Chris Abani - The Secret History of Las Vegas

Hello, she said.

Hello, Eskia said.

She touched the bridge of his glasses. Anyone ever tell you that you look like Superman with those glasses, she asked.

Superman didn’t wear glasses.

Fred smiled. All right, Clark Kent, then.

So who are you?

More important, who the fuck are you? Who do you work for, a rival institute? Are you some kind of industrial spy?

I’m just bird-watching.

I don’t need you fucking up my deal here.

And what is your deal?

That is none of your business. What is your business is not fucking up mine. So what are you anyway, some kind of private eye? I know you’re not a cop. All I want to know is will you be moving on?

When I’m done, Eskia said, smiling. He wanted to ram his fist into Fred’s face. Who did she think she was, coming over to him and talking shit? How did she spot him anyway? That could mean only one thing; she was very well trained. Was she CIA or DOD?

All the time they were talking, Fred was scanning Eskia’s car for clues. She noted the laptop and reached into her bag and switched on the hard-drive copier she always carried. She could tell he was spooked that she had spotted him, which meant that his laptop probably didn’t have any real firewalls or protection. Copying it would be easy.

Eskia reached into the messenger bag next to him on the seat and took out a gun with a silencer on it. Nothing could jeopardize his mission here. Even as he leveled the barrel at her chest as she leaned in, he was scanning the parking lot to see if it was empty. It was.

Clever, Fred said, seeing the gun. Just what every girl needs. A hole in her breast implants.

Well, I guess that’s one way of ending this unpleasant conversation, Eskia said.

I guess, Fred said. What’s the other option?

I’m sorry, did I suggest there was another option?

Fred smiled and blew cigarette smoke in his face. I have no idea who you are or what you’re about, she said. But I have some business here today that cannot be interrupted. Can you stay out of it for today?

Or I could just shoot you now, Eskia said.

I’m a downwinder and a freak, she said. That means I’ve been paranoid and driven my whole life.

I don’t know what that means, Eskia said, smiling and adjusting his glasses.

Fred watched his finger tighten slowly on the trigger and thought, What a fucker, he is one of those sick puppies who loves killing.

Look at your shirt. It looks like you spilled something, she said.

Eskia looked down and saw the red dot of a laser scope.

Oh no wait, Fred continued, that’s my sniper. Silly me. Told you I was paranoid. Now, my advice is to lay low and forget your business here for today. Okay?

With that she was gone, headed for the main entrance to the institute, leaving Eskia to wonder who she was and how she could have one-upped him.

Across the lot, in a blue Volkswagen borrowed from a rookie, Salazar watched Fred. Who is that guy, he thought, and what the fuck was going on? He called in a favor with an old friend in the FBI to run the tags for him. Same guy he had looking into Sunil. He liked Sunil, but something was off about him. Something Salazar couldn’t ignore.

Salazar adjusted the telephoto lens of the camera. Was that a targeting dot on the driver’s shirt? He swung the camera around, scanning the rows of parked cars for the source. Sure enough, in a black SUV, a midget with a rifle pointed at the silver car was visible in the window. He guessed that was one of Fred’s fighting midgets. Why she needed this kind of backup was unclear, but there was nothing he could do about it without compromising his cover in some way. Best to wait. He returned to looking at the rental just in time to see Fred disappear into the institute.

Salazar put down the camera with the telescopic and reached for his coffee. It could be a while. With the air off in the car, he was getting a little too hot. Fuck.

• • •

Dr. Singh is expecting you, Janice said, handing Fred her pass. John over here will escort you to his office.

Fred turned to look at John. Clearly security, she thought — black suit, black T-shirt, all a tad too obvious.

Hi, John said. Before we go, I need to look in your bag. Is that okay?

Sure, Fred said, handing over her snakeskin bag. While John expertly went through the bag, Janice tried to make small talk.

On the form Dr. Singh filled out it says you run a carnival, she said.

Yes, Fred said, smiling. That was the snake boy until he displeased me, she said, pointing to her bag.

Janice winced and smiled tightly. John didn’t pause in his search. Fred noticed the look on Janice’s face and smiled at her sweetly.

This way, please, John said, handing her back her bag. Fred took it, glad that John hadn’t thought to take her cell phone apart. If he had, in the place where the battery should be he would have found a small wedge of Semtex flattened and a small detonator that was activated by pushing the Call and pound-sign buttons simultaneously.

The elevator ride up was fast and silent. Like bad sex, Fred thought. The door opened up on the sixth floor.

This way, John said.

Soon they were outside Sunil’s door. John knocked.

Enter, Sunil called.

Your guest, John said, leaving them alone.

Sunil crossed from behind his desk.

Welcome, he said, offering Fred his hand. How are you? Good trip?

Yeah, sure, thanks. Hey, nice office.

Thank you. Can I offer you a drink? Coffee?

Something stronger?

Yes, of course, he said, going to fetch the single malt from the sideboard. As he poured, Fred crossed to the wall of photographs.

Why cows, she asked, touching their hides through the frames.

Sunil looked up. Just something from my childhood, he said, handing her a glass.

She clinked it against his and took a swig. Good stuff, she said, very good. Is it single malt?

Yes.

So tell me about the cows, she said.

They’re nothing, he said.

They take up a whole lot of wall space to be nothing, she said.

They’re good photos. That’s all it is sometimes, he said.

Yes, she said. Sometimes.

Please sit down, he said.

She sat in an armchair and crossed her legs. In jeans, knee-high boots, white shirt, and a simple necklace of turquoise, pale blue against her tanned chest, she looked casual, relaxed.

Are you married, Dr. Singh, she asked.

Sunil was taken aback by the question, and he mumbled his answer. No, he said, holding up his ring finger as proof, absently wondering to himself why he had bothered to do that.

Why not?

I don’t know, he said. Work?

She smiled. Me too. Work.

Why do you ask?

Just making small talk, she said, finishing her drink in one gulp and holding out her glass for a refill.

Of course, he said, taking her glass and getting up. It wasn’t clear if he meant of course I’ll get you a refill, or of course you’re making small talk.

I’m quite anxious to see the twins, she said as he handed her the refilled glass.

Yes. I’ll have them brought up. This is going to be my last interview with them. If I sign them out you’ll be able to take them home tomorrow. You might want to find a place to stay for the night.

Are you offering?

That would be inappropriate, Sunil said.

Of course, she said, and laughed.

Sunil went to his desk and picked up the telephone and dialed. Bring Fire and Water to my office now, he said.

Asia was heading west, to the King of Siam, a bordello way out in the desert. The King of Siam looked like an ordinary low-sprawling ranch house nestled among twelve acres of green oasis in the desert. The place boasted a world-class spa; a stable with horse-riding lessons, where the exclusive clientele could ride bareback while fucking, if their tastes ran that way; a Tantra teacher; an Olympic-size swimming pool; tennis courts; and a private airstrip. What wasn’t immediately obvious were the guards, who were everywhere.