Inside Straight

“A,” Jamal says, knowing Brave Hawk will miss the sarcasm, “our team is one bad challenge from being broken into spare parts. We are not competitive, so get used to it. And B, I can’t imagine what kind of proposal would interest me.” To make sure Brave Hawk notes his indifference, Jamal searches for the large drinking glass he left under the chair. Bounce-back always leaves him thirsty.

“We need to team up.”

There’s the glass. Empty.

Now Jamal sees that the ever-present camera crew of three, led by crazy Art the producer, with silent Diaz the operator, has followed Brave Hawk onto the deck. All of them are yawning, resentful of the early call. “You guys need a beverage?”

“No, no, that’s okay,” Art says, flapping his hands nervously. Jamal has already noted Art’s terror at any violation of the fourth wall—the entirely fictitious notion that these wild cards are really conspiring, flirting, or fighting together unobserved. “Just pretend we’re not here.”

“Too late, Art,” Jamal says. But he turns back to Brave Hawk and tries to act. God knows he’s had practice. But now the brave Apache has everyone on hold while he talks on his cell phone.

The Clubs Lair sits near the spine of Mulholland Drive, surrounded by dry pines and junipers that in this hot, dry season require nothing more than a discarded match and the kiss of the Santa Ana winds to explode into flame. It hasn’t happened here, yet some part of Los Angeles is on fire. Jamal can smell the smoke in the air. He coughs frequently. The pages of the paperback book blur as his eyes water.

Bounceback complete, he could go back inside the house. But he would rather bear discomfort here on the hardwood deck than share space with the other Clubs at this moment—not to mention the camera crews.

Besides, he is an L.A. native: the curves, drops, and hidden mansions of Mulholland are as familiar and comforting as well-worn sneakers. He knows, for example, that the A frame to the west belongs to a notorious Hollywood detective named after a dead musician. That the estate below him—its pool still shadowed by the hills—was where a former governor used to party with pool boys while publicly dating female rock stars.

For all its rugged beauty, the setting is anything but peaceful: the smoke, the glare, the accumulation of irritants can make the most easygoing man turn violent.

Brave Hawk finishes his call. “My girlfriend,” he announces, as if Jamal could possibly care. “She’s been reading everything and sees other alliances being formed. She says we need to team up, too.”

“Wise up, Cochise. All this game strategy stuff is that asshole Berman doing some ’viral promotion.’” Michael Berman is the network executive for American Hero. Jamal has seen the Armani-clad dungeon master lurking at every audition, prep meeting, challenge announcement… seldom speaking, but clearly more in charge than the actual producers. “And what is ‘everything’? Is she seeing who’s going to win? What the next challenge is going to be? If your gal pal has that, let me know.”

Brave Hawk is persistent. “You think because you work in Hollywood, you know everything, but you don’t, Stuntman. You and I—” here Brave Hawk makes a completely fruity gesture of clasped hands “—we could be an awesome team!”

Jamal sees a nugget of truth in this—at least in the concept of teaming up against the other Clubs. But with this creature who looks like a John Ford Indian with wings? “Why me? Did Holy Roller already turn you down?”

This is all the encouragement Brave Hawk needs. He leaps up on the railing of the deck. “I never asked him! And it wouldn’t work—not as well as Stuntman and Brave Hawk. We’re two of a kind, man!”

Whenever Jamal hears that kind of talk from Brave Hawk, the pleasant images of his evisceration reappear. “We’re both breathing. We both got talked into this project. I don’t see what else we have in common.”

Voices behind him signal the emergence of Jade Blossom and Diver from the house, both indecently perky and girly at this hour—and dressed for a swim. Diver might as well not exist—Jamal only sees Jade, her eyes, the way she moves. Her mouth. He has become infatuated with her mouth, the way her lower lip slides forward whenever she is about to speak.

Which she does, calling to Jamal, “What are you two doing over there? Scheming?” She and Diver start laughing, flirting with the camera team. It’s all a big joke. Nevertheless, Jamal wishes Jade would approach him. They would make a great team.

“Think about it, Stuntman,” Brave Hawk says, insistently. “We’re both people of color…”

Jamal almost laughs out loud. People of color? Jamal is dark enough and has always known he was tagged as “black,” but Brave Hawk? His wild card aside, Brave Hawk is no more ethnic in appearance than an Italian American. “And do what? Call ourselves The Red and the Black?” Jamal has read the novel; he knows without asking that Brave Hawk has never heard of Stendahl.