Coda: The Seven Sequels Page 4

  Oh, no. I look at the wall clock: 11:20. As I do, my cell plays the Bond theme—an incoming call. I don’t recognize the number. Maybe it’s Bun on a borrowed phone. I answer. A gravelly, accented voice says, “You want Bunny alive, ride 501 East streetcar at noon. Sit in single seat before back doors. Wait for contact from Dusan. Come alone. Or will die like Zoltan Blum.” The line goes dead.

  ELEVEN

  At five minutes to noon, I’m at the Queen Street stop closest to O’Toole Central. There’s no one else waiting. AmberLea and Toby are in the Cayenne a block farther along. They’ll follow and film the streetcar. I’m shivering. They’re probably not, snuggled in their Porsche. I don’t have time for that now.

  I’ve never seen a spy movie where the hero takes public transit. Not that I’m a hero. Or that spy movies have much to do with real life. I creep my fingers up into the sleeves of my curling sweater and hug myself. It doesn’t help: I’m also shivering because I’m scared and confused. That’s not in spy movies either. How can I convince the SPCA guy meeting me that Grandpa was not a hit man and that the only music he ever owned was for the cheesy Broadway show tunes he banged away at on the piano? But all the time I’m thinking that, I’m also remembering that Wikipedia said Zoltan Blum was blown up by an exploding golf ball, and there was that bag of golf balls with funny writing on them in the spy stuff at the cottage. Oh, man.

  Down the street I hear the rumble and clang of the streetcar. In Toronto, we call streetcars Red Rockets, which is a joke, because they’re slow. Now one rolls up. I climb aboard and drop my fare in the box. There are empty single seats before the back door. I scan every face on the way. There are only a few; none of them scream SPCA terrorist kidnapper at me.

  Neither do the people who get on at the next stop and filter their way back. I wonder if the pregnant lady is really pregnant. A slender guy in shades, with a full blond beard and mustache, is right behind her. He’s got on a long tan coat, a purple-and-gold scarf over top and a leather messenger bag. He’s also carrying a full grocery tote. I get a deep vibe that says, Yurt, Salt Spring Island. Not really a Bond moment—until Hippie Guy swings into the seat behind me. As the streetcar lurches forward, I hear a familiar gravelly, accented whisper. “Do not turn around.”

  “From a friend.” A hand in a striped woolen glove appears at my side. It’s holding Bunny’s CRAP ID and a wooly yellow-and-blue hat, just like mine.

  “Hey!” I start to turn. Another hand presses my shoulder. “Be still. Low voice. Dusan speaks. We have Bunny. Is good for now.” The gloved hand now holds a cell phone. On the screen is a photo of Bunny, holding yesterday’s paper. He’s smiling. He smiled when they took him to Creekside too. “If you call poliss, not so good. And we will know. We monitor you.” The hand rises again. “He is safe return when you get us anthem.”

  “What anthem?” I whisper. “I don’t know about music. Look, my grandpa—”

  “Your zorga,” Dusan growls, “was double agent. Assassin who killed Zoltan Blum, greatest composer of Pianvia.”

  “No!” I try to turn. The hand clamps my shoulder. I hiss back, “He was a busi—”

  “A good cover. He was busy selling much, including talent for killing. Blum knew him as Clint, agent for CIA. Maybe true, maybe he work for others too. In 1962 Blum in Vienna, composing new national anthem for free Pianvia. And was afraid. Knew was being watched clock the round. Clint say CIA will have anthem recorded and played all over world to aid SPCA. Anthem was written only. Blum gave only copy to Clint at golf game. On thirteenth tee, boom, is blown to bits. Most found was ear, in a tree. Bomb in a golf ball. Clint and anthem gone. CIA never get. No one get. Except Clint. Your zorga was Clint. That means you have. We give you twenty-four hours to find and deliver or your brother dies.”

  “But I…my…”

  “Twenty-four hours.”

  “I don’t even know what I’m looking for!”

  “Listen. Is written by hand, green ink on thick music paper. Is signed with Z looking like lightning. This always his way.”

  “But I don’t know where to look,” I plead.

  “You will think. You knew your zorga. We know is not in your house.”

  “I knew it was searched.”

  “Voice down, pliss. We’d be surprised if you didn’t. All can say is old Pianvian proverb: best place to hide splotnik is in plain sight.”

  “But what if it got thrown out? Or lost?”

  “Your zorga would not. He knew was value to many people, that he might need for deal one day.”

  I don’t know what to say. Or do. All I can do is blurt, “I found Bunny’s cell phone at your grow op. The crocogator ate it.”

  “Vhat?” Dusan’s voice cracks upward. “Grow op? Croco…?” Then it hits gravel bottom again. “You have shock, shake-up maybe. Is okay. We toss Bunny’s cell phone on street after first message—could be traced. Anybody could get. Sound like someone else did. But you clever boy, Spencer, you find. That means you will find anthem. Think careful; time short. Now, take out phone and enter ziss number.” The gloved hand floats in front of me again, with the cell phone. I punch the number on the screen into my log. “Call second you find anthem. Brother Bunny home sooner and world will hear music that rally to our cause. You do great thing, Spencer. You help free a people and save us blotzing Bunny.”

  I know what blotzing means. The streetcar is slowing. I haven’t even noticed we’ve been moving all this time. How many stops have we come? “I leave now,” Dusan growls. “No look, no follow. In building we stop at is man waiting, with AK-47. He watches for you. If you even turn before car starts again, he fires, at everyone on street but you. You we need. You don’t need be cause for more deaths.”

  There’s a little jerk as the streetcar stops, then the hydraulic whoosh of the doors opening. “Damn,” comes a woman’s voice from somewhere behind me, “I forgot bananas.” Then it’s all feet scuffling and tramping, and I know no one’s there.

  I’m frozen. My whole body is screaming to turn around, stand up, run after him, signal AmberLea and Toby, anything. I can’t take the chance. But I can text AmberLea: beard shades purple gold scarf bag. The instant the car starts, I’m running to the back window. I catch a flash of purple and gold, and blond hair in a low ponytail, then it’s gone. I pull the bell cord and dive off at the next stop. I run back, full out. I pass the Cayenne and keep running, dodging strollers and striders and a lady walking four dogs. Ahead I see a corner grocery. A sign in the window says, BANANAS 49. The store is closed. Whoever Dusan is, he’s gone.

  TWELVE

  Toby and AmberLea drive me home. I tell them what happened. AmberLea has filmed everyone getting off at each stop. She huddles with me in the backseat and we watch. There’s not much to see: the guy climbs off behind some other people, shades on and fumbling with something at his mouth. Then someone gets in the way and he’s moving out of the frame, with the scarf pulled up to his nose. Then he’s gone. “I wish you’d texted me earlier.” AmberLea sighs.

  I tell them about the sniper threat. AmberLea groans. “That’s right out of Die Job Four. Don’t you remember? Bruce Willis, Nicole Kidman—”

  “And Christopher Walken, 2006,” Toby finishes for her.

  I don’t remember. I should remember, but right now all I can think is, This is for real as I punch Deb’s number into my phone. She’s still not picking up. I leave another message.

  “I wonder whose grow op you stumbled into,” Toby says as he parks behind the family van.

  “It doesn’t matter.” I stuff my phone into my pocket and pop the seat belt. “It doesn’t even matter that my grandpa might not be the killer. They think he is. What if he isn’t? There won’t be any music. They’ll kill Bunny.”

  “FBI,” says AmberLea. “No, I mean RCMB or whoever.”

  “No. He said no cops. And they’re watching me. They’re probably watching us right now.”

  “Okay, okay, calm down.” AmberLea presses her hands down on my knees to
keep them from bouncing. “You’re doing an Angry Bird here. He told you to think carefully, right? Okay, let’s think. For now, we have to go with your grandpa as the guy, right? We have to look for the music, just in case. Maybe it’ll buy time, if nothing else. So, where do we look?”

  “Well, Grandpa’s stuff was all split up when we sold his house. We got his piano and music, but the anthem’s not here; the guy said so himself. The only other place is the cottage. There’s an old piano there, too, and music.”

  “And all the spy stuff was there,” AmberLea puts in.

  “So I’ve got to go back to the cottage. Now.” I jump out of the Cayenne, run to the house, grab the keys, race back out and hop in the van. I’m in overdrive.

  Unfortunately, the O’Toolemobile is not. This time it won’t start at all. I slam the steering wheel with my hand. The horn starts beeping. I yell and slam the wheel again. This does not help. AmberLea taps on the window. I crank it down.

  “Spence,” she says over the horn, “we’ll drive you.”

  Toby reaches in to the key ring and presses the alarm button. The horn stops. “Sometimes that works.” He grins.

  I take a couple of breaths to slow down. “Okay,” I say, climbing out. “Let’s go.”

  “Deal,” says AmberLea. “Right after we go see Aiden Tween.”

  THIRTEEN

  One of my profs told us that a lot of movie stars are short people with big heads—I mean, literally big heads—and that the women are all skinny as rails. The camera makes you look twenty pounds heavier, and big heads photograph better for some reason. The rest is camera angles, lighting and standing on milk crates.

  I think of this because the first thing I notice about Aiden Tween, in the royal suite of the hotel, is how tiny he is. Except for his head. His head is huge. This may be because he’s wearing a gigantic old-time gangster hat on top of oversized aviator shades and brick-sized headphones. The headphones are plugged into an electronic keyboard he’s soundlessly plunking on. He’s facing a giant flat screen that’s been set up in front of the drawn curtains, showing something in black and white.

  His manager, Sumo, leads us in. We’ve surrendered all our electronics—so much for my cinema verité idea. Then we signed forms promising not to blab about anything we see or hear or to sue if we fall out a window or break a fingernail or anything. Sumo’s all in black, which makes his bling and his head look even shinier. He’s chewing gum like a cartoon beaver gnaws a log. His words spit out like wood chips. “AT’s got a big meet, then a rehearsal. Ten minutes only.” That’s fine with me.

  AmberLea nods and nudges Toby. Toby’s taken his dumb wooly hat off. He gives his hair a careless brush that somehow makes it perfect. I push up my glasses. I remind myself that Aiden Tween is a teenybopper joke. I remind myself I’m on a mission to save Bunny. I’m nervous anyway.

  Sumo hustles across an acre of white carpet, scoops a remote and freezes the image on-screen. Aiden Tween stops playing piano. “Aw, stink,” he whines in a Southern accent. “It was just comin’ to my favorite part.”

  “Good. Something to look forward to.” Sumo grunts. “Your invited guests, AT.”

  “AmberLea,” AmberLea calls. “Gloria Lorraine’s granddaughter.”

  AT has pried up an earpad in time for the last bit. He lights up, as much as you can behind a hat, shades and headphones. “Riiiiight.” He pulls off the hat and phones. Somehow, his head looks even bigger without them. His hair is slicked back perfectly in the giant upsweep I’ve seen in photos lately. It’s his new look. How does he keep it that way under a hat and headphones? Maybe Toby knows. “See what I’m watchin’?” AT nods at the screen, where I now see a young Gloria Lorraine, AmberLea’s grandma, frozen with one hand reaching into her purse. Gloria Lorraine was a babe when she was in movies.

  “Hey, that’s Blond Trust,” AmberLea burbles.

  “Right on,” says Aiden Tween. He cackles behind his shades. It’s a rising sound, as if he’s sucking in helium.

  “1949,” Toby says casually, “with Richard Widmark and Edward G. Robinson.”

  “Right on,” AT squeaks again. He pulls off the aviator shades and looks at Toby. “Hey, nice scarf.”

  “Hat goes with it.” Toby holds it up and steps forward. He sounds as if he talks to world-famous people every day. For all I know, maybe he does.

  “Sweet,” says Aiden Tween. “I gotta get me one.” He walks toward a couch bigger than our living room. “C’mon in. Set down.” He swings a flashy-looking guitar off the couch and plunks himself down on one end. “So you’re—”

  “Toby,” says Toby. He lounges into a chair the size of a hot tub. “And this is Spencer, and this is AmberLea. She’s the granddaughter.” Everybody laughs as if this is a killer joke.

  “Hey.” Aiden Tween nods at me, then turns to AmberLea. “Man, Gloria Lorraine’s granddaughter? How cool is that? She’s my all-time favorite. I’m into old stuff, you know. That’s my thing. Hey, guess what this is that I’m wearin’?” He stretches his little arms wide. He’s in a dark gray, chalk-striped double-breasted suit. Underneath it is a black T-shirt and a gold necklace with a tiny pair of sneakers set in his Comet Shuffle move. The suit is a little too big. Sticking out from the cuffed pants are orange-and-black padded high-tops. Before anyone can answer, he crows, “It’s Humphrey Bogart’s suit from The Maltese Falcon! I got it at an auction in New York last week. I still gotta get it altered, and it itches like a bugger, but I’m wearin’ Bogart’s suit! Biggest star of all time! Is that cool or what?”

  We nod that it’s cool. I’ve got nothing to say except can we go now? and the answer to that is no. Toby, on the other hand, seems right at home. He reaches out to feel the fabric on one sleeve. “Nice,” he says and starts talking about the cut. AmberLea sits on the couch and they all start blabbing away. Some other time, this would be so weird it would be fascinating. I’d want to tell Bun all about it. Right now I’d be happy to tell Bun anything.

  I’m too wound up to sit, so I wander. A giant security guy with an earpiece watches me from by the door. I try to look innocent for the second time today. Behind me, Aiden Tween is blathering about hot-air balloons and pirate ships. Sumo is in and out of the room, texting and barking into a cell phone. Other people bustle around in the background.

  The keyboard is hooked to a laptop with lines of music on the screen. I look at the video games, pinball machine, drum kit, the framed poster showing a close-up shot of feet in gold skate shoes, again in the Comet Shuffle, and above them in big letters:

  where it’s

  AT

  I walk to a sideboard with a spread of fruit and junk food and energy drinks. In front of it, there’s a big table set up for a meeting. There are printouts at each place.

  Transitioning AT

  GOAL: broaden AT appeal to 18-35 market

  OPTIONS

  Sponsor Formula One racing team

  Photo op with Dalai Lama/Pope (see below)

  Film offers

  Duets album (Madonna, Mick, Beyoncé, Gaga, Sting, Tony Bennett, Kanye)

  Spokesman for worthy causes

  Domestic:

  organ donation

  pet dignity: ban on exploitive cat/dog videos

  International:

  world peace

  substandard synthetic wig hair

  child labor / 3rd world work conditions

  music for Pianvia

  free Tibet (see Dalai Lama above)

  “Hey,” I blurt, “Pianvia.” Heads turn.

  “Get away from there,” snaps Sumo. The security guy starts to move. “Never mind. Who laid that out? Too early.”

  A girl hurries over. Her yellow jeans may be sprayed on. She glares at me, then starts scooping papers.

  “Sorry,” I say. She ignores me. I stare at her jeans anyway.

  “Spencer has Pianvia on the brain right now,” AmberLea says to AT.

  “Right on.” AT nods, he jumps up and lopes over, Humphrey Bogart’s suit f
lapping on him like a sail in the wind. His teeth gleam. His hair doesn’t move at all. He’s a living bobblehead worth a hundred million dollars who dances, sings, plays instruments and writes songs while watching old movies. When I’m on my game, I can open a soda tin and put dip on a chip while watching a movie. He snatches one of the papers from the girl. “Y’all really know about Pianvia?”

  I nod. I’m not sure how much to say. It’s also odd for me to look down at someone older than me. “One of my film profs is making a documentary about it.”

  “Get out! That’s fantastic. You hear that, Sumo?” Sumo waves one hand. He’s texting with the other. “A doc, huh?” AT bounces in his high-tops as he talks. “I wanna see that. How long is it? Can he send me highlights? I don’t always have a lot of time.”

  “Time” comes out “tahm.”

  “That Pianvia though,” AT goes on. “You know they banned music? Only country in the world’s never heard me, guaranteed. Man, I wanna change that. They deserve music. Hey, they deserve me! They need to be Tweeners! Maybe he could make a doc about me.”

  Before I can say anything, AT has wheeled to the couch, waving the sheet of paper. “There’s just so much injustice in the world, you know? Y’all know how making synthetic wig hair for cheap is cutting into the market for buying Third World—is that the right world, Sumo?—real hair for wigs? Man, the hair harvest has been cut in half! We gotta help!”