John Case - Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

The P.A. system was delivering its message about “unattended luggage” when he finally saw Irina, a hesitant figure in blue, wheeling a black suitcase. She was scanning ahead, looking for him, a sweet furrow of concern in her forehead. He raised his hand and his voice: “Irina!” And when she turned to see him, her face uncoiled into a child’s unfettered delight. Her joy at seeing him bowled him over. He felt a rush of euphoria.

And then she was in his arms – sweet-smelling, real, a dream come true.

Showing Irina around Las Vegas was like taking a child to Disneyland. Wilson was more than indifferent to the pleasures the city offered, but her happiness gave him so much pleasure that, like an indulgent parent, he couldn’t stop smiling.

She gaped at the casinos on the way from the airport, practically bouncing with excitement. She oohed and aahed at the lobby in the Mirage, and once they were in their suite, ran around like a little kid. “Oh you are joking me! This is our room?!” She left no corner unexplored – delighted with the minibar, the toiletries, the television, the lavish bathroom, the gigantic bed. She threw herself on it, giggling and bouncing.

He joined her there and when they kissed, Wilson felt it in every molecule. Soon they were beginning to make love. She unbuttoned his shirt. She widened her eyes when she saw the tattoos. “You have… pictures,” she said.

“Ummm-hmmmm.”

She traced the dragonfly with a finger, then ran her lips along the outline of the crescent moon. Raising her head, she saw the unfamiliar words emblazoned on his chest. “And this? What is this meaning?”

Wilson smiled. “It means, ‘Don’t be afraid.’”

As her lips moved to the words, he reached for the buttons of her blouse, and she squirmed away.

“What?” he said, as he got up to turn out the lights, then climbed back into bed.

“I like the dark,” she whispered, and who was he to argue with her? Beyond the window, through the privacy sheer, the city glittered like a strange galaxy.

Afterward, she wrapped herself in a sheet and, blushing, closed herself into the bathroom to dress. When she came back, he opened a split of champagne. They drank a toast “to us,” and went down to the casino. Wilson showed her how the games were played, and her glee at hitting a ten-quarter payoff at the slots was so endearing that even the most hardened gamblers smiled. Her wide-eyed apprehension as she sent the dice flying across the table, and her look of expectation and alarm as the roulette ball raced around the wheel, was pure gold.

It was the first time in a long time that Wilson had been happy. He’d been living on adrenaline the last few months, going from Allenwood to Washington, then Dublin, Belgrade, Bled, and Beirut. Odessa and Bunia, and places in between. Moving the money, buying the ranch, building the weapons. Then Culpeper and San Francisco, with Maddox as the filling.

It left him with a feeling of unreality, as if he’d been playing at being himself. It was a role of his own devising, that was true – he’d written the script. But the constant need to stay within himself and his emotions, to be on guard and always in the moment… it had taken a toll.

But now Irina was here and everything was different. There was something about her that made him feel solid and of a piece. Just being with her restored him to himself.

Later that evening, at the White Chapel, Irina’s fantasy unfolded with the sweetness and precision of a sequel to Shrek. Las Vegas was a cluster of homages to the real thing: New York, Paris, Venice, and Cairo – the list went on and on. In the same way, a wedding in the White Chapel was a tricked-out version of the traditional ceremony. A chapel, yes, but not a church. Attendants and witnesses, of course, but strangers. “Close strangers.” Flowers and scattered rose petals and wedding cake and photos – unplanned by the bride, but definitely a part of the package.

Getting married in Vegas was like hiring an interior decorator. It was a massive invasion of privacy, but that was okay, because they knew best. They really did.

Irina’s elation at every detail transformed the ceremony. She emerged from the dressing room in an ankle-length satin sheath, hand-beaded with pearls by her mother, her cheeks rosy with excitement. “My God, she’s blushing,” one of the paid attendants whispered. “We’ve actually got a blushing bride!” When they repeated their vows, Irina’s voice shook with emotion. As Wilson slipped the ring on her finger, she beamed at him. Before the minister could grant permission, she threw herself into his arms. “I am loving you, Jack Wilson!” she caroled. “I am so lucky woman.”

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have a lot of experience making people happy.

“Now we go home?” she asked.

Wilson nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “now we go home. Let’s go home.”

A week can be a very long time. Long enough so that the woman who refilled the coffee urns and cereal dispensers in the breakfast room began to greet Burke with a friendly smile. “How’re you today?” she’d ask, realigning doughnuts and bagels between incursions of eaters.

He was ready to go back to Dublin. But he figured he might as well play the string out and wait for Madame Puletskaya’s call. Then he could honestly say he’d done everything he could do. And there was a chance, a Super Lotto kind of chance, that Wilson himself would show up – at Mandy’s, in Fallon. Maybe Burke would get lucky.

Meanwhile, he explored.

He went to Pyramid Lake, and then out to Grimes Point, where a millennium earlier Jack Wilson’s ancestors had carved petroglyphs into the boulders. You could be standing there in the front of the glyphs, gazing into the past, while right behind you matte-black fighter jets – Tomcats and Hornets – took off and landed at the Naval Air Station.

Tuesday. June 21.

Would Madame Puletskaya even call? He sat in a chair beside the bed in his room, with a newspaper at his feet, silently rehearsing his friend-of-the-groom voice. She says/I say… It was almost ten when the phone rang. He lifted the receiver to his ear. “Hullo?”

“This is Madame Puletskaya. Good morning!”

He introduced himself.

Olga must have briefed her because she got right to the point. “You are friend of Jack’s, you say? But how do I know this?”

“I’m a good friend of Jack’s,” he told her. “He gave me your number. Told me to call. To tell you the truth, he’s so delighted with Irina, he thought I might have the same luck.”

He could almost hear Madame Puletskaya’s crusty exterior cracking like packed ice. “Beautiful girl,” she said. “I am so happy for them. Very sweet, maybe shy – you like shy girl also?”

He didn’t know what to say. “Yeah! Shy girls are… something!”

“If you are signing up for our service,” she told him, her voice manifestly shrewd, “for the Sweet Sixteen, you get sixteen pictures and e-mail contact is all. For the Great Eight, you get photos and complete biographies of eight girls, e-mail contact, one letter translated, and one delivery of flowers. This is better deal. Is more selective. And for friend of Jack, I’m especially picking only most beautiful girls. One hundred twenty-five euros. Maybe one hundred fifty dollars. You have computer? Is extra to send, but if you like, we can do FedEx.”

“About Jack-”

“We settle business first, okay? You prefer Great Eight, yes? Is better deal. And you have computer?”

He got the picture. She might be willing to talk about Jack, but she wanted to make a sale first. “Yes,” he said, “I have a computer.”