With a half smile and something between a cough and a laugh, Fortune accepted the plate.
There had to be a way, Jonathan thought, to bring the subject up that was more graceful than So, did you track down that magic amulet yet?
"So. Did you track down that magic amulet yet?" Jonathan said, wincing.
Fortune looked uncomfortable. Before he could come up with a polite evasion, Lohengrin appeared in the doorway, a little shamefaced.
"Excuse me," he said. "Is there any other beer?"
"Sorry," Fortune said. "That's all the studio got."
"We are the losers, after all," Jonathan said.
The German ace's expression fell. Jonathan suddenly remembered Fortune and Curveball safely out of range of the cameras, and the plan, such as it was, sprang into Jonathan's head full-formed. Which was to say actually, about half-formed, but that was enough to start with.
"I bet our man Fortune here knows some good bars, though. Right?" Jonathan said.
"Um," Fortune replied.
"Do you?" Lohengrin asked, his face a mask of longing.
"Well . . ."
"Come on," Jonathan said. "We'll sneak out the back."
Lohengrin's smile was brilliant. Fortune hesitated for a long moment. He certainly wouldn't have done it for Jonathan, but Lohengrin was a guest of the show, the kind of guy that Berman and Peregrine wanted to keep happy.
"I'll buy the first round," Jonathan said. Lohengrin's eyes seemed to shine.
From the front room, Spasm yelled, "Hey! Where's Captain Cruller? Chop chop, man. We're hungry out here."
"Okay," Fortune said. "Let's go."
Here was the thing: writing a book meant finding something to write about. Sitting on the couch while Spasm talked about how he could have done better and King Cobalt shushed everyone was not the stuff if high drama. Jonathan Fortune—the guy who used to be an ace, whose father died, who wanted nothing more in the world than to regain his status and honor—was. But Fortune was also reticent and private and trying hard to make the best of his situation. And, in all fairness, if they'd been calling Jonathan by names like Captain Cruller and Fetchit the Wonder Gopher, he'd have been keeping a low profile, too.
What Jonathan needed was friendship. Shared confidences. The details of Fortune's situation that would make the whole thing spring to life when he wrote it up. It was the perfect counterpoint to the aces on the show—if there was just a way to get the man to relax and open up.
A way like, say, lots of alcohol. And a few other people to open up and tell stories on themselves first.
What the hell? It worked for the guys who sold videos of girls exposing themselves.
"So," Jonathan went on, "there I was, in the girl's locker room, nothing but a towel on. And Christy had this huge can of bug spray and this look in her eyes like she was just daring me to try and get away."
Lohengrin chortled and gestured to the waitress.
"That can't have gone well," Fortune said.
"Yeah, we pretty much broke up after that," Jonathan said.
"I had einen lover when I was at school," Lohengrin said. "She was beautiful. Like a goddess. But she had another boy she was with as well. He tried to hurt me one night. With a knife. I had my armor, of course, but because of how he attacked, I had nothing else. I had to try to calm him while he keeps stabbing at me."
Lohengrin made sad little stabbing motions and shook his head.
"Why didn't you use your sword?" Jonathan asked.
Lohengrin shrugged. "I felt pity for him. He was just a normal boy and I was . . ."
Lohengrin gestured at himself. It should have been a statement of conceit: I was the mighty Lohengrin against whom no mere nat could hope to compete. But something about the guy made it seem okay. Lohengrin was an ace. It made a difference.
"I didn't ever really date," Fortune said. "My mom was always afraid that something might happen to me, turn my wild card. She had private investigators follow me. I had bodyguards to make sure nothing ever happened to me."
"Wow," Jonathan said, mixing sarcasm and sympathy in his tone, "and the girls didn't go for that?"
"That is hard," Lohengrin said. The waitress arrived, sweeping the empty bottles from their table and putting down fresh ones like she'd trained for Cirque de Soliel.
"I don't know," Fortune said. "It was just my life. It was the way things were. And then when the card did turn, and I thought it was an ace . . ."
Jonathan clapped Fortune's shoulder. The pathos of the guy's life was amazing. Or possibly Jonathan was drunk enough to be getting sentimental.
"Did you ever get your mom to tell you about the amulet?" Jonathan asked.
"What amulet?" Lohengrin asked, as if Jonathan had coached the guy. Now Fortune had to tell the story, and in doing so remind himself of the hope that Simoon had brought him. The powers of Ra, whatever they were. A fate, a destiny. Something better than running trivial errands in the cocaine economy of Hollywood.
"You must find this thing!" Lohengrin said when Fortune had finished.
"I can't," Fortune said. "Mom doesn't know where it is. Or at least that's what she says."
"You don't believe her?" Jonathan asked.
"I don't know. Maybe it's true. Or maybe she's just so in the habit of protecting me from things that . . . you know, it's just what she does. Maybe she has it in her safe or something, and just doesn't want to risk it."
"And what about you?" Jonathan asked. "Would you risk it?"
Fortune looked sour. There were the beginnings of tears in his eyes. How desolate it must be, Jonathan thought. How empty. To have been an ace, to have been important. Fortune was carrying not only his father's death but also the dragging weight of being no one in particular. It was the saddest thing Jonathan had ever seen.
Okay, he was definitely getting maudlin now.
"I can open safes," Lohengrin said.
Jonathan and Fortune both stared at him.
"Any safe. Just like this," Lohengrin said and snapped his fingers.
"Aren't Berman and your mom wining and dining the new guest ace? Noel whatsisname?" Jonathan asked. "The stage magician guy they brought over from England?"
"She's . . . yeah, she's out. How did you know that?"
"Heard someone talking about it," Jonathan said, not mentioning that he had been a wasp at the time.
"I thought the magic was his ace power," Lohengrin said.
"No, he's just a stage magician," Fortune said. "He's got the wild card, but that's just his shtick. Or anyway, that's what he says."
"But—"
"The point is," Jonathan broke in, "her house. Is there anyone there?"
"No. My dad . . . my step-dad, I mean. Josh. He's out of town all month. But—"
"It's perfect," Jonathan said. "Come on. Let's go take a look!"
"Guys," Fortune said. "Look, I really appreciate that you want to help out, but . . . but . . ."
"You must find your destiny," Lohengrin intoned, his hand on Fortune's shoulder. "If God has need of you, and this is the path your honor demands, you must go. You cannot do less. And I will aid you, if I can."
It should have sounded cheesy, but the fucker really pulled that Arthurian shit off. Jonathan felt genuinely moved.
"Yeah. What he said," Jonathan said. "Let's get the check."
Through one set of noncompound eyes, Peregrine's house looked more impressive. The Beverly Hills address matched with the mission-style architecture and the Spanish tile roof. The lawn was lush and green. He half expected to see Marilyn Monroe slink out of the house with a martini glass in her hand. Which was, he supposed, exactly the effect the architect was shooting for.
Jonathan pulled the car carefully into the driveway, stopping well before the garage door. That was the trick of driving intoxicated; allow lots of room for error.
"It is beautiful," Lohengrin said, leaning forward until his forehead almost touched the windshield. Maybe the crazed German bastard was a sentimental drunk too. It was endearing. Jonathan tried to turn off the engine and discovered he already had.