Inside Straight

But as often happened in southern California in the spring, it had rained that day. Not just rained Seattle-style, but poured torrentially, like a typhoon. The surface of the tower was too slick for Jamal’s boots. When he made the leap, he slipped—and missed the platform.

The water tower was on a hillside. The drop to the base of the hill was, Jamal later learned, over a hundred feet. The base was jagged rock—not that he hit directly, he slammed into several tree branches before cart-wheeling onto the rocks.

What he remembered was the confusion of slipping, reaching for the platform—the horrified look on Deladrier’s face as the director flew upward from Jamal’s point of view.

That was followed by the roller-coaster moment of freefall—no panic, just disbelief.

Then a blinding, gasping impact, like being hit by a speeding truck. Shock mercifully suppressed the pain for a few moments. Long enough for Jamal to realize he had fallen ten stories onto the rocks and was still alive.

He couldn’t be certain. He was blind, deaf, without feeling in his arms and legs. For an eternally terrible moment he thought this was death.

But then his vision returned, at least to where he could see the flashlights of rescuers searching for him. As the roaring in his ears died down, like the temporary damage from a heavy metal concert, he heard voices, boots crunching on brush.

A face appeared upside down above him—male, white, middle-aged, bearded. “He’s here!” a voice called, far away. “Jesus Christ.”

The face turned away, and even through his damaged ears, Jamal could hear the man retching.

Jamal Norwood lived; his wild card had turned. He was now an ace, albeit an ace whose power simply seemed to be the ability to bounce back from extreme violence, usually within twenty-four hours. The greater the damage, the longer his recovery.

The accident changed his life in more subtle ways: in true Hollywood fashion, Nic Deladrier survived the near-disaster to land an assignment as director of Halloween Night XIII— and whether motivated by guilt or just the practical value of having an ace for a stuntman, the first thing he did was hire Jamal Norwood.

Jamal resisted, until the pile of money got too high—and the offers to act never materialized.

For the past five years he has gone from one gig to another, one set of gags—stunts—to another, well-paid, usually falling from a great height wearing pinhole cameras for that close close-up experience. He had been flung off a spaceship in One Against the Legion, dropped to the bottom of a pit and then buried under tons of cement in Hoover Dam, crushed by the giant stomping feet of a war machine run amok in the remake of Kronos.…

Such was his life. It was almost Shakespearean, for God’s sake. To fall, to almost die… and, painfully, to bounce back.

~ ~ ~

Showered, with no visible signs of yesterday’s damage, dressed, Jamal is ravenous. He heads downstairs for the kitchen.

The Clubs are not expected to cook for themselves, any more than they are expected to choose wardrobe. “It’s like we’re back in grade school,” Spasm had sneered, first day in the place. That was before they’d lost the second challenge, and voted his sorry ass off the team.

Even so, meal times are fixed, and Jamal has missed breakfast. Nevertheless, he has been living on his own for five years and he is capable of cooking a meal. He begins searching through the refrigerator and cupboards for eggs, bacon, pans, cups, a process made more difficult because the mansion housing the Clubs has been designed for its visual imprint, not utility. To begin with, the kitchen has been painted a primary blue, a color that makes all food look unappetizing. And nothing is where it would logically be.

He has managed to locate a frying pan when Jade Blossom enters. To Jamal’s immense disappointment, she has exchanged the startling bikini for a tank top and baggy shorts, as if she were off for a morning at the mall. Still, she looks adorable. “That’s ambitious,” she says, noting Jamal’s obvious search for the makings of a meal. “If you’re looking for food after Holy Roller’s been through here, good luck.”

“I’m just amazed the guy even fits in the building.”

“Or through the canyons.”

“They got him inside the truck. It was the truck that had to get up the narrow road.” Jamal will never forget the comic insanity of Clubs move-in day… the face of the elderly female neighbor whose shiny Jag had to wait while the American Hero convoy of camera limo, Club Humvee, and moving van negotiated the hairpin curve just outside the gate. Riding with Jamal and Toad Man, Spasm had thought to have some fun with the woman. “What do you think, should I give her a little thrill? When was the last time she popped?”