It turned out there was no need to worry: Shorrock came alone. I watched him scanning the casino floor, but there were too many patrons communing with slot machines for him to pick out Dox or me. When he’d passed my position, I got up and made my way to the men’s room. I felt a small adrenaline rush spreading through my trunk and limbs and deliberately breathed slowly and deeply to manage it.
The bathroom was shaped like an L, with sinks along the horizontal axis and urinals and stalls along the vertical. It appeared to be empty. I pulled on the deerskin gloves and quickly checked each stall door to confirm no one was inside. Outside, Dox would be taking Shorrock’s money and explaining that he didn’t have the thumb drive on him-that he’d taped it to the back of the folding diaper-changing table in the farthest stall, the large one designed for handicapped use. The one I now quietly entered, latching the door behind me.
The stall was exceptionally private: high, white marble walls resting on casters just an inch above the tiled floor; close-fitting wood-paneled doors; no cracks or gaps anywhere through which someone might catch a glimpse from without. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, held it for a beat, then slowly released it. I only needed a few seconds alone with him. It was ridiculous I hadn’t found those seconds yet, but I felt like the time was finally at hand.
I kept my eyes closed and concentrated on listening. A moment passed, and I heard a single set of footsteps around the corner of the L. If it was someone else, he might stop at the urinals or the sinks. But the footsteps were moving quickly, deliberately. And they kept coming, past the unoccupied stalls, closer and closer to my position.
Three seconds, I thought. It won’t matter if someone walks in after that. Just three seconds.
The footsteps stopped outside the stall door. Someone pulled on the handle. The latch rattled.
“Hey,” a voice called. “Is someone in there?”
Shorrock was an intelligence professional. Even frightened and confused, he might be alerted by an incongruity. I had to keep it natural for as long as I could.
“Yeah, someone’s in here,” I said. “Is this the only stall?”
“Just hurry, okay? It’s an emergency.”
If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have claimed to be handicapped, which would have been calculated to make the current, likely un-handicapped occupant feel guilty and accordingly move more quickly. Apparently, he was under stress sufficient to make that kind of calculation impossible. Which meant he would miss other things, too, or catch on only when it was too late.
I pressed the button on the wall control and the toilet flushed. I wasn’t worried about him recognizing me from one of the restaurants or other venues in which I’d gotten close to him-people don’t usually notice me unless I want them to. But even if he did notice, and wonder, the momentary puzzlement and distraction would work to my advantage.
I unlatched and opened the door, keeping my left hand to my side and slightly behind me and keeping my body close to my other hand as it pushed the door outward and to the right. Gloves would seem weird enough to possibly induce a rapid response, and I didn’t want him to see them until it no longer mattered.
“All right,” I said, “it’s all yours.”
“Thanks,” Shorrock said, shouldering past me. As he did so, I pivoted counterclockwise and popped a palm heel strike into the base of his cranium. Not hard enough to injure his neck or drive him into the marble wall on the other side of the stall, where he could break his nose or lose a tooth. But enough to scramble his circuits for a second at least, which is how long it took me to step inside behind him and latch the door.
He had stumbled from the palm heel but he didn’t fall, and as he started to turn and try to face me, I threw my left arm around his neck, catching his trachea in the crook of my elbow, caught my right bicep, and planted my right hand firmly on the back of his skull. Hadaka-jime again, as versatile as it is effective. I tightened everything up, clamping his carotids in the walnut-cracker vice formed by my bicep and forearm, burying my face in his back and turtling it between my shoulders. I felt panic course through his body and he tried to twist away, one way, then the other, neither to any avail. I let him shove me into one of the marble walls and hung on, concentrating on maintaining the correct pressure. Unlike the choke I had put on that giant contractor in Tokyo, which was deliberately deep and cutting, this one was calibrated. It was firm enough to occlude the carotid arteries, but not so deep that it would result in bruising. As any judoka can attest, a proper choke isn’t necessarily painful, and doesn’t even have to interfere with breathing. Strangled on the mat by an expert, you might pass out with almost no distress at all.
I felt him raise a foot to try to stomp my instep, which showed some training, but I easily shifted to avoid the shot. He scrabbled back for my eyes but couldn’t reach them. His twisting and flailing became more frantic. He scratched madly at my hands and arms, but his nails scraped harmlessly against the tape and multiple layers of material. Then, all at once, I felt the tension drain from his torso. His arms dropped limply to his sides and his body sagged against me. I leaned against the wall, breathing evenly, concentrating on the steady pressure. I heard a set of footsteps enter the room, but they stopped at the bend in the L, probably at one of the urinals. It didn’t matter anymore-time was finally on my side. Moments passed, then I heard a toilet flush, the sounds of water running in a sink, paper towels being used and discarded, then footsteps again, this time departing.
When I was sure Shorrock was beyond recovery, I laid him flat on the floor and quickly went through his pockets. All he was carrying was his room key and the camera I’d placed in his room. He must have refused to turn the latter over when Dox told him he’d have to retrieve the thumb drive from the bathroom. Probably he thought he was maintaining some leverage. It didn’t matter. The main thing was, we had it back now, and wouldn’t have to worry about anyone finding it in his room and raising suspicions. And having his key was useful, too, in case the times of his coming and going might be stored on it. I didn’t expect that anyone would be investigating, but the less evidence, the better. I took a thousand dollars from one of my pockets and put it in one of Shorrock’s. Probably no one would look into his immediate pre-death ATM withdrawal, but if anyone did, it would look strange if the money weren’t on him.
I examined his fingertips to ensure he hadn’t managed to scrape any skin or hair off me while he was struggling-I hadn’t felt anything, but adrenaline masks pain and it wasn’t impossible that he’d managed to scratch my scalp or pull some hair. I found nothing. I took the sports tape from the blazer pocket and wrapped it sticky side-out around both hands, then methodically patted down the floor under and around Shorrock. The Wynn’s cleaning people must have been pros, because I came up with only a bit of lint and a few strands of pubic and head hair. I had no way of knowing whether any of it came from me, but now it wouldn’t matter. I turned Shorrock over and patted down his back, too, where my face had touched him. A few new hairs, probably his. But again, now a moot point regardless. I unwound the tape carefully over the toilet, balled it up, and pocketed it again. Then I flushed the toilet, eliminating any matter that had fallen into it unseen.