Call the Shots (34 page)

“It’s like you want to get caught or something.”

“It’s all good. You’ll see.”

I start to turn and go, but he pulls me back. “One more thing. Now that you’ve got the blood, if you get a chance, try and grab someone in the party and pretend to bite their neck. It’ll be totally epic.”

“Right,” I say, wanting to scream. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Matt, Nick, and me take off like three raggedy-ass Bigfeet, crouching and skulking toward the peeling brown service-entrance door.

“This is gonna be fun,” Nick says. “I feel like a SEAL again. Sneaking up on the unwitting. I can’t wait to see the expressions on people’s faces.”

Christ, is that what he looked forward to as a SEAL?

I just want this to be over already. My heart’s fluttering like a spooked parakeet in a too-small cage. And I’m still not feeling so good in the stomach department.

I grab the door and hold it open. As Nick and Matt jostle inside I press on my diaphragm, pushing up a little burp to help ease the seasickness in my belly. I get that thick orangey-acid taste at the back of my throat, but it makes me feel quite a bit better.

Just as I’m about to duck into the country club, I see Coop, Val, and Evelyn jogging toward the front of the building. Coop looks my way and gives me a raised solidarity fist.

Fucker. I can’t believe he asked Leyna and Hunter to come. If Evelyn or Nick sees them . . . I’m one dead chimpanzee.

I take another full breath and then slip inside.

“Which way?” Matt whispers, his chimp-head on a swivel.

We seem to be in some sort of vestibule or foyer or something. There are three tinted glass doors: one leading to the left, one directly in front of us, and a third to the right. I cock my head and listen for some sort of audible clue — music, talking, laughing — but there’s nothing.

“Let’s go straight,” I say, pointing to the door directly in front of us.

“Decisive. I like it.” Nick grabs the handle with his mangy paw and pulls it open.

We step through the doorway and tiptoe down a long fluorescent-lit deserted hallway. There’s a musty brussels-sprout smell back here, and it’s hard to get air deep into my lungs. The world starts to swirl and I have to brace myself, reaching out for the wall with my right hand.

“You okay?” Matt asks.

“Yeah.” I’m trying not to hyperventilate. “I’m just . . . Lunch isn’t sitting so well.”

“It’s the gas,” Nick explains, launching a little squeaker for emphasis. “Let it breathe.”

“You want to go back?” Matt says to me, his voice hopeful.

It’s tempting, for sure. More than tempting. But then I remember why I’m here. The baby. The sister. The room. The snoring.

And Leyna, of course.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I say, pushing myself away from the wall.

We continue on, passing a large storage room and a few empty offices, until finally we come upon the bustling kitchen. The three of us duck into a doorway, out of sight, and wait as trolleys of food are wheeled from the kitchen and down another hall.

“What do we do now?” Matt whispers.

“We wait,” Nick instructs. “Until they’re done bringing the carts out.”

“Coop said to head straight for the party,” I say desperately. The longer we wait here, the more time Evelyn has to notice Leyna. “So that’s what we should do. Just act like you belong.”

I suck in as much air as I can and lead my fellow monkeys ahead.

We’re just about to follow the latest food cart down the hall when I see another waiter balancing a tray of appetizers push through the double kitchen doors.

“Nein!”
A buff dude in a formfitting tux bursts through the doors and grabs the waiter’s arm. “Where do you think you are going?” His German accent is right out of
Call of Duty,
his spiked bleached-blond hair and black nail polish straight from
Dragon Ball Z.

“T-To serve the a-appetizers?” the waiter stammers.

I wave Nick and Matt back, and we make ourselves thin in the doorway.

“Appetizers are over,
dummkopf
!” The spiky-haired guy slaps the tray out of the waiter’s hand, sending little puff pastry squares flying into the air and the silver platter clanking to the floor. “If you cannot cut the mustache, then you should get out of the kitchen.”

“Oh, shit,” Matt whispers. “That’s Ulf.”

“Who the hell’s Ulf?” Nick asks, keeping his voice low. “A Nazi?”

“No. He was my lifesaving coach last summer. I snuck into this country club when I was trying to learn how to swim the fly and got roped in to his course.” He looks at me. “Remember?”

“Yeah. I also remember you telling us he was a sadistic bastard.”

Matt scratches his hairy arm. “He wasn’t
so
bad. We ended up getting along okay, but he won’t think twice about beating the piss out of us if he finds out what we’re up to.”

“I could probably take him,” Nick says, looking down at his hairy self. “Although the costume might make things interesting.”

“Why is he here now?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” Matt shrugs. “I guess he has to do something during the off-season.”

“Perhaps you have chewed off more than your head,” Ulf says.

The waiter trembles. “I’m s-sorry. I just thought —”

“This is your first mistake. Stop thinking. And start listening.” With that, Ulf shoves the waiter back into the kitchen through the saloon doors and follows right on his heels.

“Here’s our chance,” I say, pushing away from the door.

I quickly skulk past the kitchen and turn down the hall. Matt and Nick shadow me as we creep toward Rico’s birthday party. The doors to the reception room are only fifty yards away.

And just as I’m thinking we’re going to make it, someone clears his throat behind me.

“May I help you?”

Matt, Nick, and me freeze.

I turn around slowly to see Ulf looming there, his hands tucked behind his back.

“We’re, um . . .” I try to clear the thick clump in my throat. “We’re here for the . . . Rico Petrelli party? We’re the . . . entertainment? The . . . Singing . . . Zombie . . . Monkey Brothers.”

“No one mentioned any”— Ulf looks us up and down, his eyes narrowed —“singing monkeys to me.” His suit is so tight on him that it’d take just one hard flex for him to rip through the fabric like the Incredible Hulk.

“That’s because,” Matt says, lowering his voice a couple of octaves, “it’s a surprise. We’re Rico’s grandkids. He thinks we aren’t going to be able to come. But we’re here now.”

“Monkeys are Great-grandpa’s favorite animals,” Nick adds.

If I wasn’t so terrified that he’d kill me, I’d smack Nick.
Great-grandpa?
The dude’s only sixty years old!

But just like that Ulf’s shoulders relax. “Well, thank you, my lucky charms,” he says. “Why did you not mention this in the very first place? Finally, we will have some family members at this celebration. Perhaps you can increase the mood. It is like someone died and went to heaven in there.” He snaps to attention again. “Follow me. I will show you the way.”

“W
OULD YOU LIKE FOR ME
that I introduce your entrance?” Ulf asks when we arrive at the door to the Amethyst Room.

“No,” I say, my breath shaky. “We don’t want to ruin the element of surprise.” My temples start to throb, and my left eye begins to twitch. If I had a communicator, I would
so
call Scotty on the
Enterprise
to have him beam me up right now.

“Okay. If that is how you wish.” Ulf cracks open the door and peeks inside. “Someone is giving a speech right now. You will go in after the man is finished.”

Through the opening, I can see that the room is packed with hundreds of miserable-looking people. Old and young alike. Everyone dressed in party clothes, their eyes glazed over as they watch a cauliflower-nosed man standing on a riser with a glass of red wine in his hand give a speech.

I scan the crowd and see Evelyn, sitting at a table near the front of the room. Chatting to an elderly couple. Stuffing her face with food. Her Nashira-jacket chains jangling. Hardly inconspicuous.

And there’s Val and Coop standing in the corner, videotaping the whole affair.

And — oh, God — there’s Hunter and Leyna, loitering near the back. Jesus Christ.

“Well, Rico,” the speaker drones, “as everyone in this room can attest, you and I have not always seen eye to eye over the years. In fact — if we’re being perfectly honest — it’s safe to say that I am
not
your biggest fan. But, as your employees — I mean,
guests
— would likely agree, if you had to choose between making friends and making money, you’d take money every time.”

“Damn straight!” a grumpy, Mr. Clean look-alike in a tuxedo calls out, raising a tall glass of whiskey. “Friends might
kiss
your ass, but cash will clothe it!”

“Ah, yes.” The speaker forces a smile. “Another witty Rico-ism. Because we haven’t heard enough of
those
over the decades. Anyway.” He sighs. “There really isn’t much more I have to say, and I see our food is being served, so I’ll just sign off.” He raises his glass of wine and nods. “Happy birthday, Rico.”

“Fuck you very much, Larry!” Rico hollers. “I should have fired you when I fired your whore wife.”

There’s a scattering of uncomfortable laughter. A few people clap awkwardly.

And then everyone starts to eat.

Ulf turns to us. “If you are all ready.” He thrusts his hand toward the room. “The show must go on the road.”

“Right,” I say, looking over at Matt and Nick, my hurly belly gurgling. “On three?”

They nod.

I gulp. “One.” Oh, jeez, I can’t believe we’re really going to do this. “Two.” There’s no going back now. “Three!”

I slip the blood capsule into my mouth and lead the charge through the double doors.

Nick, Matt, and me burst into the Amethyst Room, screeching like anally probed lab chimps, waving our furry arms in the air, and rushing straight toward the first set of tables.

“You’re all going to die!” Nick screams, exactly like he’s not supposed to. “We’ve come to drink your blood!”

People shriek in terror. Suit- and dress-clad bodies fly from their seats and stumble over each other, trying to get away from our rabid monkey menace.

“Nein! Nein! Stoppen!”
I hear Ulf holler behind us.
“Hör auf, verdammt!”

The pushing and shouting at the front of the reception causes a chain reaction as table after table of partygoers leap up and bolt toward the exit doors.

It’s immediate and complete mayhem at the Elk Hills Country Club.

Which is exactly how we planned it.

Well, almost.

Evelyn — in her leather chain jacket — hops up on one of the tables, wielding a chair. “Oh, my God! It’s humanzees!” she barks. “Vampire-zombie human chimpanzees! Don’t let them take over the world!”

Nick springs onto the now-empty riser and howls into the abandoned microphone. “You cannot stop us! We are humanzees! Hear us roar!” His deep guttural growl echoes in the high-ceilinged reception room, evoking a new ripple of cries from the fleeing flock.

Oh, crap, they’re totally ruining this scene! I have to save it somehow. Give Coop something to splice in that matches our original vision for the film.

Without thinking, I charge a group of younger guys in suits who scream and clutch at each other like little girls and launch myself at the smallest of them — a large-headed, wispy-haired dude with no chin and bug eyes. I grab him in a tight bear hug, bite down on my blood capsule — which tastes almost like real blood, warm and metallic and nauseating — and pretend to sink my teeth into his neck.

“Help!” he squeals. “It’s biting me! I’m bleeding! Get it off! Get it off!”

It’s the perfect line of dialogue, actually. Way better than Nick’s and Evelyn’s, for sure.

Suddenly I’m slammed in the lower back with something. My kidneys scream in pain. I fall to floor, releasing the howling guy, letting him run off with the rest of the crowd.

I hoist myself up and turn over to see Evelyn standing above me, brandishing her chair.

“Take that, you filthy humanzee!” she shouts, then tosses the chair away and runs off.

I stumble to my feet, my paw pressed into the bruise on my back. I turn around, and there’s Ulf — all two hundred muscly pounds of him — barreling straight toward me.

Oh, shit.

Every atom of me wants to bolt, but I am frozen to this spot, feeling the trickle of fake blood dribbling down my throat, watching Ulf charge me like the Rhino in a Spider-Man comic.

And then it’s too late.

Ulf’s powerful hands are on me. Clenching my shoulders. Shaking me violently.

Jostling my already queasy stomach.

“Just hold your handbag right there, mister!” Spittle flies from his thin lips. “You are in some very hot potatoes! The authorities have been summoned and you are —”

YAAAAAAARRRRRK!

A ferocious scarlet stew of half-digested sausage, chili, Cheez Whiz, and tropical punch Kool-Aid spews straight from my monkey-mouth right into Ulf’s face and streams down the front of his expensive suit, covering his torso like a vomit vest.