Justin Kemppainen - The Legend of Ivan

“So,” the casino owner said, “it seems you are interested in the incident where my resort was assaulted.”

“Correct,” I said.

Taking another sip, Wilhelm said, “You must be very interested in this Ivan character to come out all this way for one little story, am I right?”

I gave a nod.

“I’m something of an Ivan enthusiast myself,” he said with a shrug, “but I doubt I’ve collected near as much data on the man as a real Archivist.”

And there it was: the reason for his enthusiasm and easy agreement. Few things were more tiresome than an enthusiast, especially a wealthy one. Even though Wilhelm humbly postured a lack of knowledge, it was all-but certain the man thought himself the primary expert on all things Ivan.

“Is that so?” I asked, keeping my tone even and my expression passive.

Puffing on his pipe, he replied, “Oh yes. I’ve delegated much of the responsibility in running this place to others, so I of course needed a hobby.” He shrugged. “Call me an obsessive, but looking into my one security incident in forty years seemed as good an avenue as any.”

I didn’t care about his motivations to any solid degree, but I also didn’t want to offend the aging fool. I said, keeping my tone even, “Indeed.”

Wilhelm nodded. “Still, I’d gladly share some of my findings with you, if you’d like. I’m certain someone of your obvious talent,” I could barely restrain myself from rolling my eyes at his compliment, “already knows most of it. Hm, maybe you’ve got a kernel or two of information to interest me?” He smiled.

“Why don’t we begin with the incident at your casino?” I said, folding my hands. “It very well may fit into a larger sequence of pieces relating to my search.”

Wilhelm grinned. “Of course, of course. Let me freshen my drink, and I’ll tell you all about the day Ivan robbed me.”

The day began as many did on Luna Resort. Some individuals were stumbling back to their accommodations to gain some rest before the late morning carousing hit full swing. Some folks were awakening for the early tours. Some people were simply arriving, waiting to spend their hard-earned credits on fine lodgings and poor-odds gambling. Some were already in the casino, embroiled in just that.

Gregor Wilhelm climbed out of his ridiculously large four post bed, donned the robe made from the fur of some creature from ten thousand light years away, and went to eat his expensive breakfast.

Since he had taken a backseat to the dealings of his resort and entrusted his management to handle his affairs, Gregor did not have much to do during the day. He caught up on vids imported from the core worlds. He swam in his indoor pool. He also drank a lot.

Throughout the day, one of his managers also doubling as an errand runner would provide a few details as to the days profit, high rollers of particular esteem, or anything else important. Bertram Windsor, whose real name was Doug, attained the job by faking refinement and lying through his teeth. After all, how else could one be hired by an aging, half-senile eccentric who had the requirement of “a butlery-sounding name” on the application?

Regardless, Gregor Wilhelm’s average day did not hold much in the way of excitement. Stress, ulcers, and high blood pressure made up his life for many years as he put together and handled the affairs of the resort. These days he overcompensated by completing little to no work at all.

After breakfast, a morning swim and a couple of cocktails, Gregor descended his lift to the balcony overlooking the main casino floor. The unending stream of lights and noise drew its usual sigh of contentment from the old man. A few people glanced in his direction, and he waved, smiling.

As he watched the festivities, Bertram came from the stairway and security area behind him. “Good morning, sir. I trust your day is going well?”

“Ah, yes Bertram. It’s been most excellent thus far. How are things on the floor?”

“All within normal ranges, sir. A shade on the low side, but not unusual considering the higher density of alcohol sales yesterday evening.” Bertram tapped on an electronic pad.

Gregor laughed. “They do enjoy their festivities, don’t they?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Any interesting guests coming in?” Gregor asked.

The servant tapped a few keys. “A few of our regulars are in. Dareth Pym and his current wife are trying the slots. Minister Regine is over at the buffet, but I’m sure he’ll return to the tables very shortly. Ah, we also have Veger Montgomery and his,” he frowned, “guest playing twenty-one. Though…” he paused, reading the display with a deepening expression. “Though his net gain of late is much more than average. Excuse me, sir; I may need to look into this.”

“Very good,” Gregor said with a dismissive wave. Bertram departed.

Gregor continued to look out upon the casino floor for a few minutes. He was trying to decide if he wanted to walk about and shake a few hands or return to the penthouse and take in a few glasses of brandy and a vid or two.

He decided upon the latter and stepped into his personal lift.

Gregor Wilhelm was dozing in his bathrobe, passed out while sprawled on the couch in front of his massive vid-display. He awoke with a start.

“Sir, please. There is an incident which requires your attention,” Bertram said, arms crossed behind his back.

Blinking, Gregor wiped a trail of drool from the side of his mouth. “What… what is it Bertram?”

“It’s Veger Montgomery, sir. He’s been accused of counting cards with the assistance of his guest. Transmitting devices were discovered on their persons, and we have them now in holding. He’s demanded to see you, sir.”

Gregor sighed. “Can’t you send him away, ban him or something? Isn’t that what we do to cheaters, or have things changed so much?”

Bertram made a hand motion. “He has connections to our investors. We doubted any threat, but he’s demanding to speak with only you, sir. We thought it best to hear what he had to say.”

The aging, wealthy man frowned. “I don’t like him, do I? He’s somewhat of a windbag, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You have said that before, sir.”

“Let me go change.” Gregor stood, gathering the bathrobe and tying the cord. “Wait for me downstairs; I’ll be there in a moment.”

With a bow, the manager-servant departed.

A few minutes later, the re-attired Gregor Wilhelm emerged. Slumping posture, tired, and irritated, he was ready to deal with the problem quickly so he could return to his drinking, watching, and nap. “Get on with it.” He waved a hand at Bertram, who gave a nod.

They walked through the back area, housing behind-the-scenes security and other necessary equipment, arriving at a simple room. It was used for the occasional interrogation when security couldn’t simply throw an offender out.

“It’s about time!” Veger Montgomery shouted when the door opened and Wilhelm entered. “I’ve been waiting to see you for over an hour! Is this the kind of establishment you run, Mr. Wilhelm? Because I am not impressed, not impressed in the slightest! And where is my assistant? I was assured she would not be taken away from me!”

Gregor rolled his eyes during the rant, uninterested by the captive man. Irritation at the interruption of his leisure time faded, and he slid into the cool, calm, and ruthless nature, which in early years had granted him success and strain in equal measures. In his prime, he had handled near everything. That time was long past, but he still knew how to manage his business. He turned to Bertram and said, “You said he was somehow important?”