for my prom date’s father to stop laughing at me. Part of me wanted to call the whole damned thing off. He stood up and held out his hand. Not really wanting to, I stood up and shook his hand. Then I turned to leave. None of this made sense.
A question jumped into my head as my hand found the door knob.
“How do you know so much about me and my family? I never told Maria any of what you just told me. I never told anyone!”
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Frescanetti asked.
“No,” I replied. The old man didn’t reek of alcohol. Maybe he was nuts. Asking that kind of question’s a good sign of being mental.
“You shouldn’t think that way,” a thick male voice said from behind me. I started to turn around, only to have two huge hands grab me by my shoulders, drag me back to the chair and force me into it like I was a 2 year-old. I half-turned and saw nothing behind me!
“Gil Zakes,” Frescanetti grinned. “I’d like you to meet Giovanni Mancusso.”
Frescanetti muttered some kind of gibberish that sounded vaguely Italian.
An instant later, I could see Giovanni just fine. Actually, I could see through him just fine. He wore a gray double-breasted suit with a white shirt and matching carnation in the left lapel. He stood about 6’5”, maybe in the neighborhood of 270 pounds. He had the look of “old-school gangster” about him; the type I used to see in old mob movies on AMC. Still, his stubbled face was broad and friendly … in a scary sort of way. He reminded me of some of the offensive linemen on my team.
“Thanks,” the ghost said, as if reading my thoughts. “I used to play a little ball when I was your age.”
My jaw dropped. He was reading my thoughts! Frescanetti chuckled.
“Giovanni’s an honest-to-God ghost. Born: August 5, 1898. Died: March 26, 1933.”
“Pleased to meet ya’,” Giovanni grinned as he let go of me. I arched my back and jumped to my feet as Giovanni held out his hand. I dropped the corsage as I backed against a corner. The two bastards swapped grins. Giovanni lowered his hand.
“Giovanni’s a trusted ex-colleague of mine,” Frescanetti explained. “But we still do favors for each other. And when Maria started dating you, I asked him to learn what he could about you.”
“My ‘condition’ allows me to know everything that goes on in the minds of the living.”
“And that’s how I know so much about you,” Frescanetti added. “While Gio here assures me that my daughter’s in good hands tonight, he’s pretty sure that you’re gonna dump her before Labor Day. Please reconsider.”
“How are you doing this?!” I gasped.
Frescanetti patiently rose, pulled a laminated card from his wallet, and tossed it onto his desk. I leaned over to read it. It was his old union ID card, which read (across the top):
NECROMANCER’S UNION – LOCAL 412
“And for a second, I thought you were a mobster,” I blurted, unsure of what else to say.
Frescanetti and Giovanni shared robust laughter at my expense as I handed the card back.
“I’m just a ‘facilitator’ between parties, son. Local 412 is very real. So is what I said about karma.”
That last part was definitely a threat.
“You’re damned right it was, kid,” Giovanni smiled as he picked up the corsage and walked it over to me. “I mean, wouldn’t it be a shame if you were to have some kind of … ‘accident’ and lose your football scholarship?”
My mouth went dry as I took the corsage with shaking fingers.
“Don’t worry,” Giovanni grinned as he patted me on the back. “I’ll keep an eye on both of you tonight … er, up to the hotel room, of course.”
“You got that right, Gio,” Frescanetti said half-seriously, as he put the union card back into his wallet. “No future son-in-law of mine’s gonna be haunted during his prom night nookie.”
A WONDERFUL DAY FOR DUELING
My half-time mid-air refueling was almost complete. The monstrous YR-1 refueling/armaments plane was linked to my fighter via three hoses. One refueled me. Another refilled my coolant tank, which had taken shrapnel damage and was still leaking. The third one refilled the chin turret, which I had all but fired dry.
Twelve high-altitude repair drones kept pace with us. The ladybug-shaped constructs refitted me with missiles and made repairs to the ship’s hull and engine. My internal systems were at 83% capacity and climbing. That was a good thing, considering the way Ugasu’s Blade of Osiris half-nailed me with that EMP surge. Erika’s Afrikan Phoenix wasn’t quite so lucky. The surge fried her systems and turned her sleek little plane into a multi-ton paperweight. She barely managed to bail out before her bird crashed into the Indian Ocean (today’s pre-designated “battleground”).
I took care of Ugasu with my minigun. Then I got lucky and dumped my last spread of missiles into Thomas’ Queen and Country, turning him into a fond memory. Just before intermission, Gregor’s Iron Sickle fell to Assad’s Scimitar of Allah. But, as Gregor attempted to water-land his bird, Assad decided to follow his hated rival downward and finish him off. For some reason, Gregor didn’t eject, which would’ve been the equivalent of yielding. Per the rules, he would’ve been safe. Instead, he let Assad get in close. Then the Russian blew up his missile payload out of spite. The resulting explosion took both planes out of the air.
Five of us remained.
My tac-link chimed once. Command was calling to give me a sitrep on the other four fighters.
“Nice flying up there, Mendez,” Colonel Zint declared as his face appeared on one of my many monitors.
The gaunt, white-haired ex-aviator was one of the best dueling pilots that House America ever produced. He taught me everything I knew about aerial combat. Were he not pushing fifty, Zint would be in this cockpit right now. Behind him was a massive control room full of personnel and fancy computers, all tasked to this mission. This duel was my twelfth and probably most important.
“Thank you, sir,” I said with a casual salute.
He returned the gesture with a proud grin.
“Any injuries to report?”
“No sir,” I replied. “What’s the word on the weather? That morning sky’s getting pretty dark.”
“There’s a major storm front coming in from the south.”
“So this aerial massacre might be called on account of rain?” I jokingly asked.
Zint gave me a reassuring smile.
“That’s the sweet advantage of being able to fly at MACH, Mendez. Uploading coordinates for a secondary dueling site.”
I looked down and watched the
