It was as they headed back for the castle to prepare the exodus, that Okoya leaned over and whispered into Dillon’s ear. “Well done,” he said. “Everything’s exactly where we want it.”
Dillon couldn’t help but wonder what Okoya meant by “we.”
PART IV - A PLUMMET OF ANGELS
17. Gamblers And Other Sharks
A black glass pyramid roasted in the desert sun.
From a clear sky, clouds began to fold out from a point in space directly above the pyramid. The many people wandering this end of the Las Vegas Strip took quick notice, wondering where the clouds had come from, and how they had grown so quickly. Then a single bolt of lightning exploded from the sky, striking the very peak of the pyramid, knocking out its electricity.
Inside Luxor’s casino, the brightly lit gambling tables were plunged into darkness, and although the backup generator should have come on, it didn’t. At the card tables, the dealers stopped their hands in mid-deal. At the roulette tables, the croupiers covered the house chips to make sure none were stolen during the blackout.
One particular croupier stood behind his roulette table in the darkness, yelling, “Nobody panic”—although he was more panicked than the gamblers surrounding him.
Then suddenly, the lights came back on . . . and standing directly before him, staring in his eyes, was a young man with red hair.
The kid was either underage to be in a casino, or a young eighteen, and around him stood four others. Like the redheaded kid, they were all dressed in shimmering gold silk shirts, and spotless white jeans—and had appeared out of nowhere while the casino was dark. They all wore the faintest hint of a smile, as they looked directly into the roulette croupier’s eyes, as if they knew something he didn’t. It was unnerving, and he had to look away.
In a moment, the gambling resumed.
“Place your bets!” the croupier called out. He pushed the wheel, giving it a faster spin, and took the small, white ball in his hand. Various gamblers around the table stacked their chips around the velvet betting board. The redheaded teen and his friends only watched, as he released the ball. The ball hugged the rim, fell toward the wheel, skipped a bit, and landed in a green pocket.
Double zero.
Moans were heard around the table. No one had bet it. Few people ever did. The croupier raked in the chips, clearing the board for the next wager.
Still the redheaded kid and his friends only watched, but now the croupier thought he felt a strange aura, like heat at the edge of a fire. And then, there was the breeze—not just the hotel air-conditioning, but a breeze that seemed to pull down cigarette smoke from the high atrium above, and send it swirling in an eddy around the table.
“Place your bets!” he said again. He was sure it was just his imagination.
Bets were placed randomly around the table. Square bets, street bets, columns and lines. The redheaded boy and his friends did not wager. The croupier released the ball, it spun around, then bounced in and out of numbers, and found its pocket.
Single zero.
Moans from around the table. No one had bet it. Few people ever did.
Now that strange aura began to pulsate, as it grew stronger—and it wasn’t just him. He could see some gamblers around the table, as well, beginning to loosen their collars. The croupier raked in the chips, and took a deep breath to try to chase away the strange feeling. “Place your bets!” he said.
And this time, the redheaded boy pulled a five-dollar chip from his pocket. He placed it on number one. When all bets had been placed, the croupier released the ball, it spun around the lip of the roulette wheel, and fell out of orbit, landing in number one. The kid had won.
The croupier raised his eyebrows. “You must be lucky. First time playing?’’
“Yes,” said the redheaded kid. The croupier gave him his winnings, and the boy said, “Let it all ride—this time on number two.”
The swirling breeze around the table was getting denser. The croupier could feel it on the hairs on his forearm. It was more than just that, though, for as he looked on his forearm, he could see the curly hairs there begin to grow thicker, denser, as if they were growing at an unnatural speed. And there was that bald man in the corner. Was it just his imagination, or was that man not quite as bald as he had been just a few minutes ago? What was all this about?
The croupier gave the ball a spin. It orbited four times, and dropped squarely into a pocket.
Number two.
Exclamations of surprise echoed around the table, but not from the boy and his friends. It seemed as though they were expecting to win. The croupier felt the pulsating feeling grow as he gave the boy his winnings, like a presence that was pushing on him, pressing on his heart and lungs, until he could feel his heart and breath match the steady rhythm of that strange pulse. . . . And yet, he realized, it wasn’t a bad feeling at all. It felt good in some odd way. He felt good, although he couldn’t say why. This time he returned the young man’s smile when the young man said, “Let it ride on number three.”
By now a small crowd had begun to gather around the table—the kind that always gathers around a winning streak. But more people than usual were gravitating toward this unusual sequence of events. The croupier let the ball go, it orbited four times, and dropped.
Number three.
The exclamations of surprise exploded from the onlookers. In less than five minutes, this boy had raised his pot from five, to five thousand dollars. The pit boss had taken notice, and the hidden camera above their heads had taken notice as well, for security was zeroing in on the table from across the casino floor.
“Let it ride on number four,” the boy said. Five of the other gamblers around the table moved their chips over next to his. The croupier was sweating now, breathing quickly, accepting the rhythm of the pulsating beat. His own excitement was souring, because he knew he wasn’t just witnessing this, whatever it was, he was a part of it. Before security could arrive, he spun the ball and the wheel. Watching intently until it fell . . .
. . . into pocket number four.
A cheer erupted around the table. The black kid turned to the redheaded boy and said, “Very good, Dillon. You could buy a house with that.” And the croupier laughed, because it felt so good to know his name. Dillon. Security guards pushed their way through the throng, getting between Dillon and the table.
“Sir,” said one of the four guards, “may we see some identification for you and your friends?”
“We don’t have any,” said the blonde girl.
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”
At that, their smiles only grew wider. Dillon looked the man over from head to toe. He sniffed the air around the man as if smelling his cologne, and then he reached up to an old scar that cut diagonally across the guard’s forehead. As soon as Dillon touched the scar, it began to bubble and fold, until it was gone.
“What the . . . ?” But before the guard could say anything further, Dillon caught him in his gaze.
“Vietnam?” asked Dillon.
The man nodded dumbly.
“Helicopter or plane?” asked Dillon.
“Helicopter.”
“I can hear the weight of their deaths in your voice,” Dillon said. And then he whispered, “But there was nothing you could do. From now on, you’ll stop blaming yourself.”
Then the man—who was the toughest guard in the hotel—released his breath with a gust, almost as strong as the swirling cigarette smoke, as if the world had gone from night to day. Then he smiled like a baby. Neither he nor the other guards made a move to eject Dillon and his friends. Instead, they joined the spectators.