Carole Douglas - Virtual Virgin

Christophe was waiting as the elevator doors opened like a stainless-steel stage curtain on his dramatically bizarre figure of white skin and hair. He wore a white linen Cuban guayabera shirt with its subtle four pockets and pleats, but the long sleeves were rolled up in a display of casual cool.

Ric was annoyed to see the Inferno bigwig sporting a classic item of Hispanic menswear with such aplomb. His own tropical suit the color of a cappuccino latte seemed formal and stuffy by comparison despite the open neck of his silk shirt.

And Tallgrass. He looked fresh off the ranch. Not that it bothered Tallgrass one whit.

The Native American had not doffed his pale straw Western hat in Christophe’s quarters, as Christophe recently had kept on his riverboat-gambler white hat at the Emerald City hotel-casino he’d bought in Wichita.

So it would be a battle of white hats.

“I understand,” the ex-FBI man opened the parlay, “no one knows what brand of supernatural you are.”

“That disturb you, Mr. Tallgrass?”

Christophe led them into the expansive living area and gestured to an arrangement of leather sofas so supernaturally white they must have come from ghost cattle.

Ric wandered to the window wall to survey the Strip from this spectacular viewpoint.

In daylight the framework of the neon icons looked as drab and shabby as the half-constructed hulks of glamorous towers-to-be, including one so close Ric could count the rivets on the I beams. He wondered how the rock-star mogul liked having his hotel crowded by another new Vegas venue going up.

Probably as little as Ric wanted to be crowded by him.

“Not much disturbs me, except labels,” Tallgrass had responded, stretching out his untidy middle-aged frame dead center on a curve of the endless sectional sofa. “No one can figure out what tribe I’m from. Most of my kind has vanished from my home state.”

“Which is Kansas,” Christophe stated, sprawling on another long sofa dead center, but opposite Tallgrass.

“Maybe.” Tallgrass’s smile was short and not very sweet at all. “Our people were moved all over the map by the US government, usually with some excuse that it was for our own good.”

“I see Mr. Montoya has brought a private contractor to eye his possible future property.” Christophe turned to quirk a white eyebrow at Ric over the rim of his black sunglasses. “I’m glad you brought your agent into our discussion.”

“FBI agent,” Ric said. He had to smile to himself at how each man had spread his arms and legs to occupy the most territory on his chosen seat.

“Formerly,” Christophe noted, “the way I like all my agents. Those who’ve fled overcontrolling entities best suit my purposes.”

“And you’re not overcontrolling?” Ric asked, pacing behind Christophe’s sofa.

The rock-star mogul kept his face focused on Tallgrass. “That’s why it’d benefit your friend’s interests to deal with me. The devil you know, and all that.”

“Are you a devil?” Ric had stopped behind Christophe, bracketing his hands on the sofa back on either side of him. Now Ric leaned close enough to knife him between the shoulder blades, claiming his own negotiating territory.

“Depends who you ask.” Snow’s sunglasses lifted and aimed to the side of the room. “It seems you have a groupie of your own.”

Ric jerked his gaze in that direction to spot the Silver Zombie moving smoothly across the white plush carpeting toward their conversational gathering. Toward Ric.

“Still silent,” Tallgrass observed.

Ric stood, partly because he would when any lady entered a room, partly in the nervous awe she always stirred in him.

The other men also stood, as if he’d cued them. Tallgrass turned to Ric, nodding and brushing his palms lightly together. “She moves with a whisper like soft sandpaper, a slight snare drum brush.”

Trust a veteran tracker to notice. Ric realized he heard that too.

Tallgrass had seen the Metropolis robot in the guest penthouse atop the Emerald City hotel-casino in his home city of Wichita. In this more sophisticated yet austere environment, all laboratory white, she shone like a polished suit of armor walking through a snowstorm.

She stopped in front of Ric. “Master.”

“No one’s your master now,” he said.

Her streamlined metal features turned to regard Christophe and Tallgrass before returning to face him. “I must answer to my maker, my caretaker. If not you, who else?”

It was her first sentence.

Ric found Christophe’s head and sunglasses bowed, looking down, staying neutral. Tallgrass’s dark eyes, often so noncommittal, had gone blank with shock.

There it was. The quandary.

If Ric didn’t use his natural power over this complex homemade CinSim, this brave new creature who was as diverse as mogul Christophe/rock star Cocaine/acquaintance Snow, who or what would fill that vacuum? She could be Good Maria/Bad Maria/robot/actress.

“Thank you . . . Brigitte,” he said, using the actress’s name to establish himself as . . . director. “You may go.”

She turned and strode away to the ajar double doors Ric knew led to the home theater. Could she even sit down in that wooden bodysuit? Did CinSims need to?

Tallgrass released a windy sigh. “Certainly not one of the spirit-walkers of my forefathers.”

Snow looked up at Ric, smiling. “In this case, looking out for my own interests dovetails with your needs, Montoya. Who can argue that this entity doesn’t harbor a demon, as the drug lord Torbellino maintained. He’ll want her and his cartel has limitless reach. You need powerful allies too.”

He directed his gaze at Tallgrass. “You might have need of a dragon again,” Christophe added, referring to a recent battle with El Demonio’s forces in Wichita.

“And you, Mr. Christophe, of a Wendigo.” Tallgrass smiled.

“HE’S A SUPERNATURAL something,” Tallgrass told Ric once they’d reached the Inferno’s main floor again. “That’s my opinion. We know Christophe’s powers are impressive. You’ll never know their extent unless you watch him as closely as he seems to want to watch you.”

“‘Watch over me,’” Ric said. “That’s his claim.”

Tallgrass grinned. “You already have Miss Delilah doing a much more personal job of that. It’s hard to tell these days, Ricardo, who or what has anyone’s best interests at heart. If you can strike a mutually advantageous deal with this smooth operator, you’re doing well. I worry about you too. Meanwhile you and me have to keep the government working for us as we work for it. That’s our priority now.”

“Before we leave, want to meet Godfrey’s ‘cousin’ at the Inferno Bar?” Ric asked.

“Home of Miss Delilah’s Albino Vampire martini?” Tallgrass’s laugh boomed out, attracting amused stares. “She nailed Mr. Christophe but good by inventing that at his own bar. Sure, if they serve plain spring water. We’ll need our sharpest wits soon.”

“That’s all right. We can let Nick Charles do all our drinking for us.”

THERE WERE A lot of reasons a venture to the Karnak Hotel made me edgy, and a few hundred of them had fangs. Just because the Karnak was a relatively new kid on the block in Vegas didn’t mean it wasn’t chock-full of the evil dead.

In “middle-kingdom” Las Vegas, when the hotel-casinos first aspired to be modern architectural marvels instead of hyped-up motels with attached casinos and nightclub acts, the main hotel-casino buildings were set far back from the Las Vegas Strip.

More people drove than flew to Vegas then. Land was plentiful and cheap. Like aristocratic proprietors of country estates, the owners of major properties wanted long driveways leading to the magnificence of their main buildings, something impressive on the scale of the Roman Empire, say, of which Caesars Palace was the first and best example.