Greg Cox - Loose ends

Where did all this come from? Isabel wondered, somewhat baffled. Had she somehow missed all this sci-fi kitsch before, or had the casino just been completely redecorated by some tremor in Morton's sleeping consciousness? In dreams, almost anything was possible, she recalled, but why did the slumbering Morton, immersed in his private fantasyland, still have aliens on the brain? I don't like this, Isabel thought, chewing on her newly painted lips. Where's this space-age symbolism coming from? The spinning roulette wheel slowed to a halt, causing the rolling ball, which was painted to resemble the planet Earth, to bounce from wedge to wedge before coming to rest in Black Eighteen. A roar of approval rose from the crowd of awestruck spectators as Morton chortled triumphantly and, gripping his cigar between his jaws, scooped up an appallingly large pile of bright plastic chips into his corner. He magnanimously threw a handful of chips into the air and laughed as his adoring entourage scrambled madly after the flying chips, one of which landed directly in front of Isabel, who felt obliged to grab for it in order to avoid attracting attention. She snatched up the blue plastic disk, which bore a printed sticker reading $100, and smiled weakly across the table at Morton, trying to look appropriately avaricious. His gleaming, carnivorous eyes made contact with hers, and Isabel had to repress a shudder. "Do I know you?" Morton asked, winking lecherously Thankfully, the bimbos flanking Morton, unable to secure any of the flung $100 chips on their own, chose that moment to raise a fuss, pouting and complaining, and Morton had to look away from Isabel to appease them, eventually buying their smiles and sloppy kisses with a handful of chips for each of them. "Help yourselves, ladies. My ship has definitely come in, or should I say my flying saucer? Hah!" He took a deep puff on his cigar, then reached for a crystal goblet sitting at one corner of the table. He raised the glass to his lips, then scowled as he discovered it was empty "Ramirez!" he shouted, snapping his fingers.

The crowd of spectators and sycophants parted to reveal Lieutenant David Ramirez, in full dress uniform, standing at attention only a few feet away. Isabel's eyes widened as she spotted a black leather attache case resting upright on the red carpet next to Ramirez's black military boots. That has to be the case Max and Michael saw at Slaughter Canyon). she thought in excitement. The one with the unknown "merchandise."Excuse me." Slowly, inconspicuously, she started working her away around the circular table, toward the lieutenant and the briefcase. She almost left her $100 chip behind, but, at the last minute, remembered to hang onto it. "Excuseme, excuse me…"Get me some more whiskey!" Morton bellowed at Ramirez, as though he were a servant. The obnoxious gunman blew a mouthful of smoke into the lieutenant's face, then patted his own corpulent belly. "And get me a roast-beef sandwich while you're at it, with plenty of mayonnaise!" "Yes, sir!" Ramirez saluted Morton smartly, then executed a crisp about-face and started to march away, briefcase in hand. Nol Isabel thought in dismay, afraid that the dream- lieutenant would depart with the case before she could get close enough to follow him.

Turned out Morton wanted to keep an eye on the case, too. "Hold on!" he gruffly ordered the departing soldier. He pointed with his cigar at the floor by his feet. "Leave that here with me."Ramirez obediendy deposited the briefcase next to Morton before goose-stepping away to fetch the bullying killer's refreshments. Isabel took this as more evidence that, in the real world, Morton had some really prime dirt on the actual lieutenant. She was less interested, though, in what Morton had on Ramirez than in what was in the attache case, which she slowly but surely drew nearer to. Was there any chance that she could snatch the case with- out Morton noticing? That seemed unlikely, but she was at a loss for what else to try. What I really need, she realized, eyeing the mysterious case covetously, is a good distraction.

"Ohmigod, that's him! That's the man who shot me!"The shocked cry caught both Isabel and Morton by surprise. Spinning around, the dreamwalking teenager was amazed to see Liz, with her original brown hair and all, staring in horror at the high-living gunman. Behind her, Carlsbad Caverns's underground gift shop now appeared to occupy one corner of the casino. At first the dream-Liz seemed to be clad in the same outfit she had worn to the caves that morning, before Isabel gave her a molecular makeover, but then Isabel blinked and rubbed her eyes as Liz's casual attire was suddenly replaced by her Crashdown waitress uniform, complete with a gaping, bloody hole just above the silver apron. "There he is!" Liz shouted to all concerned, pointing accusingly at Morton. "That's him!"His cigar drooping from his lower lip, Morton glowered at Liz, his good mood replaced by anger with pathological speed. Snarling, he shoved his flunkies and bimbos aside, then reached into his buckskin jacket and drew out his pistol, which now looked as large as a bazooka. Fire erupted from the muzzle of the handgun and a cascade of hot lead slammed into the displaced gift shop, blowing apart shelf after shelf of souvenir plates, mugs, ashtrays, and snow globes. Gamblers and showgirls ran for cover, shrieking in fear, but every shot missed Liz, who continued to point an accusing finger at the gun-wielding felon, Obviously, Isabel realized, cringing at the repeated blasts from the oversize pistol, Morton's unconscious mind had finally made the connection between the brown-haired girl at the gift shop and the waitress he had shot at the Crashdown two years ago. This is just what Max was afraid of, she thought in dismay. Morton's figured out that Liz can expose him.

As distressing as this development was, Morton's maniacal attempt to blow away the dream-Iiz left the crucial briefcase momentarily unguarded. Seizing the opportunity, Isabel pushed her way through what was left of Morton's entourage, tossing a peroxide blonde to one side, and grabbed onto the handle of the attache case. Without missing a step, she yanked the case from the carpet and ran like mad away from the roulette table. Got itl she thought triumphantly.

But the theft had not gone unnoticed. "Hey! What the-?" Morton exclaimed angrily. Forgetting Iiz for the moment, he hollered and aimed his massive artillery at Isabel. "Come back with that, you bitch!"The pistol boomed and a slot machine exploded only a few inches away from Isabel, showering silver dollars in all directions. Isabel's heart missed a beat, and she dropped her $100 chip, but she kept on running, trying to put as much of the casino as possible between her and Morton. The high heels slowed her down, so she kicked them off as she ran, preferring to sprint barefoot upon the springy red carpet. She ducked to the right, down a corridor of clattering one- armed bandits, all of which seemed to feature spinning UFOs and oval-eyed E.T.s instead of lemons and jokers and such.

Morton chased behind her, firing his gun wildly. Bullets smashed into gamblers and gaming tables alike, turning the lavish casino into a scene of bloody pandemonium. Frightened screams rilled Isabel's ears, yet, bizarrely, no police officers or security guards made any attempt to stop the amok gunman from chasing an apparently unarmed high school girl through the crowded edifice. Sometimes dreams can be just too darn weird, she thought irritably.

Fortunately, the alien teen wasn't nearly as defenseless as she looked, not as long as she still possessed her special powers. Halting long enough to spin around and look back the way she had come, she raised her open palm and concentrated. An entire row of slot machines, jolted by an unseen telekinetic force, toppled forward, blocking Morton's path. Then, to retard his progress even further, she concentrated again, transmuting a stretch of velvety red carpet into gooey black sludge instead. She watched, with a smirk of satisfaction, as Mortons expensive-looking snakeskin cowboy boots bogged down in the thick, viscous muck. "What?" he growled in frustration. "Where did all this goddamn goo come from?"Good, Isabel congratulated herself. That buys me a little time. Darting out of range of Morton's pistol, she hurriedly looked around for someplace where she could inspect the stolen briefcase in privacy. Her gaze immediately fell upon the entrance to the ladies' room, which was identified as such by the silhouette of a space woman wearing a fishbowl helmet and Judy Jetson skirt. Perfect, she decided.