“Tory,” Dillon said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “this place reeks of cigarette smoke. Could you clean it up?”
“My pleasure.” She raised her hand in an overtly dramatic gesture toward the swirling wind that now spun with cocktail napkins and cigarette butts, and in an instant the thick, smoky air was crystal-clear. Dillon turned back to the table, and when the croupier looked down, almost everyone had already placed their bets on number five. Dillon looked at his own immense pile of chips.
“Let it ride on five,” he said simply.
“But . . . there’s a five-thousand limit to this table,” said the croupier, apologizing as best he could.
“That’s all right,” said Dillon. “Five thousand on five, then.” He spun the wheel and let the ball go. When the ball went down, he paid Dillon and everyone else their winnings, without even looking to see where the ball had landed.
The table was shut down less than five minutes later, and so Dillon and his four friends left, the swirling wind, suddenly blowing straight through the doors at the end of the casino, like a carpet of wind to carry them out. They marched out of the hotel with dozens of people following them diagonally across the street, toward the green towers of the MGM Grand, and straight for the blackjack tables.
Four hours later, with a parade of two hundred people behind them, they marched into the lobby of the Mirage. They had made their way down the strip, having broken the bank in half a dozen hotels. They had taken everything from the Bellagio’s craps tables. They had tapped out the slots at Bally’s. They had emptied the vaults of Caesar’s Palace, by way of baccarat.
And finally they pirated Treasure Island in a game called pai-gau, which none of them had ever heard of before.
Now, Dillon and his coconspirators stood in the hotel’s lobby, where a giant tank filled with sharks and Caribbean exotics graced the reception area.
Dillon tapped the glass of the giant shark tank three times with a gambling chip.
A few minutes later, as a strange vibration built in the walls around them, they met a representative of the March of Dimes. With the cameras of three local news stations in his face, Dillon held out an extremely heavy sack to the woman’s shaky hands.
“I would like to present the March of Dimes with a three-million-dollar donation, as a personal gift.”
“Who shall I say it’s from?” the woman asked timidly.
“You can say it’s from Dillon Cole,” he instructed. “Dillon Cole, and the surviving Shards of the Scorpion Star.”
And then he turned to the cameras. “Tomorrow,” he said, “there’s going to be a disaster. But don’t worry.” And he smiled. “I’ve got everything under control.”
The vibration in the walls then became a high- pitched whine that ended with the crash of glass as the shark tank shattered. Hotel staff dove over the reception desk to escape the falling glass, and when they looked again, the shark tank seemed entirely unharmed. Except for the fact that its glass face was lying in ruins on the floor.
All eyes turned to Dillon for an explanation for this marvel, but he and his friends had disappeared in the confusion.
In a hotel where white tigers disappeared daily onstage, smoke and mirrors and sleight of hand were nothing new. The manager was ready to laugh at this interesting trick . . . until a small nurse shark poked its nose out of the water-wall, tore the pen from his breast pocket, then swam off with it to the back of the tank.
18. Roll Up For The Mystery Tour
“If the idea was to draw attention to ourselves,” said Lourdes, pleased with the outcome of the day, “I think we did a good job.”
They were twenty miles out of Las Vegas; eleven buses with no posted destination driving southeast on Boulder Highway. The lead bus was a well-appointed coach—a traveling hotel suite, really, done up in oak and leather and filled with all the creature comforts that one could cram into a bus. It was reserved for the five shards.
“Shouldn’t we each have our own buses?” said Tory. “After all this is Las Vegas—it’s not like less is more.”
“If we could arrange for buses, why not planes?” suggested Michael. “Really jazz up the show!”
“When we need planes, we’ll get planes,” said Dillon. “Right now buses are more than enough.”
Tory swiveled in her leather chair. “Cleopatra did not ride around in a bus.”
“Oh,” said Winston with a smirk, “is that who you are now?”
“Don’t get snotty—I was only using her for comparison.”
“And besides, if anyone’s Cleopatra, it’s me,” said Lourdes.
“History says she was as ugly as sin,” said Winston. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Drop dead.”
Just past Boulder City, Dillon instructed the driver to pull off the road, into the desert. There the eleven buses formed a circle, like an old-fashioned wagon train, around a campsite that Okoya, who had gone on ahead, was already in the process of setting up. Dillon was the only Shard who felt the need to go out there. Truth was, the others were famished from their day at the casinos. More than famished—they felt vacant. It was a feeling that gave Tory the urge to rub her arms compulsively, as if trying to shed some invisible layer of grime. The hunger made Winston feel a sense of futility in all he did. It made Michael acutely aware of the absence of love in his heart, and for Lourdes, that hunger reawakened her hopeless longing for Michael. Surely a nice all-you-can-eat buffet could have been fit into their Las Vegas schedule—but the very thought sickened them, for their hunger was not for that sort of food.
Tory peered out of the window, where the busloads of followers poured forth, pitching tents, and setting up camp, in preparation for tomorrow’s main event. “What we do now is crucial,” Dillon had said. “We can’t afford to make mistakes.” Of course, no one but the Shards and Okoya knew what the event would be, and as for the Big Show itself, Dillon was in charge of that. They would all be handed their parts when the time came, but for now, they didn’t feel a burning need for dress rehearsals.
As the bus driver left, Okoya stepped in carrying a sack of goodies.
“While you were all working,” said Okoya, “I found some things I thought you might appreciate.”
As he reached into the bag, Tory snuck a peek. “Ooh! Is that a new skin lotion?” She asked, practically growing fangs at the thought. “I’d kill for a good lotion!”
“Would you?” Okoya said. He pulled out the container of lotion, but put it down, out of Tory’s reach. Tory leaned over to get it, but Okoya held her back. “Patience,” was all he said.
He reached into the bag again, and produced a cake, with a deceptive white creme frosting, that gave way to dark chocolate and a glistening cherry filling when he cut it. “For you, Lourdes.”
“Black Forest!” she exclaimed, holding her hands forward like an anxious Oliver Twist. “I love Black Forest.”
Okoya handed her the slice of cake, and she dug her hand into it, without waiting for a fork. Then he reached in and came up with a magazine. “They were selling some . . . uh . . . interesting magazines on the strip,” he said to Winston. “There are some pictures in here that are not to be believed. Have a look, Winston. You might learn something.” He gave Winston a wink and tossed him the magazine.
“Me next,” insisted Tory.
Okoya ignored her, and pulled out a new Walkman for Michael. “Top of the line, and I’ve tuned the radio to a fantastic station I’ve found here—you’re going to love it!”