Devil's Luck Page 9

  If he survived it—and he sure as hell meant to—his mojo would definitely be back.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Midas Tropicali Casino Lounge was decorated in a gold theme, of course. Walls, furnishings, chandeliers, carpet. Though, in many ways, it was like any other casino. There was a generic quality even to glitz. Especially to glitz.

  Simon strolled past rows and rows of flashing, dinging, and blinking slot machines, and then several rooms packed with roulette tables and card tables. Nobody looked askance at him and his shaggy coat and top hat. That was one of the great things about Vegas—so few raised eyebrows, no matter what anyone wore. Though, in a gesture toward dressing up, he’d worn a black shirt tonight. Open, of course. He liked people to see his dragon tattoos, and he especially wanted that tonight—not so much for their benefit as for his.

  The rooms became smaller and more exclusive and he had to put his coin under a scanner at every door now. He’d had to check both of his guns at one of the doors, but he still had a knife in his sleeve. That’s what he would use to kill Bobby Barrington.

  Eventually he arrived at the exclusive, high-security back room, sealed from the rest by a set of golden doors. A guard frisked him and examined the gold coin for a longer time than the others had. He seemed to have a bad feeling about Simon, as right he should.

  A strong zing would cancel out that caution.

  Simon touched the guard’s arm, asking the time. Heat flowed through his fingertips—it was his recklessness, flowing into the man. Simon closed off the flow as quickly as he’d begun it. He needed to keep most of the recklessness for himself.

  When the guard looked up from his watch, a new fire shone in his eyes. Guys like this, they never knew that it was Simon’s touch that made them feel wild all of a sudden—they always thought it came from inside. “Three thirty-five,” the guard answered, as if it meant something quite extreme.

  Simon nodded. The man was his now—not that Simon controlled him, but they would be akin in recklessness, as least for a few hours. A new taste for risk wouldn’t make the guard less able to do his job, but it would definitely make him less likely to. Nothing like a little recklessness to bring the Fuck you, boss out in a person. Over the years, Simon had left quite a long trail of unemployed people in his wake.

  The downside: recklessness didn’t make the guy less likely to kill him. Recklessness would make the man more likely to kill him, actually, given the right scenario. But when all you have is a hammer, it’s what you use.

  The guard opened the door, and Simon strolled through.

  Three thirty-five in the afternoon. It was hard to believe that just a day ago he was racing with Fawna, and that they’d had sex just last night. He’d gone to the window after she stormed out, saw her get on her bicycle and ride off into the darkness—to her place, presumably. Had she slept well? Did she wake up in the morning with regrets? Anger? He wondered what she was up to today. Maybe she was back at the fair.

  The fair seemed a world away from the Midas Tropcali back-back-back room, which was more extravagant than the rest, with sunken lounges, a lavish bar and buffet, and three roped-off gaming areas presided over by dealers. It was special to get into this room, and even more special to play at one of the tables. Men and women were clustered here and there. Some dressed elegantly, while others wore jeans or shorts. Simon had spent enough time in places like these to understand that the most casual dressers were typically the richest.

  He spotted Bobby Barrington at the farthest table. Barrington was a thickset man in his forties with blond hair, tan skin, and rubbery-looking lips. He wore a flowing green shirt and looked, to Simon, like a spoiled punk. He was eating right at the table, too—peeling fruit. Kiwis.

  Simon ordered a drink at the bar and studied the room. A lot of these guys seemed to be Barrington’s—he could tell by the way they watched everybody…the way they’d noted his entrance. So much security. Well, Barrington had hurt and killed a lot of people.

  He wandered over to the game, eventually. Barrington had guys stationed just behind where he sat, behind the velvet ropes separating the table and players from the spectators. If Simon jumped the ropes, those guys would stop him before he could kill Barrington.

  All throughout, he kept his thoughts carefully skunked, in case one was a telepath, or God forbid, a short-term prognosticator, a nearsighter, though it was unlikely—highcaps normally worked for themselves.

  Unless they were kidnapped and coerced from an early age.

  If he could get into the game, he’d have him. That was the totality of his plan—get close enough to Barrington to be able to stab him through the eye. He only needed one hit, but it had to be a good one—he couldn’t do it with guys pulling him off. The rest of the plan was to escape. Simon was comfortable with that; plans rarely worked out in situations of mayhem, and mayhem was what he counted on; he’d zing the hell out of the guards and musclemen before he attacked. Let the chips fall where they may.

  He’d arrived in Vegas early that morning after a red-eye flight and had spent several hours amassing the thousands of dollars he needed to get into the game with Barrington. He’d sought out various medium-high rollers at other casinos and zinged them with recklessness, then played them, going conservative as they threw away their money over coffee and doughnuts. It was against his nature to play conservatively, but it was in service to this higher goal: that of Fawna never having to look over her shoulder in fear again.

  He got the word to one of the runners that he was there to play at Bobby Barrington’s table, and that he had the requisite funds. As he strolled past, he brushed close to the two muscle guys hawking over Barrington, giving them a zing of recklessness. With any luck, they’d fight or get distracted, or best of all, leave their post. If they left, Simon thought he might just go for Barrington without getting into the game, although he’d prefer to play him, because he wanted Barrington to know he was going down in the name of Fawna.

  He grabbed an empty stool at a ledge overlooking the table. Over the next two hours, runners came and went, three pretty women crowded next to him at the ledge, one seat at the game changed hands and one was vacated—the seat next to Barrington—and still Simon wasn’t tapped to sit in. Was he being vetted? People leaned over the velvet rope and whispered in Barrington’s ear from time to time. He could see that the man was aware of him, and that he controlled his table. Had he gotten wind of Simon’s recent lucky streak? Some players preferred not to play cards with a man on a lucky streak.

  Or, Barrington might think Simon was a telepath—or even a prognosticator himself. Vegas in general wasn’t officially aware of highcaps, but unofficially, people were catching on, and of course, Bobby Barrington had long been aware.

  Barrington was peeling another kiwi, taking off tiny pieces of the skin and depositing them into a bowl, which was emptied periodically by an assistant. The Italian woman across from him was winning; Bobby and a pair of Saudi academic types seemed to be breaking even. A wholesome-looking man wearing little round glasses and a visor was losing big. Some kind of numbers cruncher, Simon guessed. An amateur. Why not let Simon in?

  Simon had a variety of advanced skills in the art of stirring something up without saying a word. He used one of those skills now, engaging Barrington with a kind of mocking energy. A bully like Barrington would notice and get reactive.

  Sure enough, when Barrington folded not ten minutes later, he stretched his arms and looked around and caught the quirk of Simon’s lips.

  Barrington won the next few hands, eyeing Simon now and then. He’d be thinking about having him into the game. He’d want to teach him a lesson, might even have ways to cheat.

  The muscle guys Simon had zinged were eyeing him, too. Not good, but they wouldn’t do anything once Simon sat down.

  The next time Barrington lost, Simon made a random joke to the raven-haired beauty near him and she laughed.

  Barrington glowered over. “We entertaining you?”

/>   The muscle men were glowering, too.

  Simon shrugged.

  “Well, are we?” Barrington asked.

  Simon smiled. “I wouldn’t say entertaining exactly…”

  It would come now—the challenge. It was practically in the air. But suddenly one of the muscle guys—a big bald bruiser, jumped up—like a spring being released—and stormed over, followed by his bemused-looking partner. Barrington looked surprised as the bald bruiser grabbed Simon’s arm with thick, meaty fingers. A giant red pinkie ring glinted in the light.

  “He bothering you?” the man asked a baffled-looking Barrington.

  Barrington furrowed his brow. “Can’t say I’m a fan.”

  “Hold on here.” Simon tried to shake the man off.

  The partner, a short muscle-bound fellow, had arrived to hold Simon’s other arm, backing up his bald, pinkie-ring-wearing comrade.

  “We’ll just have a talk with this one,” the bald one said in a way that suggested it would be anything but a talk.

  “Really?” Simon asked, trying for affronted dignity. “What is this?”

  “A talk.” Barrington’s lips compressed with glee. “Far be it from me to prevent open communication.”

  Simon looked right at Barrington. “If you don’t feel up to playing me, just say so.”

  At this, Barrington waved them off. “Talk as long as you want.”

  Simon couldn’t believe it! “This is how you get out of losing to me?” he said as they dragged him around the table toward the edge of the room, away from Barrington. When Simon tried to free himself in earnest, the bald one pulled out a stun gun and jabbed Simon’s neck, sending a paralyzing jolt of pain through him that cramped up his whole body, including muscles he didn’t even know he had.

  He stumbled and gasped for breath as the guards pulled him through a door and thrust him into a chair. A lock clicked. The place he was in seemed to be a large storage closet, not at all lavish. Drain on the floor—never a good sign. Simon’s chest felt wrong. Like the electricity from the stun gun jolt was trapped in there still, and he was woozy.

  He felt hands holding his arms behind the chair back. Then, right out of nowhere, the bald one hit him in the jaw, jerking Simon’s head back, and his mouth stung like hell.

  “You think you’re a funny guy? Annoying Bobby like that?”

  “Kind of.”

  Whack. Okay, that woke him up.

  “Jeez! Ow!” the bald one said, pulling off his pinkie ring and setting it on a metal shelf.

  Simon needed to think, think, think. This was the problem with zinging guys like this, getting them in the mood for mayhem—there was always the danger that the mayhem could be turned on him.

  Another hit. Another. His mouth stung. His eye felt hot. Simon struggled against the guy holding him, and the guy let go. Simon tried to get up.

  “No you don’t.” Two big hands clamped down on his shoulders.

  Damn! He had to get back to Barrington! He still had the knife, but it was for Barrington—he couldn’t risk it being taken away. Twisting violently, he broke free; he picked up the chair and whacked the bald guy upside the jaw with it, then swung it around and smashed the short one, who ducked the worst of it and came barreling back, bulldozing Simon backwards into the metal shelving, knocking off bottles and boxes.

  Simon clipped the man with an uppercut, and rammed an elbow into the guy’s throat, but then the bald guy was back in action.

  Simon was no match for the two highly energized thugs who knew how to fight as a team. They hit him in the gut, the chest, the face. Eventually, he stopped keeping track. Here he was on the wrong end of dangerous guys he’d zinged—a bad place to be…so drastically and insanely bad, he felt like laughing.

  Sharp pain in his chest. Broken rib. A boot to the knee. He collapsed, though it felt as if the floor came up to meet him. And the men kept kicking and beating him. Chuckling over his signs of respiratory distress.

  He had to get to Barrington. He had to help Fawna. No way would he die the useless sort of death that she’d seen for him.

  Not that he was dying. Screw that!

  Another kick. Kidney. He’d be pissing blood tomorrow.

  Simon groaned and turned, feeling hazy and sleepy. Doomed, but strangely powerful. He’d always felt his power most keenly when throwing everything away.

  The men stopped. Dimly, he became aware of them arguing: He’s not right…let him die… Bobby’ll have our asses if he doesn’t get to watch…pizza wagon coming at six…get Bobby in here to watch then…

  They kept on, but he’d heard enough—they thought he was dying. He did feel strange and light—luminous even.

  Apparently, the short one was worried that if they let him die without Barrington being able to enjoy the show, they would be in trouble.

  Simon recalled Fawna saying something about that. Barrington loving to watch men die.

  And then he had it—maybe he couldn’t get to Barrington, but Barrington could come to him. He still had the knife, and he was good with it. He needed one strike. He just had to get them upset enough to want to kill him, which meant bringing in Barrington.

  Or maybe they would bring him out to Barrington. It worked either way. So he reached out a hand and grabbed the bald one’s leg and let the insane reckless energy flow, zinging the crap out of him. He gave him as much as he could before the man kicked off his hand.

  Boot to the gut.

  Simon lifted his head and started the insults in earnest, running through his entire roster, from the man’s mother to his dick to his sexual kinks—Simon had some silly ones for that. Insults were another main skill set.

  The bald one widened his eyes, his nostrils—the man was on fire, and he started kicking Simon. Was that a tooth he just swallowed?

  The short one had the bald one’s arm. “Not without Bobby!”

  Kick to the ribs.

  What was the short one waiting for? He needed to go and get Barrington, bring him in. Simon would beckon him close—he’d figure out something to say so Barrington would put his face near him, and then he’d plunge the knife into the man’s eye. If he aimed it well, the kill would be assured.

  Something glistened on the floor. The bald one’s ring. Simon shoved it onto his pinkie. “Look what I found!”

  The bald one’s eyes went furious. “Give that back!”

  “No,” Simon said.

  The bald one kicked him with new fervency. It stopped making sense, even physical sense: the location and position of his limbs felt unclear, but the knife was at his wrist, easily gotten into his hand. That’s all Simon had to remember.

  He felt so strong and free. Nothing could touch him here, and everything seemed strangely perfect. It was a mad ecstasy he felt now, and he wanted to open his heart even more to this feeling, to the glory of total defiance.

  He was asked a question he didn’t understand. Were his ears underwater?

  Blood bubbles came out his mouth. It struck him as being so very funny that he started to laugh. Oh well, he’d gotten out of worse.

  A voice: “…he better be conscious when I come back with Bobby.” The door.

  The bald one lifted Simon’s head and smacked him in the nose.

  Simon laughed.

  He loved Fawna. He was loving her in his own screwed-up way.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Even as she was pedaling away that night, minutes after their fight, she wanted to turn around and go back to Simon and take back all the things she’d said. Why hadn’t she?

  When she returned to Simon’s apartment the next morning, he was gone. He wasn’t answering his phone either; all calls went to voice mail. Where he was he? She wanted to tell him she was sorry, and that she wouldn’t look at his future ever again unless he asked. She’d promise and find a way to make him believe.

  She missed him, and felt so bereft without him.

  And she had to save him.

  They could figure something out. Maybe they could researc
h the operation together, and he would come around to it in time enough to head off the gaming table fate. She’d always told people that you couldn’t shift the currents of fate through an act of will, but surely, getting him to change his mind about the operation would do something.

  She hoped.

  Desperately.

  Oh, where was he?

  It was frustrating, because she could find out where he’d gone by accessing his immediate future easily enough—she could usually figure out where people were by their surroundings and activities. For instance, if she saw him tossing rings, she’d know he’d decided to go back to the fair that morning. Or if he was drinking coffee, she could look at the label on the coffee cup. But it seemed perverse to use her ability to see his future in order to figure out where he was…so that she could find him to promise him that she’d no longer look at his future. That wasn’t right.

  She rode her bike all the way to the fair, locked it up at the entrance, and paid to get in. She made her way directly to the ringtoss game, but Simon wasn’t there. On her way back from the games midway, she passed the old crone fake fortune-teller sitting on a crate outside her tent. The woman cackled and pointed at her. “If you love something, you must set it free.”

  Fawna stormed over. “Excuse me?”

  “If you love something you must set it free. If it comes back to you—”

  “Nobody’s buying it,” Fawna said. “If you want to convince people you’re a prognosticator, you have to give specifics, not platitudes.”

  “You must set your tall, dark stranger free.”

  Fawna narrowed her eyes. “What tall, dark stranger?”

  “Your tall, dark stranger. You must set him free, or he was never yours.”

  Fawna planted her hands on her hips. “Come on, are you really seeing something?”

  The woman smiled and shrugged.

  “You’re messing with me,” Fawna said, but she couldn’t quite walk away, because she had fallen for a tall, dark stranger. Though she didn’t get the ‘set him free’ angle, since Simon was already quite free. Freer than anybody on the planet, in fact. It seemed like a mirage now, that time they’d spent together, feeling so good, and so free of the world, of physics, of fate.