"As for me, when it comes to a gamble," she was saying now, uselessly pointing in the direction of the Flamingo Hilton, fearing the driver was taking a circuitous route, "I can take it or leave it."
"Who's a bigger gambler than you? You gambled and won against Matisak in New Orleans, and you did the same with Tauman in the Caymans. Take it or leave what?" Then he wondered if she had meant Parry and paradise, feeling a bit awkward at putting his foot in it
"Gambling, gambling, and this Mecca for gamblers and people who crave to throw their fortunes, big and small, down the most extravagant 'come on' toilet the world and history has ever seen-that's what I'm talking about."
"Ahhh, come on, Jess. There's got to be some redeeming factor about Vegas. Every city has some… upside."
"Well, there is plenty of-"
"Neon?"
"Parking," she finished.
Jessica was well aware that the low-lying metropolis, nestled as it was on the desert floor, represented the fastest-growing city in America and that its growth had changed its character over the years. However, she firmly believed that all character began with a bedrock that remained intransigent and unchangeable. A city openly spawned on corruption and greed could not deny its roots or heritage by raising temples to the sky, even if they held "family" attractions within. The central root upon which it all flourished remained human fallibility, greed, and feeding off that greed. Sure, the limbs of the tree had sprawled far and wide from its core-downtown Vegas being the hub from which architects and city planners worked-but there was scarcely a household on the desert floor left untouched by money had from gambling in one fashion or another.
Absolutely, Vegas brimmed full with good and decent people-families eking out a living, children struggling in schools at all levels, playhouses, cultural events, museums, and small pleasures that on the surface appeared to have nothing whatever to do with downtown Vegas or gambling, but then, no place in the city was immune. The entire tax base rested on gambling, and every 7-Eleven, every gas station, Laundromat, Chinese restaurant, and grocery store, as well as the airport, had slot machines for casual "play." She imagined it must be an extremely confusing place to grow from childhood to man- or womanhood.
The limo pulled into the Flamingo Hilton drive, flanked by O'Shea's on one side, the Barbary Coast Casino on the other. The Hilton hadn't escaped the towering tackiness of the place any more than the more modern "erections" here, she thought.
"I'll get the bags, you get the tip," suggested J. T.
The weather was searing, a torrid 101°F in the shade, and while a wildly gusting wind blew a thin, near-invisible desert veil over everything, it did nothing to cool but rather irritated the skin. They'd been sweating since leaving the comfort of the airport, the driver obviously no good with controls, or perhaps he was saving on gas, or simply had no understanding of air-conditioning. He wouldn't receive a full tip, not from her, despite his familiar woes.
After helping J. T. with the bags, the cabbie said to Jessica, "Wel-come to Los Veegas, pree-ty la-dy…" His accent, jet-black, sweat-saturated hair, broken-toothed grin, and swarthy skin gave him away as a Hispanic immigrant, possibly an illegal. A once-broken nose and a serious, healed-over scar also marked him as a former brawler; perhaps a man who had fought in the ring-either amateur or lightweight division-or in a back alley, if not simply for money. He seemed a bit punchy, his shirt half in, half out of his waistband. She handed him several folded dollar bills, despite the awful conditions of the so-called limo, when suddenly the cabbie began to thank her profusely, saying, "Ju know, dis's dee only tip I've got all de day long? God bless ju, and-''
"The only tip you've gotten all day long?" asked J. T., astounded. It was nearly six in the afternoon.
"It has been dis way lately. No one comes. Too many cabs"-he pointed to the long line of cabs lined in a row in front of and behind them like sentinels, all awaiting another fare.
"So, t'ank you, amigos, and have a nice day." It was a practiced line. "And my shill-dren and my wife, dey, too, bless you." He smiled and started for the other side of the cab, waving and leaving her feeling guilty. She and J. T. exchanged a look before she snatched open the passenger-side door and tossed in an extra ten to the man.
When she straightened up, J. T. instantly pulled her aside and asked, "What's the matter with you, Jess?"
"Whataya mean?"
"That was a scam. You just fell flat-assed for that limo driver's scam, Jess."
"You think so?"
"I know so. All that God bless 'ju,' business. He dropped his guard, said 'you' twice in that last remark to 'ju,' pree-ty la-dy."
"Damn." She stared at the limo, which had remained static, the driver waiting his turn for another fare. She considered going to his window, flashing her badge, and perhaps giving him a taste of what it was like to be hassled by a federal agent. "I'm going to do something about that," she muttered, the oppressive heat bearing down like some mighty entropy.
J. T. firmly shook his head, saying, "It's too late. He took you, fair and square." "What's that? Vegas rules?"
"Don't forget where you are. You're out your money, kiddo, and somewhat out of your element…"
"Shit," she angrily muttered, feeling like a large member of the cat family just cheated out of a meal.
"Forget it, Jess. It's only a tenner. Don't sweat the small stuff. If ju don't lose it here, ju lose it in the slots inside. So, big deal." She frowned, accepting her moment of naivetй, a moment when she let her guard down and was burned for the privilege.
J. T. called for a bellman for the bags. Jessica knew her friend and colleague was itching to get into the casino to lose his money in a game of chance, and this consoled her to some degree. At least she hadn't knowingly, consciously thrown her money down a toilet, as John intended. In fact, it appeared J. T. meant to binge on gambling, and this worried her.
But for the moment, glad to be getting out of the oppressive desert heat, anxious for a shower, maybe even a swim at the pool, she hurried ahead of J. T. and the bellhop to locate the registration desk. Signs greeted them in the lobby, signs reading welcome forensic science association of America-east pavilion. And despite Jessica's frown, J. T. insisted on getting a photo of himself where he now stood, alongside one of the huge, expensively framed and gaudily lettered signs. Then, to her consternation, he insisted that the bellboy take a snapshot of the two of them together beside the welcome sign.
"For my album," he said in her ear, hugging her as the photo was snapped.
So far Vegas sucked. Get me to my room! she mentally screamed.
TWO
Startling, like the first handful of mould cast on the coffined dead.
Feydor Dorphmann had kept the woman sedated enough so that she was no trouble. She tossed and blubbered and talked to herself, but this did not bother him, so long as she did not scream.
Still, Feydor was upset. Things were not going as well as planned, nothing as neat and tidy as imagination.
"Might've expected as much," he muttered to himself. Why had Dr. Coran delayed her flight to Vegas? Was she coming at all, or had she postponed altogether? He replayed the events of the day in his head, wondering what he might tell an angry Satan when next they met.
The newspaper account of the day before had told him where Satan's target would be, at the Flamingo Hilton. Satan told him how to position himself. What to do, precisely what tools and instruments he required, each step of the way, each step to take, every detail, down to making a list, and precisely how to make contact with Dr. Jessica Coran. It had been Satan who'd revealed to Feydor whom he must destroy, and that in the destroying, he must kill six of lesser importance to get to the seventh most important of Satan's chosen.