black cape floated through the crowd. In between the folds of her gown I caught a glimpse of a crystal ball.

It took me a second to put it all together.

We were being robbed by the circus.

Or wait! Maybe we weren’t being robbed at all! Maybe it was like some sort of flash mob circus!

A group of teenagers standing off in the corner obviously thought something similar because they weren’t on the ground like the rest of us. They stood with their phones out, recording the action.

Not wanting to look stupid, I started to get to my knees. That’s when the clown spotted them. In what seemed like slow motion, he pulled a very large assault rifle out from the back of his pants and shot a round into the ceiling.

The teens hit the floor, their cell phones skittering across the marble tiles.

Okay, so not a flash mob. Definitely not a flash mob.

“Now that we’re all here, the show can begin!” the clown screamed, batting his long, pansy eyelashes.

Everyone froze. Performers included. They all had taken on theatrical poses that pointed to the door. For a brief second, the little girl in me thought
Oh, I hope it’s an elephant!
Then I gave myself a mental shake and sent that little girl to her room.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the most exotic, the most mysterious, the most beautiful of the Ottoman beauties! Delilah, the Circassian Sultana!”

Smoke swirled around the front doors. Then I heard a familiar clacking sound. A horse? Now we were being robbed by a horse?

Oh no, not a horse.

A woman astride a gigantic stallion emerged from the haze. I had never seen anything quite like her. She wore a black satin bustier with matching shorts and riding boots, no embellishment. Her hair floated around her shoulders in masses of dark waves—I wouldn’t have been surprised if a flock of butterflies fluttered out from the curls—and her eyes flashed beneath a black pearl headdress draped across her forehead.

Then there were the tattoos.

They covered her. Anchors, hearts pierced with swords, skulls, and snakes all traced a flowing web over her skin, stopping just before they reached her face.

The slow slap of horse hoofs echoed through the bank. The woman swayed seductively with its steps, surveying all of us on our bellies before her.

For a second, I rested my forehead on the cool marble of the floor. How was this happening? Why was this happening? I had real problems, like a landlord with glass eyeballs that matched his outfits. I did not have time for this nightmare.

Yet here I was.

I gripped my thousand dollars tightly in my fist then buried it deep in the pocket of my rain jacket. As long as I didn’t draw any attention to myself, I’d be fine. I just needed to wait this freak show out.

The woman swung a long, tattooed leg over the horse’s back and slipped to the floor, dragging her hand slowly over the beast’s neck.

She then stood at the bank’s new center stage.

We waited.

It looked like she wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

I hadn’t noticed it before—what with part of my brain screaming and wringing its hands—but there was a woman huddled by a stroller, wailing. Wet, blubbery noises pealed out from her mouth.

Once she saw that she had caught the tattooed lady’s attention she tried to gulp back her sobs, but it was too late. The Sultana came towards her, taking slow, catwalk steps until she stood inches away.

A taut silence fell over the room.

Finally she spoke.

“Why so glum, chum?”

I had never heard such a breezy, retro phrase delivered with so much seductive menace. I felt a pang. I wanted to be seductively menacing. I shook myself again. No wonder my fourth nanny’s hair went white. I really needed to focus.

A screech of laughter suddenly tore through the room.

I jumped so violently I thought I might have snapped my spine.

Have I mentioned I hate clowns?

Then the others joined in the laughter. Their deafening squeals of glee made my eardrums shudder.

The Sultana snapped her fingers. They stopped instantly.

She then put her fingertips under the wailing woman’s chin and guided her to her feet.

“Now, please, tell me. Why are you crying?”

The startled woman looked around frantically for help. I hoped I wasn’t the only one who looked away.

“It is alright, you can tell me.” The words were soothing, but something full of acid lay underneath.

I used the distraction to look around for a way to escape or hide. The only thing that caught my eye was a potted fern with a bald man sitting cross-legged beside it. He wore a white Nehru jacket, linen pants, and a big smile. He waved me over. Obviously he was crazy, but not scary crazy, so I scooted towards him while mentally wishing the wailing lady the best. I felt sorry for her, I really did, but there was nothing I could do.

“Well?” the Sultana’s voice echoed.

“My b-b-baby.”

Oh crap. A baby? I guess that explained the stroller. It was one thing to terrorize adults, but surely the Psycho Sultana would leave the baby alone.

“Babies,” she hissed. “I have never understood the fascination with babies.” She leaned towards the stroller and reached a hand underneath the canopy. That’s when I saw the snake slither down from her hair to her arm towards her fingers. My stomach dropped with a splat.

Logically, I should have taken the opportunity to get moving. Everyone was staring at the unfolding awfulness, so I probably could have snuck out without notice, but it was just so terrible. I couldn’t look away.

“Should we tell your baby the truth about this world?” Delilah asked the frantic mother. “Shall we see his future?”

The old woman in the hood came floating forward.

“Tell us, mother. What do you see coming for this child?”

The old woman’s hands ran over her crystal ball.

She mumbled something. I couldn’t hear it, but the baby’s mother suddenly fainted dead away.

“Unimpressive.”

I turned to the man sitting beside me, his face full of friendly disappointment.

“I’m sorry?” I whispered.

“She gave a prophesy of death.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Death is a most certain prophesy. Perhaps she would like to wager a guess as to whether the sun will rise tomorrow.”

Okay, I hadn’t thought of that, but I tried to give him a look that said I knew that all along and was unimpressed that he had actually bothered to say something so obvious—but halfway through I got confused as to what that might look like and gave up.

We both turned back to watch.

Suddenly the Sultana swung her arms wide, swaying to some unheard music.

“Pulcinella!” she called out.

The dark clown toppled forward, spinning his arms wildly in a manic dance.

“On with the show!” In sharp grabs, he pulled small sacks from his pants and tossed them into the air.

Suddenly all the performers tumbled their way across the marbled floor, grabbing bags then heading towards the tellers. I threw my hands over my head as a muscular torso sailed over me in a violent handspring.

“Much more impressive,” the monkish man beside me said, smiling.

Each performer landed perfectly in front of a teller window except for the boxing pair. They were busy pushing and shoving one another for position. Then, as though on cue, each performer pulled out a gun and pointed it over the counter. The frightened workers began stuffing the bags with wads of cash. Even my red-haired menace looked mildly concerned. Well, actually, she still kind of looked like a cat was barfing on her keyboard, but she moved as quickly as the others.

Strangely, watching them, a small part of me started to relax. It was almost over. They were going to get what they wanted, and then they would leave.

Everything was going to be fine.

Then, out of nowhere, a voice shouted, “You’ll never get away with this! Dark Ryder will find you! You’re just a bunch a bullies in silly clothes!”

So much for fine.

“Who said that?” the Sultana called out. Her voice sounded calm, but it carried a cold edge.

Everybody froze, me included, but we were all probably thinking the same thing—where the hell
was
Dark Ryder?

I had only been in the city a month, but everybody knew about Dark Ryder. Crime fighter. Mystery woman. Superhero. She had been keeping the city safe for nearly three decades. Nobody knew actually how she could swing from tall buildings and punch bad guys through brick walls, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was the hand that held this city from toppling into hell. Now where the hell was she?

“Come now. Too late to be shy. Who said that?”

The Sultana’s eyes darted about the room like a crazed bird. She had been watching the action at the tellers and missed who had asked the question, but I thought I knew. My eyes moved to a woman, probably about seventy, dressed in secondhand chic. She lay huddled to the floor like everyone else, but there was a defiant look in her eye, like she had seen too much crap to be willing to put up with any more.