Jamal had failed to answer, as Holy Roller began, in his best Sunday-go-to-meeting voice, to alternately berate the grips for cursing ("Gentlemen, please! To hear the Lord's name and everyone else's taken in vain on such a beautiful day! It's a shame, it is!") while alerting them to the glories of God's plan ("Join the righteous, my friends! Find the joy!") was theater no one dared interrupt.

  Now, alone in the kitchen with beautiful, unapproachable Jade, Jamal is half-worried that Roller is right outside . . . listening . . . and, if listening, judging.

  "Now they have to use that truck to keep us supplied."

  "Another good reason to vote him off."

  Jade shook her pretty head. "They'll keep Roller around as long as they can. He's too much like the people watching this shit."

  "How'd you get to be so cynical, so young?"

  Jade can't be more than two years younger than Jamal. "Go to a few auditions as an actress and see what it does to you."

  Jamal realizes that beautiful Jade has no idea what he does—granted, their introductions had been perfunctory, but Jamal has since pored over the online bios. Jade obviously hasn't, or she would know that he has been on his share of auditions, too. More proof that he has no chance with her. "Why did you join American Hero, then? It's really the same shit, isn't it?"

  She has found a box of Cheerios and casually opens it. As Jamal looks for a bowl and a spoon, he sees Jade eating right out of the box. Not that he objects—she could put her mouth on anything he owns—but he's so hungry he's almost salivating. "I like shows like this. Laguna Beach, Survivor, Great Race. They're the only thing I ever watch."

  Nothing in this cupboard. "So you know exactly how to play the game."

  "Yeah." She crunches away. "They sort of cast these things. There's always the old guy, the biker, the crazy one—" and here she smiles "—the minority."

  "Only me?" Jamal gestures gracefully toward Jade. "What about Chinese-American girls?"

  "My category is hot girl. Hot girl trumps the whole minority thing." This is as true as it is irritating. "The other category in reality TV is freaks, but . . ." And here Jade smiles very fetchingly. At that instant, Jamal is lost—she can be as bitchy and self-centered as she wants, she will have to rip his heart out of his chest and stomp it. "On American Hero the freaks are the majority. Which is why even a . . . hugely fat white man is someone they have to hold onto. Will someone answer the fucking phone? Please?"

  Jamal realizes he has been hearing a chirping from the living room. Toad Man hollers that he will get it. "Hullo," they hear him say. "This is Buford."

  "So you've got your strategy all figured out. Be the hot girl."

  "And let you big strong men knock each other off."

  "How am I supposed to knock these other guys off? My wild card is nothing but defensive. I take a licking and keep on ticking. Big whoop."

  Jade is still crunching. "I thought you were the big jock!"

  This is a surprisingly perceptive thing for a woman as self-involved as Jade to say. "Who says I'm a jock?"

  "You walk like a jock. You talk like a jock. I know jocks . . . all my brothers play sports."

  Toad Man appears in the kitchen doorway, blinking, as always, in apparent bafflement. "Hullo. Ah, they want us. Griffith Park Observatory. Does anyone know where that is?"

  Wet, glistening, still in her bikini, just out of the pool, Diver drips in the hallway. "In Griffith Park."

  Holy Roller is at the other end of the hallway, blocking it like a cork in a wine bottle and—to Jamal's amusement—preventing Art and the camera crew for getting any useful footage. "Praise God. Another challenge. May the Lord be with us!"

  The Clubs disperse to their rooms for last-minute prep for cameras, including Jade Blossom. Jamal realizes that the woman has taken the box of Cheerios. And that he still hasn't had breakfast.

  Jade has come surprisingly close to explaining everything there is to know about Jamal Norwood. Forget the wild card—his life changed from what he wanted to something else long before that rainy night in 2001.

  Jamal's father, Big Bill Norwood, was the best athlete in a South Central neighborhood noted for NBA stars and NFL running backs, for all kinds of major and minor league baseball players. "No hockey players, though," Bill used to say. "No ice."

  Jamal was good, too, with the speed and eye-hand coordination of a world-class athlete. What he lacked was size, topping out at five-nine, 160 pounds in his junior year at powerhouse Loyola High. He could be the best basketball or football player the world had ever seen, but no scout or coach would look at him long enough to notice. That's assuming the coach's eyes noticed him at all, since he was a head shorter than his teammates.

  Jamal had already experienced the humiliation of being passed over for the varsity baseball team at Loyola, even though his batting average was the highest on the team. He made the mistake of complaining to Bill one night on the drive home.

  Big Bill simply shook his head. "Forget about being a pro athlete," he said. "You're never going to make it."

  "But I'm good, Dad! As good as the Wilkes brothers!"

  "I'm not talking about 'good,' Jamal! You are good, probably in the top five percent of all the athletes your age. I'm just saying you're never going to be a pro athlete. You've got too much going on."

  "I don't understand."

  Big Bill sighed. "You've got too much going on in your head." He must have realized that Jamal was still failing to see what he meant. "Look, you need two things to be a pro athlete: the skills, which you have, and the right kind of brain—which you don't."

  "Are you saying I'm stupid?"

  "I'm saying the opposite. I'm saying that you've got too many other things in your life to think about! What makes a kid a pro athlete is not having any other choices. You've got to be able to shoot hoops for six hours a day after school. You've got to bounce that ball off the step. And you've got to do because you can't do anything else! Because it is boring. If you get bored, if you find that you'd rather go to the movies or read a book or study or even chase girls, you aren't gonna be a world-class athlete."

  Jamal mumbled something about jocks getting all the girls. "True. But it's because the girls chase them, not the other way around."

  So he went off to USC determined to be the opposite of his father—not a jock, but an intellectual. He read Eggers and Pynchon and, yes, Stendahl. He discovered Marcel Duchamp and the Constructionists. He studied French film and Howard Hawks movies.

  He even saw The Jolson Story.

  Now that career had been sacrificed on the altar of the wild card. Jamal Norwood needs American Hero.

  "Today's challenge is the Scavenger Hunt."

  Griffith Park Observatory has just emerged from a five-year-long, $90 million reconstruction. Having been dragged to the site for field trips all through grade school, Jamal feels as though he knows the place—and to his eye, it has not changed. The only difference is that you could no longer park. If he and the other Clubs hadn't been driving their American Hero Humvees, they'd have had to take a bus.

  Not that it matters for the Clubs. They are the last of the four suits to arrive, joining the other convoys as well as the horde of production vehicles and honey wagons.

  Now Jamal and the other Clubs are lined up in front of a giant emblem so flimsy it flutters in the gentle morning breeze, and some kind of flat structure, like a scoreboard, covered with a colored sheet. The aces from the other suits, from Clubs to Diamonds to Spades to Hearts, all stand in front of Peregrine, all cleverly positioned so the light is in their faces. Peregrine herself steps onto a slick plastic circle twenty feet wide, bearing the American Hero logo.

  Jamal has been on a dozen film sets, and yet he is still amazed at the artifice. Maybe it's another sign that he is in the wrong business; he wants the characters on TV and in the movies to be real.

  Toad Man nudges Jamal. "Boy, I thought we were having tough times. Look at them," he says, nodding to the five Diamonds gathering in front of the symbol for their suit. They remind Jamal of an expansion baseball team about to take the field against the Brooklyn Dodgers. Only no expansion team had ever fielded such a sad-ass player as the Maharajah, missing two legs and one arm.

  The Hearts, on the other hand, look cocky. There are six of them, just as there are six Clubs. Both teams have won a challenge, and the immunity that goes with it. The Spades and Diamonds, losers both times out, are down to five players apiece.

  Jamal blinks—put them out of your mind. Think like Big Bill Norwood. They are all the enemy.

  "We have hidden five statues just like this—" Peregrine raises a golden figurine, a stylized Jetboy a foot tall, "at five different locations around Los Angeles. The team that returns here within four hours with the most Jet-boys wins. It's that simple."

  "Any rules?" Drummer Boy booms, shooting a shit-eating grin down at his partner in crime, Hardhat.

  "Of course," Peregrine says. "Just one: there are no rules."

  Most of the aces actually finish the phrase for her. Jamal can feel his heart rate rise, as it did when he walked from the on-deck circle to home plate . . . or his first moment on set.

  "Okay, may I present . . . the Scavenger Hunt!" Peregrine pulls the covers off a giant electronic display—currently blank.

  "Shit!"

  "One minute, Mom. They lost the feed." That from John Fortune, hand to earpiece, running toward a satellite truck a dozen yards away—no doubt happy to have an excuse not to be Drummer Boy's Stepin Fetchit.

  "Do the locations even matter?" Diver is behind him. "No matter what, I wind up fishing or swimming. The life aquatic. Christ."

  "Could be worse. You could be a tackling dummy like me."

  "A what?"

  Jamal sighs. "Think of a punching bag on a sled. Football players practice tackles on it."

  "Let's trade places. I bet I'd like being tackled more than you would."

  "You've got a bad attitude."

  "You have no idea." She forces a smile.

  "Okay, aces! American Heroes!" The board has been fired up successfully, a Mapquest look at Los Angeles County, with five beeping dots. One is in the Valley near the intersection of the 405 and Ventura Boulevard; one appears to be on a peak near Mount Wilson; one is in the middle of Beverly Hills; one is way the hell and gone in Venice, by the ocean; and one appears to be located just over the hill from Griffith Park Observatory.

  Jamal has no interest in dragging his ass all the way to Venice, or up some mountainside, and—as a Los Angeles resident—knows better than to face the 405 and Ventura area at any time of day. He'd also like to avoid getting into a battle anywhere near Rodeo Drive. Who needs the attitude? Besides, he has a good idea what that fifth location is.

  As Jamal watches, the screen changes, actual addresses and images popping up, to reactions that range from appreciative to confused.

  The fifth location is Griffith Park Zoo.

  Peregrine is posing for a trio of cameras. "You see your possible destinations. How you reach them and how you return is up to you. "She points to a huge, ridiculous clock, complete with American Hero hands, that has been dragged into the center of the circle. "When I say 'go' and the clock starts, you're off.

  "Any last questions?" Faux drama. Jamal finds this intensely annoying and turns away before he hears Peregrine shout . . .

  "Go!"

  The first challenge is the freakish mad scramble to decide which of the Clubs goes where. It takes two minutes of suggestions, argument, and actual shoving before it reaches total chaos. As Jade Blossom and Diver tussle over which of the pair would be best suited to search in Beverly Hills, Toad Man turns to Jamal and gives a half-smile. "This reminds me of a football huddle."

  "Yeah, but nobody is the quarterback."

  It's Holy Roller who uses his voice and bulk to restore order. "Dammit, people!" The uncharacteristic use of profanity shocks the team to relative silence. "Time, as they say, is a-wasting. Brother Stuntman, you know this godless city better than any of us. Why don't you give us some guidance—and quickly."

  Whether he likes it or not, Jamal is suddenly in charge. And the choices are obvious: "Brave Hawk, the mountain location. Reverend, you and Toad hit that Valley spot. Jade, Beverly Hills."

  Jade's face lights up in triumph—which is bad enough, but then she elbows Diver. "Too bad, baby"—as Jamal is forced to say, "Diver, Venice." Remembering their earlier conversation, he adds, "Sorry."

  If Diver's wild card were laser eyes, Jamal's head would vaporize. "Fuck you, Stuntman. Where are you going?"

  "The zoo."

  The departure is a mad scramble, and not just for Clubs. Brave Hawk flaps into the sky. A few seconds later, Jetman launches himself in a blast of smoke and flame, the echo booming off the hills. Buford transforms into a toad the size of a Volkswagen and goes bounding off, with Roller rumbling behind him. A pelican the size of a hot air balloon appears out of nowhere and flaps off to the northeast—one of Dragon Girl's stuffed toys, transformed. Is she heading for the zoo? Or Mount Wilson to battle Brave Hawk and Jetman?

  Jamal hears Rosa Loteria shouting for Rustbelt to "take the zoo!" The ridiculous-looking hoser ace jumps into a production truck and starts grinding the gears . . . the whole interior of the vehicle is probably now rust. Jade Blossom grabs John Fortune's cell phone and calls for a cab. Well, she's headed for Beverly Hills.

  Ever Big Bill Norwood's son, Jamal gets a good jump, running for the Humvee and sliding into the driver's seat before anyone else even reaches the parking lot. He is amused to find Art in the back with Diaz and camera in the passenger seat. "Who did you guys piss off today?"

  "You're not gonna be pointing at us all day, are you, Stuntman?" Art sounds completely beaten down.

  "Sorry," Jamal says. He backs the car out of the lot and burns, as fast as he can, toward the eastern exit.

  Growing up in Los Angeles has given Jamal a highly developed sense of geography, especially of various traffic shortcuts. He finds a turn-out just beyond a tunnel and quickly passes Rustbelt's truck. "So I'm heading for the zoo," he says, turning to Art. "What am I supposed to do, wrestle a fucking alligator?"

  Art can't hide the smile. "Something like that." Another reason why he is really a bad American Hero producer: he's jumpy about contestants breaking the fourth wall, yet can't keep his own mouth shut.

  Jamal thinks for an instant—a long, stretched, athlete-in-the-zone moment, the sort he experienced on a long base hit, a broken field run, a shot from downtown. He could win this. He feels it. He wants it.

  When he reaches the parking lot at the base of the hill, near the turn to the Greek Theater and right across Vermont from the battered little Roosevelt Golf Course, Jamal pulls over. He is still a few minutes ahead of his competitors. For a moment he considers simply waiting for the parade. Why not follow the competition? Lay back, hit them from behind when the time is right? Of course, that strategy presumed Rustbelt could find his ass with both hands.

  What the hell. If you're going to play the game, play it balls out. More words from Big Bill Norwood. Let the other guy react to you.

  One, two, three—here comes a truck and a pair of Humvees. Jamal can't see who's in the third vehicle. But who cares? The cars disappear into the neighborhood and what Jamal knows is horrific midday traffic.

  The standard route would take them all south on Vermont to busy Los Feliz, then east and north to the entrance to the park and zoo. But there is another way. . . .

  "Are you gonna get going, Jamal? Or should we order lunch?"

  He smiles. "Art, do you wonder why I keep talking to you?"

  Art shuts up. He obviously knows his own weakness.

  "I am going, Art. Watch this."

  And Jamal pulls out of the lot and heads left instead of right—climbing a twisty road that he knows will carry him up and over the spine of the hills to approach the zoo from the other side.

  Griffith Park Zoo is closed for the day—Jamal would have known that from the empty lot where school buses were usually queued up. But an American Hero camera crew is positioned right next to the entrance—and clearly not expecting an arrival just yet. Jamal is amused to see the crew scramble like ants. "I guess you should have called these guys, Art."

  Jamal pulls up to the entrance—knows he's in the center of two lenses—and suddenly this is like being not only on a movie set, but as the lead. Why can't he play an American hero?

  He can feel his eyes narrow—a full Clint Eastwood—as he scans the scene, right to left and back—a modified Schwarzenegger. A path has been marked with cones leading from the entrance past the row of animal habitats.

  Jamal turns on the Tom Cruise smile. "Showtime."

  He guns the vehicle forward. "Anybody behind us, Art?"

  Art simply doesn't answer.

  The trip is a short one—Jamal would have to be an idiot to miss the AMERICAN HERO SCAVENGER HUNT, so proclaimed on a banner.

  The idea that an idol is somehow secreted inside the zoo strikes Jamal as silly—but then, so has every challenge until now. Nevertheless, Jamal does not expect to go up against a rare Bengal tiger—and he isn't.

  American Hero had built a habitat of its very own. And inside it? A brown bear, some kind of lion, a rhino—and a moat filled with snakes.

  And a brand new fence that sparks and hums, electrified.

  "Something for all of us," Tiffani says from behind him. So much for getting the jump. The reflection of the brilliant midday sun precedes her. Tiffani is in full diamond mode.

  Jamal has never really met the glittering Diamond girl. He wonders how many discussions there were between Berman and his production team about whether or not the ace from West Virginia had to be in the Diamond suit because of her ability to transform herself into superhard carbon.

  (Then he wonders how many discussions there were about making sure Jamal Norwood, aka Stuntman, did not wind up in Spades.)

  In her natural state she is, as they would no doubt say up in some West Virginia hollow, a purty little thang—red-haired, bright-eyed, not much of a figure, but a definite attitude. Jamal's early impressions labeled her a white trash trailer park babe, but that could be the accent. Being this close to her for the first time forces him to revise his opinion to a more positive one. If Jamal didn't have Jade Blossom to drool over, he could do worse than Tiffani. Though not today. Not with immunity on the line.