Herculanium (7 page)

“I’m not the police, mister, just security. If you need help, you’re going to have to call someone else. There’s probably a payphone down the road where you came from.”

“Perhaps those people in that van can help me. I’m sure they have a phone I can borrow?”

“They’re moving, too. We’re telling all news folks that Preston Jones has no comment to make. This area is off-limits to everybody. That includes you
and
them.”

Allan felt a curious cold area suddenly crater in his heart.

“Did you say ‘Preston Jones’? Preston Jones the basketball player?”

“Yes, I did. Please move along.” The guard swung his flashlight in the direction of the exit.

“I went to high school with the guy! Do you know how long it’s been since I saw ‘Pres’? Oh, my god!”

“You know Preston Jones? Superstar basketball player Preston Jones?”

“We were high school buddies. I used to do his homework. Hell, we used to walk home together. After the big game.” Allan subconsciously recalled every sitcom situation he had ever watched, piecing scenarios together to form a story.

“Uh-huh,” mumbled the guard. “Everybody knows Preston, pal. And quite frankly, you look a little bit too old to be his bed buddy. Now please move your vehicle. Follow these other cars out and I’m sure someone can help you.”

“But you have to let me see him. Just tell him Al said…”

“Look, asshole. Just move your fucking car, okay? Move it or I’ll have your ass towed.”

“That’s not funny. If you’re trying to tell a joke, I’m not laughing.” Allan casually reached under his chair in the darkness, taking care not to drop his shoulder any more than it already was.

“Mister, just move your vehicle, please?” The guard bit his lip to control his temper and his patience.

Allan winked at him. “C’mon. Just a quick how-do-you-do? He’s my friend. You can be my friend, too. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Alright, asshole, if you’re not going to listen, then neither am I.” The guard unclipped his walkie-talkie from his belt and raised it to his mouth. He clicked the talk button and was ready to report an incident.

Allan Henderson raised his right shoulder high, saying “that’s a nice jacket,” before firing his pistol.

Darienne raised her head as she handed Lilian a towel she retrieved from the van’s rear. Was that fireworks? Or a car backfiring? Strange, she thought, hearing popping sounds from such a secluded area.

She could also tell it was used as an oil rag just from its scent, but Micky’s agent was just so insistent about drying off that she just couldn’t refuse. In the darkness, Lilian was rubbing oil and grease all over her soaked dress.

“Those bastard guards just told us to leave,” complained Lilian as she then dabbed the towel on her cheeks and neck. “But we can’t bloody leave because Mr. Smith didn’t leave us the keys. Now they’re going to have us towed. Good! That’s what Micky gets for defying my orders.”

“I’m sure they’ll be back soon, Ms. Hirsch. If they can’t get in the party, they’ll be back in a few minutes. Let’s just sit tight.”

“Thank you for your opinion, Ms. Snow,” said Lilian. “Next time, please wait for someone to ask for it first.”

Darienne turned her entire body towards the door, away from Lilian’s seat. Being insulted by this hag of a woman was not how she pictured herself spending quality time with her best friend. She could probably strike her and then claim ignorance, assuming she could knock her out with one punch. But these socialites probably had a ton of lawyers to back them up, something Darienne couldn’t financially match. Stealth oil rags would have to do for now.

The van subtly shook in place, as if someone had leaned against its back bumper. The distinct sound of breaking glass was barely audible against the splashing of the sprinklers.

Another strange sound, Darienne thought. She couldn’t peer through the rear windows because of the mounds of equipment stored in the back compartment. She was about to leave the van and investigate, when a curious scratching sound came from her side of the van. It was a continuous scrape, metal to metal, that was getting louder as it came closer to her window. Darienne slammed her fist on her door’s locking latch and made sure the rest of the doors were secured as well. Lilian looked at her, puzzled.

Whoever was out there was not getting inside.

Allan dug his car key deep into the body of the van, making sure his etching was beyond just noticeable. He staggered its pattern, making a continuous zigzag that ran up and down its side. Darienne leaned against Lilian as she saw the silhouette of a passing man pause and stand right outside the driver-side window. She gestured for her to lay low and not say a word, using one hand to squeeze her shoulder and the other pressed tightly against her lips.

Allan pulled out his revolver with an exaggerated gesture and pointed it to the window. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell if anyone was actually inside. he smiled as he cocked his weapon and curled his index finger on the trigger. He looked up at the night sky for a final breath and prayer, his heartbeat pounding outside of his chest.

The helicopter descended like an avenging angel, its spotlight a sword spearing into the darkness. It came in low from behind them, causing the surrounding topiaries to quiver and sway back and forth. Allan quickly pulled his gun arm back and ran around the van. He tucked himself under the base of the nearest topiary sculpture, then sprinted across the rolling fields. Pummeled by dozens of sprinklers, he pulled the borrowed security guard’s jacket over his head and disappeared in the darkness.

Darienne exited the van and waved her hands to the helicopter, trying to acknowledge that she was safe. But the helicopter had already passed her, heading towards the hall. It wasn’t a police helicopter after all, but a media chopper. She could make out call letters scrolled against its side, visible next to the running lights. Another news station must’ve heard that Preston Jones was here.

Darienne grabbed Lilian by the wrist and pulled her forward. “We’re getting the fuck out of here—now!”

“What if that maniac comes back? We’re safer in here. Just lock the doors.”

“If he comes back, there will be no one around to help us. There are some security guards up the road. We have to report this so they can catch him.”

“I’m not leaving here, child. Do what you will, but I’m staying here.”

“Your funeral,” said Darienne, shaking her head. She slammed the door and ran towards the veterans’ hall.

Lilian locked the door and sat in the darkness. The sprinklers continued to pummel her side of the van, the spray creating a similar scraping sound the stranger had made earlier. She couldn’t see past the vertical puddles swirling on the glass. There was no way to know what could be waiting outside.

Fighting tears, she ran after Darienne, towards the helicopter, towards the light.

“Can you get a clear shot?” Micky stood on her toes and stretched her neck as high as she could.

“Almost,” yelled Clay, his voice nearly drowned out by the crowd. “I’m trying to crop the other reporters out of the picture.” He raised the camera slightly above his shoulders, with his eye still glued to the viewer. The cheering fans and reporters had considerably grown in size around them. Luckily, the celebrities stood atop an elevated staircase, high above the crowd.

“Excuse me, pardon me please,” insisted Micky politely as she nudged people aside to get closer to the staircase. “Thank you, thank you so much, pardon us please, KMNL News, thank you…”

Heaven help the fool dumb enough to get in their way
, Micky swore.

Clay stayed close behind her, keeping his camera rolling. Fortunately, the lighting from the building portico was quite bright, giving more than adequate lighting to get good footage.

“Sweet Jesus,” exclaimed Micky. “This is supposed to be a fucking secret. Everyone and his mother is here.” She looked over her shoulder and was amazed at the crowd pushing behind her. “There’s almost as many people here as the press conference.”

“Get as close as you can, Mick. If anything’s going to happen, we’ll be the first to cover it.”

Micky and Clay wound their way a few yards further, reaching as far as the row of guards standing at the base of the staircase. Other reporters congregated there as well, some shooting live footage, others randomly shooting images for a later broadcast. Micky and Clay each exchanged pleasantries with colleagues from other stations, but when their story actually unfolded, it was every reporter for himself, with no quarter given and none asked.

Preston relished each step he took up the stairs, making sure he planted his foot squarely on the plush rug. He kept his eyes glued to the gentlemen waiting at the top, their hands humbly folded in a fig-leaf pose. It felt like some of the movie premieres he had attended, except this time, he was the leading man.

“All this will be in my autobiography, Max,” he whispered. “This is unreal.”

“As if I’ll ever get a chance to read it,” quipped Max with a smile. Upon reaching the top, he quickly extended his arms and met his new partners halfway.

“Mr. Peryson, I’m Max Lee. And this is my client, Preston Jones.” Peryson stood in place and stared, one of the few times he was ever awestruck by a celebrity. Preston towered above him, yet offered a gentle smile as they exchanged firm handshakes. There were other men behind Peryson, but they stayed a full step behind in the background.

“It’s a pleasure, gentlemen. Finally, titans meet face to face. I must congratulate you both on a spectacular achievement. I look forward to our business venture together. Again, I apologize for this distraction, but I guess it is appropriate for this type of event.”

“Mr. Peryson, I am uncomfortable with this situation,” said Max. “How adequate is your security? We are open targets to the public, especially so high up on this catwalk.”

“You’re absolutely correct, Mr. Lee. But we’re taking measures to deal with it.”

Two men rolled out a portable podium next to them, and quickly assembled wiring to bring it to life. A guard gently tapped the microphone head, adjusting the volume as he whispered, “Testing-testing, one-two-three, testing…”

“I want Mr. Jones to make a brief statement to the press. I’ve found that this usually quells the media’s thirst for news. From here we can proceed with our business. Crowd control will handle the rest.”

“He will say nothing,” protested Max. “There’s been no discussion about media statements, Mr. Peryson. I thought that was what we were all here to discuss?”

He turned to Preston with a determined look. “Don’t say a word. Let them deal with this mess.”

Preston extended his hand in front of his eyes, trying to block out the spotlight beaming from the arriving helicopter. It hovered unmoving like a sentinel above the crowd, its quivering spotlight a targeting scope that just found its prey. “Is that with your organization, Mr. Peryson?” he inquired with a squint. “Or is that with the media?”

“I’m afraid it’s with the public, Mr. Jones. The media hates a mystery, and we’re quite literally in their spotlight. Just a quick statement, please; we just need to say something to satisfy their curiosity.”

“The more we talk, the more questions they’ll have,” insisted Max. “What’s my client going to say? We haven’t established any agreements yet. As the promoter, why don’t you say something? Surely that would be more than adequate.”

“Mr. Jones is the star here, Mr. Lee, not me. Why not let him speak?”

Preston could tell Peryson was getting irritated with Max’s protests. “What do you say, buddy? Just a quickie to get this over with?”

“Keep it brief, Pres.” Max knew he would have to make a few compromises, and unfortunately, this was just the first of many. “Just don’t lose yourself in the part, ‘know what I mean?”

Preston nodded and turned to the crowd.

“Holy shit! What happened to you?” The guard stared at him as if he was a ghost that just floated out from the sprinkler mist. Allan paused for a few seconds, then smiled as he understood why the guard reacted the way he did.

“I got lost, man. I wandered into the sprinkler area and look what happened.” He ran his fingers through his soaked hair and shook the excess water off his fingers.

“It’s fucking cold out here, mother fucker. You’d better get dry quick, or you’ll get pneumonia. Never mind the security jacket. That shit’s paid for.”

The guard motioned for him to come forward. He was a big man, with wide shoulders matched only by his potbelly and putrid breath.

“You must be one of the new guys here. Man, they hired so much last-minute security, I don’t think they can keep track of everybody. I’m Manny. You are?”

“I’m…Al.”

“Nice to meet you, Al. Listen, there’s a side-door next to the staircase, on the side to the right. Tell the guards that Manny said it’s okay for you to go in and get changed. Better hurry, boy. We don’t want any lawsuits on our hands.”

“Appreciate it, partner. You’re alright.” Allan grinned. He didn’t need to kill this one.

The guard slapped Allan on the back that was half push-off and half punch. Allan stumbled forward, but kept walking towards the crowd. “Holy shit, that hurt!” he thought to himself.

He’ll get him back later, the same favor he did to his buddy back at his car.

Clay raised three fingers high and counted down.

Micky closed her eyes for a few seconds, then quickly opened them as Clay’s count reached one. “This evening can perhaps be best described as pure chaos. Just a few hours after being named the celebrity spokesperson for the new Olympus space station, superstar basketball player Preston Jones was to attend a meeting with event promoters. But, as you can see around me, this supposedly quiet get-together has turned into an impromptu block party, full of well-wishers and the media. Despite several false leaks to the press and the general public, we have all found ourselves here, at the 978th Veterans Hall in the South Bay, wondering along with Preston Jones himself: what will this new future bring, and what does it mean for humankind? This is Micky Suarez reporting for KMNL Evening News.”