I have stayed at the Pinyin Inn once, and only once, back when I was originally drawn to the city. The place was decrepit and smelled of old men, and even the fact that the rooms were cheap and a fairly edible breakfast was included could not keep me there any longer than it took to find my cabin. It was awful then. But now—shuttered, and practically abandoned? It was wretched.
At least I enjoyed some satisfaction knowing that Quint must loathe every moment of it.
I banged on the door so hard the entire front of the old hotel shook. I would have been perfectly willing to kick it down—but the businessman had more arrogance than common sense, and he yanked open the door to see who had the gall to disturb him at such an early hour.
He looked from me to Dixon and back again, and his eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh! It’s you guys. What a relief.”
Not the reaction I had expected. At all.
“Come on in.” He pulled the door open wide. “Some creepy mime has been absolutely fixated on me. I was worried he might have tracked me down.”
The lobby of the Pinyin Inn was even dingier than I remembered it—probably because the windows were shuttered and the television that normally played fishing reports and infomercials was off. The room had been remodeled in the early seventies, so its original plaster walls were covered in horrid gold wallpaper that drooped in some places and clung fast in others. The owners had made another attempt to freshen things up—this one in the mid-nineties—and the furniture had not been updated since. Everything was Wedgewood blue, from the carpet to the upholstery to the trim around the windows. Or it had been, once—before cigarette smoke, sunlight and time had dulled everything to a washed out bluish gray.
Quint crossed over to the check-in desk where a conspicuously new coffee pot was plugged in.
“Help yourself to some java,” Quint said. “It’s nowhere near as good as the organic bulletproof pour-over I would do at home, but it’s fresh.”
“We are not here for coffee,” I said.
“And if you’re making house calls, there’s a terrible hitch in my shoulder that could definitely use your attention.”
“We are not here for massage.”
Quint eyed me over the rim of his mug. “Okay, then, I’ll bite. What do you want?”
“We are here about the Boardwalk.”
“Ah. Now I see. You want to get in on the action.” He strode over to a chessboard which was set up between two Wedgewood blue wing chairs, and considered the pieces. “Unfortunately, my employer doesn’t need additional investors.”
Dixon said, “And who might that employer be?”
“Sorry.” Quint sounded exactly the opposite. “Confidentiality agreement.”
I had ways of making men talk. I only realized I was preemptively cracking my knuckles when Dixon laid a hand over mine. He said, “And what happens when the Boardwalk Board votes against your acquisition?”
Quint picked up a chess piece—the queen. He twirled it meaningfully between thumb and forefinger. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years as a high-powered businessman, it’s that everyone has their price. Besides, it’s not as if they’re going to get a better offer. I mean, look at this dump.” He stretched his arms wide, waving the chess piece to indicate the hotel. “I handled the purchase, and believe you me, the owner got a pretty sweet deal. The Boardwalk Board is playing hardball, no doubt about it, but at some point they’ve gotta ask themselves what, exactly, they’re trying to preserve. A broken down Ferris wheel? A few planks in the sand? A bell with no clapper? If anyone understands tradition, it’s me—committees with more money than sense will pay big bucks for ugly memorials and pretentious statuary. But what has Pinyin Bay actually lost? A squalid trailer park, a crappy hotel, a falling-down mansion, a few shacks on the beach, and a funeral home. Ask yourself: were these things really worth all the fuss?”
Quint was not wrong. Pinyin Bay was only a destination for people who could afford no better vacation, and the main reason I cared about the city was that it mattered so much to Dixon. And as Dixon took in the shabby surroundings, it seemed that he had only now realized what Pinyin Bay must look like to an outsider.
Dixon ran a fingertip along the dusty countertop. “The Boardwalk is a little run down. And the city’s done itself no favors keeping the wolverines all fenced off where no one can enjoy them. Maybe the shoreline really could use a little sprucing up. What’s going to be built in its place? A fancy waterpark? A posh resort? Ooh, I know—go-carts. Everyone loves go-carts.”
Quint scoffed. “Who said anything about building? I represent a mining company—and they can hardly wait to start digging.”
Dixon batted the queen out of Quint’s hand, startling us all. “The South Dock Boardwalk is not for sale—not at any price. Tell your boss to go dig somewhere else!”
Startled, Quint backed up a few steps. “Just you wait and see. The Boardwalk Board called a special referendum. That must mean they’re ready to sell.” He gave a taunting finger-wave and crooned, “Bye bye, Boardwalk.”
Dixon turned on his heel and stomped out. As I treated Quint to a parting glare, he gave his own shoulder a squeeze, made a phone shape with his hand, put it to his ear…and mouthed the words, Call me.
In the truck, I found Dixon studying the envelope we found under the pier. “We need to get this vote back to the pile before Morticia’s NO vote is missed. These envelopes are common; we’ve got some at the office. And I can duplicate the X on the seal, no problem.”
No doubt. I had never met a Scrivener who did not excel at forgery.
As we headed for Practical Penn, I glanced at Dixon appreciatively and said, “It was very forceful of you to knock the chess piece out of Quint’s hand.”
“Maybe. But then it rolled into a mouse hole in the baseboard, which didn’t exactly help me underscore the point that Pinyin Bay is worth saving.”
I shrugged. “Even so. Quint does not have the sense to be afraid of me. I am glad he finds at least one of us intimidating.”
Once we had the old Scrivener’s vote looking as it should, we hurried back to the Boardwalk and slipped it into the Wishing Bell. There was no way of knowing whether or not the votes had already been collected, so we planted ourselves at a nearby picnic table where we could keep an eye on both the Bell and the trail leading down the embankment. And to make ourselves look as though we were not on a stakeout, I retrieved pencil and paper from the truck and set about drawing Dixon’s portrait.
It was difficult to capture the set of his mouth. I was unaccustomed to seeing him frown.
“Maybe we should have dealt with the vote before we confronted Quint,” he said. “What if the votes were already picked up? What if we’re too late?”
A few of the shop owners had trickled in to prepare for the day while we waited. Awnings were rolled out. Sand was swept away. Bob was doing warm-up exercises under his tree. I wanted to comfort Dixon, but even as he spoke, a darker thought occurred to me. What if our timing had been compromised because the developers were at an advantage…due to a Crafting that, for sentimental reasons, we had failed to Uncraft?
I strengthened the contour of his silhouette. Even his hair looked dejected and flat.
Drawing should have distracted me from considering all the ramifications of our failure…but apparently, I was very good at multitasking, if one of those tasks was worry. Pinyin Bay had precious little going for it. With the bayside attractions all razed to the ground, the city might never recover.
I was about to suggest we stop what we were doing and Uncraft Johnny’s Spell here and now, when a turquoise VW Bus pulled up at the edge of the Boardwalk—Rufus Clahd. The historian, Pearl, climbed out from the passenger seat wearing the same outfit she’d had on the day before—and her graying hair was now freed from its severe twist, loose around her shoulders. Pearl and Rufus gave each other a giddy little wave, and she drifted toward the Historical Society like she was walking on air.
Well. At least a good night was had by someone. I supposed they should enjoy their fun while it lasted—because Pinyin Bay was about to get distinctly unpleasant.
Pearl waved again, then watched as Rufus drove out of sight. But once he was gone, instead of unlocking the Historical Society, she stole a quick look around and then hurried toward the embankment. Dixon’s eyes went huge, but only for a moment. As Pearl climbed down, he made a valiant effort at looking as though he was totally engrossed in having his portrait drawn. And I did the same in drawing it. Even so, it was clear that when Pearl made her way back up to the Boardwalk, she had several envelopes in her hand.
Once she’d gone inside, a smile broke over Dixon’s face. “Thanks to Rufus Clahd, we weren’t too late after all! And Morticia’s vote was right on top of the pile. Best Boardwalk save, ever!”
“Perhaps we should see to your father’s Spellcraft before our luck turns sour.”
“But think about it, Yuri. Go-getters get their goals. It doesn’t specify who the ‘go-getters’ are. And Quint is no longer in possession of the Spellcraft—we are.”
Part of me was concerned that he simply didn’t want to Uncraft his father’s Scrivening.
But part of me was willing to hope he was right.
Pinyin Bay was hardly a sprawling metropolis, but the place more than made up for the lack of tourist appeal in sheer character. From Scrivener Village to the tacky Boardwalk, Pinyin Bay was a city where Spellcrafters could eke out a living, and one which Dixon and I were fortunate to call home.
“Comfortable” was not a word I would have initially chosen for the place—especially given the way I’d been lured in with Spellcraft—but now? Being introduced around town as Dixon’s “grown man friend” with hardly anyone batting an eyelash? Being accepted by his insular family as one of their own? I cared fiercely for Pinyin Bay. And I would do whatever I could to preserve what was ours.
Dixon slipped a hand through the crook of my elbow as we headed for the parking lot. “Yuri? When can I see the portrait?”
“It is no good.” I squeezed his hand with my biceps and lowered my voice. “I must draw another.”
“Is that so?” Dixon caught my eye and grinned flirtatiously. And though I had certainly seen more than my share of nakedness these past few days, it would be no great hardship to have him strip down and pose for me. If we could manage to actually get to the portrait, that was, and not be distracted by more pressing matters.
Speaking of nakedness….
“Look, Yuri, there’s your chunky buddy with the pink T-shirt! The Big Burgundy Bus is getting ready to roll out. Did you want to go say goodbye?”
I did, actually. But not to Husky Lou.
The luggage compartment beneath the bus was open, and Isaac was just about done stowing the group’s camping gear inside. He had left the biggest tents for last, and was pleased when I offered to help him with the lifting. “Before you go,” I said, “I have a question for you. How good are you at…painting?”
He paused between tents and scratched his beard. “You mean painting pictures, right, and not houses? ’Cause you can’t pay me enough to climb a scaffolding. I’ve got a thing about heights.”
“Yes. Pictures.”
“Funny. I haven’t thought about it in years. But when I was just a little sprog, gimme a pad of paper and a crayon and I’d keep myself busy for hours.”
“How come you’re a bus driver,” Dixon asked, “And not an artist?”
“I suppose I blame kindergarten. See, I used to be ambidextrous. But my teacher forced me to pick a lane—I guess you’re less likely to smudge your handwriting with your right hand—and after that, I must have lost interest.”
It was forbidden to let the Handless know the pictures behind the Craftings they bought were anything more than decorative. But Seers were so few and far between, it hardly seemed right to let the talent go to waste. “A Spellcraft shop would pay a lot of money for a good painting,” I told him. “But Spellcrafters are a superstitious bunch—and they insist it must be painted left-handed.”
Isaac seemed intrigued by that notion, and promised to give it more thought. He attempted to shake my hand, but I was saved from having to touch him by the distant mechanical whine of an auger. We all turned toward the noise. Judging by the direction of the sound, it was over by the cabins now. I couldn’t imagine how fruitful it would be to drill so close to the bay—wouldn’t the hole just fill with water? Then again, I was hardly an authority on mining. And I presumed the surveyors had some clue what they were doing.
At least, I thought they did—until a blinding flash lit the sky. A split second later, a deafening boom shook the ground so hard it flattened us all against the bus…as Pinyin Beach exploded.
Sand rained down on our heads. Dixon shook it from his hair. His mouth worked as if trying on words, but he ended up choosing none of them. For once, he was speechless.
As for me, there was nothing I needed to say. What must be done was clear. I took his hand in mine and squeezed it, more determined than ever to defend my new home.
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