DePechio stroked his chin and considered his next words carefully. “Them reporters, they say a lot of things. You can’t believe everything you read in the papers. Truth is, I run a legitimate business, making deals with good honest people. Even if I had the resources to do what you are proposing,” DePechio glanced at the lipstick case, “all I would have was a copy. It’s not the body with the magic; it’s the mind, the memories, the experience. A copy can’t sing; a copy can’t dance.”
“That’s why you need me.” Twana took a step toward DePechio’s table.
The guard at the back of the room flinched. DePechio raised his hand again, ordering the guard to stand down.
Twana went on. “I know everything there is to know about Bieber. I can teach him all the moves. I can teach him how to walk, talk, and croon like Bieber.”
DePechio looked Twana up and down. She stood tough, unflinching in his glare. He looked at the lipstick case, standing upright on the table next to his meal. He looked back at Twana, tossing her proposal back and forth in his mind. “How old are you, kid?”
“Fifteen,” Twana said.
“I was twelve when I first started in the business,” DePechio said, more to himself than to Twana or Butch. He picked up the lipstick case and dangled it in front of his face. It turned in the crimson light of the Chinese restaurant. “When’s Bieber’s birthday?”
“August 12th,” Twana said.
“Biggest hit.”
“STAND.”
“Name three of Bieber’s dance moves.”
“The Funky Monkey, the Warrior, and the Ice Breaker.”
“Favorite breakfast.”
“Cheese omelet, ham, red bell peppers and onions, white toast, one slice, toasted on one side, no butter.”
“Distinctive features.”
“Birthmark shaped like a heart on his left ring finger, the finger in the lipstick case in front of you.”
DePechio squinted and examined the finger floating in its formaldehyde bath. “Well, I’ll be,” he said as he spotted the heart-shaped birth mark. “I have to say, I am impressed. But this is a risky deal. Bieber’s dead. Bieber’s not dead. How are people going to react?”
“We have one shot at this,” Twana said, putting a hand on the edge of DePechio’s table. “Bieber’s been booked to play the biggest show in the universe, the Pan-Galactic Prom Show. He is he the first human act in history to headline the event. It makes sense that Bieber’s PR people might try something big for such a landmark moment in his career. They might even fake his death and have him show up at the Pan-Galactic Prom Show fresh and new, back from the dead. Imagine the buzz that would result from such a publicity stunt.”
DePechio smiled and rolled a finger forward, indicating for her to go on.
“Think of this: Bieber gets out of his old contract by dying. But then, raised from the dead, he hits the scene bigger than ever, signing with a new label, your label. Nobody questions him because your PR people have created a bulletproof cover story, made the whole affair out to be a publicity stunt. Everybody buys it because he’s the real McCoy, Bieber, in the flesh. He knows all the songs, he knows all the moves. You can’t copy that; as you said, you can’t clone singing and dancing.”
“So let me get this straight,” DePechio said, holding up the lipstick case. “I take this finger and make a new Bieber. I turn him over to you for Bieber training. You keep it all quiet. I get my people to paint a pretty picture for the press. I sign Bieber into my books and pick up the royalties for his future albums?”
“That’s right. But there’s one more condition.”
“What’s that?” DePechio inclined his head forward.
“You gotta save my ma. She’s real sick. She’s a junkie and she’s going to die unless you get her help. I want to send her here.” Twana brought a brochure out of her purse and tossed it on the table in front of DePechio. The cover read: NEWlives Rehab and Counseling Center in bold lettering. DePechio picked up the leaflet and browsed through it, glancing at the pictures and reading a few of the headlines.
“This looks like a real classy joint. Sorry about your ma.” He put the brochure on the table and interwove his fingers. He rested his hands on the formica and looked over at Butch. “You got a firecracker of a sis here, Butchie. I don’t know who I should have working for me more, you or her.”
Butch forced an awkward smile.
DePechio turned to Twana. “When is this Pan-Galactic Prom Show?”
“In two months. I will need Bieber and two tickets to get there via space bus on the quick or the whole deal collapses.”
DePechio leaned back in his booth. He stroked his chin and looked off into the darkness of the restaurant. He picked up the brochure and looked through it again. He picked up the lipstick case and held it to the light so he could get a better look at the finger. Finally, he looked at Twana. “I’m going to make this deal with you. Not for the money, and not for the prestige of having the world’s biggest pop-tart in my pocket. I’m doing it because I too love my ma. And I understand what it means to lose her.”
Twana smiled.
Butch breathed a sigh of relief.
DePechio held up the brochure. “Louis.”
The thug across the dining room perked up.
“Make a call to the NEWlives Rehab and Counseling Center. Tell them that they have a new resident.”
Twana rubbed her hands together and bounced a couple of times on the balls of her feet.
“Here’s my condition,” DePechio said, his demeanor going decisively dark. “If you say even one word about me or my involvement in this thing to anyone, you, your brother, and your ma will all become subject to terrible accidents. Am I clear?”
Twana nodded.
“Good. Then we have a deal.” DePechio used a red napkin to wipe the last traces of kung pao pork from his fingers and extended a hand. Twana reached out and the two of them shook.
Chapter 10
Meanwhile, somewhere on planet Hull...
Nichang sat under the knife grass awning. Light from the full moon highlighted his shell in silver as he went over battle reports from each of his Shreever colonels and their lieutenants. He winced as he read through the death records. They had suffered many more casualties than he wished to admit. At least all of the casualties had come from the military ranks. There had been no collateral damage.
“Sir?” A voice stole Nichang’s attention from the reports. He looked up to see Chi standing outside the perimeter of the awning in the moon glow, haggard from fighting.
“Can you get the others now?” Nichang said over his shoulder. A black Ice Beetle peeled out of concealment and moved into the darkness.
Chi sat down on a boulder, his body broken and healed in many places, his exoshell crisscrossed with cracks and scars, often repaired by military surgeons, riveted together, re-plated with copper and wire stitching.
Four Ice Beetles emerged from the night. Chi recognized all of them, superstars in their ranks.
There was Goorn, the chanter who had, with her tocsin, brought such hope to the soldiers in the face of battle.
There was Stig, the colony’s most accomplished mechanic. Stig had designed most of the infrastructure of the ice caverns. He had also invented weapons, machines, and contraptions that had made life for Ice Beetles more convenient year after year.
Chi