Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

“You said now,” said Sarah, stopping to look at one of the storefront souvenir stands. Small plastic sci-fi robots did a preprogrammed ballet, excusing themselves in five languages as they banged into each other. “You said we do nothing now.”

“There was a busboy at the Blue Moon that I helped out once. Peter. He had ambitions, but there were…obstacles because of his bloodline.”

“He was Jewish?”

“His grandmother was. That was enough. We had a regular customer who flew into the capital a couple times a year to visit family. Supervisor at the China Doll Hotel and Casino. I introduced them. Called in a favor. Peter has been working there for a couple years now. He’s already a pit boss. Peter Bowen.” Rakkim picked up a miniature Vegas skyline enclosed in clear plastic, intricately detailed, diodes flashing to mirror the laser show of the real thing. $2.99. The plastic skylines were the modern analog of the antique snow globes that Spider collected. Rakkim could still see the shattered World Trade Center on the floor of the deserted underground lair, and he wondered if Spider was safe. If he and his family had escaped the Black Robes.

“What’s wrong?” said Sarah.

Rakkim put the skyline back. “You should go on a shopping spree. Hit all the sites. Follow all the usual procedures. Somewhere along the line you should stop in at the China Doll and say hello to Peter. He told me once that the border of the Nevada Free State was a semipermeable membrane. Easy to get in, but hard to get out. Undetected, anyway, but I’m sure Peter considers that more of an opportunity than an obstacle. Tell him we want to get across the border. Let him know that there’s a very powerful local who’s got his eyes on us, so he’s going to have to factor that in. Tell him we’ll pay whatever it costs. Knowing Peter, he won’t charge us a thing. Make the offer anyway.”

“Why don’t I just offer him oral?” Sarah said brightly as she riffled through a rack of souvenir T-shirts. “It’s a beautiful day, maybe I should suggest the full gulp.”

Rakkim stared at her. “I was being patronizing?”

“Follow all the usual procedures? Peter won’t charge us, but make the offer anyway? Just a micro patronizing.”

“Look, use your own judgment in dealing with Peter. Just tell him we want to get to Seattle as soon as possible.”

“Why aren’t we going back to Southern California? We should try to locate any of Safar Abdullah’s former coworkers, see if they have any information.”

“We’re out of our element in California. The only contact I had betrayed us. No, we go home. We’ll talk with Redbeard. See if he’s willing to help. Things haven’t been going very well for him either. Maybe he’s ready to take a chance.”

“Why do you get to decide?”

“Fine. You decide. Consider the assets we have in California. The access to data. Consider our familiarity with the city. The degree of back-channel communication we have with the local authorities. Consider our chances of finding people who worked with Abdullah twenty-five years ago. People who probably had nothing to do with his trip to China. Factor in that the Black Robes are on alert now. Go on, you make the call.”

Sarah pretended to examine a T-shirt. “We’ll go to Seattle.” She slapped the T-shirt back on the rack, the hanger banging against the metal. “I just hate giving up.”

“It’s called a strategic retreat. That’s what you do when you’re getting your asses kicked and you want to regroup and try again.”

Sarah fluffed her hair. “I think I’m going to do that shopping we talked about. Do you want me to walk you back to the hospital?”

“I got a card today from Darwin.” Rakkim stared at the enormous black pyramid in the distance. The Luxor. Oldest casino on the Strip. “It was on my bedstand when I woke up this morning.”

“What did it say?”

“‘Please convey my apologies to Miss Dougan. I was a little overheated on the flight from Disneyland. I’m sure you understand.’” Rakkim kept his eyes on the Luxor. His doctor said it was scheduled for demolition next year. “What does Darwin have to apologize for? I asked you what had happened after I passed out, and you said you barely spoke on the flight.”

“He’s trying to upset you.”

“It’s working.”

“What did he mean, ‘I’m sure you understand’?” Her eyes flashed. “You see, I could ask the same kind of questions you do. That’s what he wants.” She faced him. “Darwin tried to scare me, and he did scare me, for a moment anyway. Mostly he repulsed me. The strangest thing though…when I think about the conversation now, I think Darwin made a mistake talking to me.” She waved at the brightly clad tourists on the skybridge. “Darwin kept asking me questions, pretending to know more than he does. He has no idea what we’re looking for. The Old One doesn’t trust him with the whole picture, and it bothers Darwin. He feels insulted.”

Rakkim smiled and she smiled back at him. Eager. From the pleasure she took in her insight, Darwin must have done more than try to scare her.

Sarah was serious again. “When you first meet Darwin, he’s so mild and amenable that it’s as if there’s no one there. He’s just so…still. Later though, when you get a really good look at him, you see that there’s this massive ego at the center of him. An ego that can never be filled, never be satisfied. Most of us are defined by an emotional interaction. You can tell who we are by who we’re responsible for. Who we care about. Who we love. Darwin, though…he’s a universe unto himself. The one and only. That’s why he seems so still, because there’s nothing but him as far as his eye can see.” She brushed her lips across Rakkim’s. “Do you want to know a secret?” She bit his earlobe. “If I were the Old One…I’d be scared of Darwin.”

“Let’s go to your hotel,” said Rakkim. “I can go back to the hospital later.”

“Do you think you’re well enough?”

“I’ll just have to stay horizontal. No rough stuff.”

Sarah showed the tip of her tongue. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Here.” Darwin shoved Rakkim a stack of black, $100 chips. “Go ahead. It doesn’t mean we’re going steady or anything.”

“Where’s my knife?” said Rakkim. “I know you have it.”

Darwin shook the dice. “I was going to keep it as a souvenir.”

“I’ll give you something else to remember me by.”

“Sir?” The stickman at the craps table straightened his black bow tie. “Bets, please.”

Darwin plucked a single chip off Rakkim’s stack, tossed it on the pass line next to his own pink, $1,000 chip. “Now we’re on the same side.” Other than at Disneyland, this evening was the first time Rakkim had gotten a look at Darwin. He was clean-shaven, and supple as a snake. He tossed the dice. Seven.

Cheers from the table. The stickman paid off the winning bets. The table was crowded, people pressed against the railing, laying down bets and talking loudly to one another.

“Press it,” said Darwin, letting ride his now doubled bet and Rakkim’s. Another seven.

Cheers! Players from other tables wandered over, drawn to the energy, squeezing in, throwing down money. Darwin beamed, resplendent in a canary-yellow cashmere sport coat and black-and-yellow-checked pants-the perfect cosmopolitan, one of the moneyed world citizens who flocked to Las Vegas for deals and contacts and high-class sin. Rakkim wasn’t sure if Darwin wanted to blend in, or if it was his true coloration.

Rakkim’s bet had grown to $400. Darwin’s to $4,000. Another seven. The crowd roared with approval.