Inside Straight

“Oh.” That wasn’t the response he’d expected. “Do you know a lot about it, though? Egypt, I mean.”

It took her a few seconds to answer. She sighed, and lowered herself to sit on the bottom stair. “I guess. Why?”

“I was reading Bugsy’s blog, you know, the bug guy that was on the show with us?” She nodded. “Since he went over there with John Fortune and that German fella—”

“I never meant for that to happen, I swear.”

“… he’s been writing about the whole thing, and it’s a heckuva mess.”

“I know,” said Simoon, looking down. “Look, can we talk about something else, please?”

“Well, I was wondering if you knew how a guy might—”

A cameraman sidled closer. Wally stopped in mid-sentence. He wasn’t too keen on the cameras.

“Hey!” Mr. Berman stood in the archway to the TV lounge. “Go flirt on your own time, you two. We’ve got an episode to film.” He tapped his watch. It probably cost more money than Wally had ever seen in one place in his life. He wondered why the executive was there at all.

Wally helped Simoon to her feet—she looked real unhappy all of a sudden—and followed her to the lounge, where the other discards were sitting in a large circle. He stopped dead in his tracks. Not only was Mr. Berman here, but so were Peregrine and the judges: Topper, the Harlem Hammer, and Digger Downs.

And Curveball.

And Rosa.

And Stuntman.

The lying showbiz ace gave Wally a little sneer while the clanking joker hurried to find a seat. All the comfortable spots had been taken. Wally chipped a few bricks as he plopped down on the edge of the fireplace.

If he thought a chill settled over the room when Stuntman watched him enter, the glare that Peregrine gave Simoon was worthy of the worst blizzards back home.

The cameraman that Wally had narrowly avoided crushing the previous day circled the room, panning across the faces of the assembled discards. The cameras swiveled in Peregrine’s direction as she stood.

Wally read the monitor along with her. “Hello, and welcome to all of our current and former contestants. The competition over these past ten weeks has been fierce. Alliances were forged … and broken. Challenges conquered, and failed. Today only three aces are left in the running for the one-million-dollar grand prize. The final three champions vying for the title American Hero.”

The camera panned across the sofa where Curveball, Rosa, and Stuntman sat. Rosa and Stuntman watched the proceedings with a smirk and a look of superiority, respectively. Curveball was unreadable.

Peregrine continued: “But for those of you already out of the competition, your challenges are not over yet. Today the Discard Pile will choose the final two competitors, by voting to eliminate one of today’s three.”

If the announcement bothered Curveball, she didn’t show it. Stuntman now looked very serious. And Rosa looked particularly unhappy. Many of Wally’s fellow discards, on the other hand, looked smug. Some grinned.

“And since this is the final vote of the competition, we’re doing things a little differently this time.” Peregrine looked around the room, one eyebrow cocked. “We’re not letting you off the hook so easily, Discards. Today’s vote will be an open ballot. No shuffling.”

The grins disappeared.

Ink handed three oversize playing cards to each of the discards. “Think carefully about who deserves to become the first American Hero…and about who doesn’t deserve the honor.” Peregrine paused. “When your name is called, show us who you think is not an American Hero.”

Once everybody held three cards, Peregrine tipped an hourglass-shaped egg timer. “Discards: you have three minutes to consider your choice, starting…now. Contestants: good luck.”

Wally flipped through the cards. The photos of Stuntman, Rosa, and Curveball looked like the kind of glamorous head shots that all the contestants had submitted with their audition portfolios. His own head shot had been taken on a Polaroid camera in his aunt’s kitchen.

Wally hadn’t exchanged two words with Curveball, but she seemed like good folk. She even smiled at him once, which was more than he could say for a lot of the current and former contestants.

Rosa, on the other hand, had said—quietly, under her breath, so that only he could hear but the cameras wouldn’t pick it up—“Good riddance, you retard,” after Wally had been eliminated from Team Spades. She reminded him of the crazy Lacosky sisters from back home, and the time soon after his wild card had turned, when they tried pushing him into one of the drainage ponds up near the mine. Just to see if he’d float.

And then there was Stuntman. He looked friendlier in his photo than he did sitting across the room. But Wally found it hard to meet the gaze of either version.