Chariot - [Millennium Quartet 03]

by Charles L. Grant

  Assuming, that is, Trey ever found out himself.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while, Mr. Falkirk.”

  Another quarter, lost when the stars and bars didn’t match.

  “You scare me, Dodger.”

  O’Cleary grinned, lips thinning to the point of vanishing. He knew that Trey deliberately spread himself around, up the Strip and down Fremont Street, out to the fringe hotels that tried to draw the Strip toward them. Trey had told him once that he didn’t want to bruise his luck sticking too long in one place; the man understood. Win consistently, the way Trey did, in the same place every night, and there would be more questions than there already were. Possibly even a blackball.

  O’Cleary sniffed hard, took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “The damn air-conditioning,” he explained. “In and out all day, I’m lucky I don’t catch pneumonia.”

  A quarter, three back.

  A quarter, five back.

  Two quarters, nothing.

  The man shifted, and Trey looked at him sideways, frowning. “Got a problem?”

  “Not with you, Mr. Falkirk, nope.” He shrugged. “Things, that’s all.”

  Trey stared blindly at his machine—quarter in, five out—and nodded. “Gonna be starving when I’m done. Your shift is over when, at midnight? How about a sandwich or something? I’ll be crawling by then if I don’t get something to eat.”

  O’Cleary slapped his knee lightly. “Date.” He rose, patted Trey in a friendly fashion on both upper arms, and left.

  Quarter in, ten out.

  Never, ever, taking more than fifty or sixty dollars in one session in one place. Ever. And if he didn’t keep track and ended up with a lot more, he changed coin into bills, went to the nearest roulette table and lost it. A little at a time, but he always managed to trim the excess. Which he knew drove the men who watched the security monitors crazy.

  One of the perks.

  Just one of the perks.

  Like Dodger O’Cleary. A genuinely nice guy whose job it was to protect the casino’s edge, yet wasn’t a fanatic about it. He was good, very good, at nabbing the cons and the pickpockets and the idiots who thought the cameras weren’t watching them.

  Trey had become a challenge, but evidently not one he lay awake nights trying to solve.

  Two hours and sixty-seven dollars later, he picked up the unsmoked cigarette and tucked it behind his ear, grabbed the plastic cup, and went to the cashier’s window at the floor’s outer wall. When the bills were in hand, he folded them over, stuffed them into his jeans pocket, and made his way up the escalator to the second level. He avoided the line to the all-you-can-eat buffet hall, swinging instead around a small bar to one of the quietest places in the building—the Sherwood Forest coffee shop, so named, he supposed, because of the really godawful phony fat tree in the middle, its branches cut short by the low ceiling. It was out of the direct flow of visitors and guests, and the bar itself made no noise at all.

  O’Cleary sat at one of the tables in back, behind the tree. His hands were cupped around a mug of coffee, while a burning cigarette was propped in a plastic ashtray. Hangdog, and somehow rumpled in a perfectly pressed suit.

  Trey almost didn’t go in right away.

  The feeling touched him again.

  Not quite oppression, not quite caution.

  Even inside, there was something in the air.

  He ordered himself a sandwich and a soda. at the counter, took his number, and made a show of pulling out a chair, taking off his jacket, and sitting with a great, thank God it’s done for tonight sigh.

  O’Cleary looked up with a wan smile.

  “So,” Trey said, “what’s up?”

  The older man shrugged. “You know how it is. You get a little tired sometimes.”

  Dodger’s wife, Eileen, had been taken by the Sickness just after Christmas. Perfectly healthy, not a sick day in her life. One trip to San Francisco was all it had taken. The damnable part was, as far as the medical teams were concerned, she had probably been the last case there before the Sickness moved on.

  Trey knew how he felt, but didn’t want to assume that was the problem. A reprieve when a server called his number, and he went to fetch his meal, such as it was.

  “The thing is,” O’Cleary said when he returned, staring at the steam rising from the mug, “I’m thinking maybe it’s our turn, you know?” He glanced up. “We’ve been lucky so far.”

  Trey nodded as he picked up his sandwich. His stomach grumbled, and they grinned at each other.

  “What you need is a wife,” the man told him, only half-joking. “You probably forget to eat half the time, right? Right. Don’t know how you stay fit, eating the way you do.”

  “It is,” Trey said, “the blessing that is myself, my friend. I do what I can to run myself down, but everything I touch turns to nutrition, I drive doctors up the wall. Maybe that’s my calling.”

  “You’re an odd one, Mr. Falkirk, you know that?”

  Trey laughed. “You’re not the first one who’s told me that today.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. Blessed silence. Voices on their way downstairs to the casino or on their way to the store-lined passageway that led to the Luxor, were muted and, at this time of night, less prone to excitement. A juggler strolled past, six fluffy red balls in the air while his female companion tried to adjust his jester’s cap, giggling so hard she nearly pulled it off. During the day, he would be trailed by a swarming gaggle of kids; now he was alone and seemed smaller for it.

  Midnight in the land of make-believe.

  O’Cleary emptied his mug and went to get a refill. Trey watched him pass some time with the clerk, and chewed thoughtfully without tasting bread or filling. When the man returned, Trey braced his elbows on the table, made a fist with both hands, and pressed it lightly against his lips.

  “Okay,” he said, “what else?”

  O’Cleary blew his nose, sipped his coffee, fussed with his plastic utensils, rolled his eyes when the juggler passed in the other direction.

  “Dodger.”

  “Gould be nothing.”

  “Could be something.”

  “Yeah. Could be.”

  “So . . . what? Damn, O’Cleary, are you supposed to give me my walking papers or something? Sixty bucks once a week or so and I’m banned?”

  “No,” O’Cleary answered. “It’s a man.”

  “A man?” He leaned back. “What man?”

  “I don’t know him, but he’s looking for you.”

  * * * *

  Someone comes looking, the first thing you wonder is who you might have ticked off for some offense or other. You don’t automatically think it might be good news, great news, fantastic and life-changing news that might, if nothing else, get you a decent suit of clothes. You don’t think it’s an angel or a genie or a leprechaun with wishes. You don’t think it’s a someone you used to know, used to work for, ‘way back, who’s decided the company can’t do without you anymore, name your price, we want you back.

  You don’t mink this because you stopped drinking this, dreaming this, once in a blue moon praying for this a long, long time ago.

  So long ago, in fact, you sometimes wonder if you’ve dreamt it all.

  Someone comes looking in the place where you’re positive you’re finally safe, and something with cold wings begins to flutter in your stomach, and for a moment all the noise comes back, waves of it that deafen you until you catch your breath and there’s silence again.

  Broken arms and busted ribs, a split lip and a blurry eye, snow that slips through the grime-stained cracked window of your cracked plaster and mildewed room, shadows that scurry ahead of you in an alley, voices that growl like animals when you’re spotted . .. nothing frightens you as much as he’s looking for you.

  And the scariest part is, you haven’t a clue why.

  So the first thing you say is—

  * * * *

  “You sure it’s me he wants?”

&nbs
p; O’Cleary nodded. “Knew your name and everything. You have any relatives who might be trying to find you?”

  Trey stared at his empty paper plate, pushed at a crumb with a finger. “I have none, Dodger, you know that.”

  “Maybe it’s your old man.”

  Trey looked at him so hard, O’Cleary blinked and looked away, a mumbled apology making his lips quiver. “No relatives. None. Not even a cousin.”

  O’Cleary shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Maybe . . .” He emptied his glass, took a tiny ice cube between his teeth and crunched it slowly. “Maybe I made the mistake of hitting on a Mafia princess and didn’t know it.”

  O’Cleary grinned. “Trey, you know there ain’t no Mafia out here anymore. Where’ve you been? There sure aren’t any Mafia princesses. And when was the last time you ever hit on anybody anyway?”

  Trey lifted a hand. “Hey, I’m just thinking out loud here, okay? Just thinking out loud. So tell me about him.”

  O’Cleary lit a cigarette, blew a wobbly smoke ring at the tree, and did.

  Trey lit his own and said, “A Brit? Are you sure?”

  “I’m not deaf. I’ve heard more accents than the goddamn United Nations coming through here. I know what I know, and this guy is a Brit, and he’s class. So far up he’s probably on a first name basis with the goddamn Queen.”

  “Crazy:” Trey blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Dodger, I do not know anybody from England. I do not know anybody from Scotland or Northern Ireland or . . . or . . .”

  “Wales,” O’Cleary finished. “Everybody always forgets Wales, the poor jerks.”

  “Whatever. I don’t know him.”

  “Well, he sure as hell knows you. He even offered me money to tell him when I saw you again.”

  “Jesus.” Trey almost left the chair. “He’s staying here?”

  “No. But he’s come in every day this week. I swear to God, he must’ve charmed the skins right off the snakes for the boots he’s wearing, he’s that good. I almost took the money.”

  Trey’s eyes widened. “An old man, an old Englishman with snakeskin boots?”

  “Silver.”

  “Silver snakeskin boots?”

  “And the lady with him kept calling him ‘Sir.’ “

  Trey felt a giggle rise in his throat. “Sir as in yes sir, no sir?”

  “Nope. Sir as in Your Lordship kind of thing.”

  Trey leaned forward again. “Dodger, April Fool’s Day was three weeks ago. This is not funny.”

  O’Cleary’s thick eyebrows rose. “You don’t think so? Man, you should see him, then you’d think it’s funny.”

  Neither man laughed.

  Trey scratched his head. “If he knows who I am, wants to see me so badly, why hasn’t he come out to my place instead of bothering you here?”

  O’Cleary shrugged, pushed his plate away, picked up his cigarette, and stared at the tip.

  Trey felt it then, the change in the air; he saw the change in the man’s expression. Not friends now; this was business.

  Even so, it took a moment before O’Cleary said, “Trey, who do you owe?”

  “Huh? I don’t. . . what do you mean?”

  “Who do you owe, Trey?” O’Cleary looked up. “You play these places long enough, you know, sooner or later you’re in over your head. You forget where the odds lie, and the next thing you know you’re drowning. You hock what you can, sell what you can, sooner or later you get desperate enough to ask around, you meet some people, and. . .” He shrugged broadly. “Who do you owe? I don’t care, you understand, but maybe—”

  “Nobody.”

  “Okay.”

  Heat wrapped around his neck “I said I don’t owe anybody, Dodger.”

  “And I said okay. Jesus, Falkirk.” O’Cleary shook his head, put the cigarette out, and pushed away from the table. “I gotta go home. I’m falling asleep on my feet here, and I ain’t as young as I used to be.”

  Trey didn’t stand. He stiffened when O’Cleary walked behind him, gripped his shoulders, and leaned down.

  “You’re a good guy, Falkirk, don’t get me wrong.” He pressed down, hard, when Trey tried to squirm away. “But this old guy, he wants you pretty bad, all right? God knows why, but he does. So you find him, okay? Talk to him, find out what he wants, maybe you’re the long-lost Duke of Something, who the hell knows?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Who cares? But I don’t want him in my casino anymore, you understand what I’m saying? Tell you the truth, he spooks the guests, he spooks me, and I don’t like being spooked. Take care of it, you hear me? Take care of it. Now.”

  * * * *

  2

  Trey didn’t watch O’Cleary leave; he watched his hands instead, white-knuckled where they gripped the edge of the table. Then slowly, very slowly, they slid into his lap.

  Staring at the empty plate, not seeing a thing.

  Not thinking; barely breathing.

  Finally pushing away from the table-and standing, one hand on the back of the chair to keep himself from falling because suddenly his balance wasn’t working very well.

  He should have said, “Look, Dodger, I told you I don’t know any old man, I don’t know why he wants to see me, but he isn’t my problem, he’s yours. You want someone to take care of it, do it yourself.”

  He should have said, “Go to hell, O’Cleary, I’ve got more important things to do than chase around after some old nut in a stupid cowboy hat.”

  He should have said, “What do you want me to do, stand in the middle of the casino and shout here I am, you old fart, come and get me? Is that what you want?”

  He should have said...something.

  The change in O’Cleary had taken him by surprise, and the none-too-subtle warning had startled him into a temper he didn’t dare give a voice.

  But he should have said . . . something.

  He took a step and nearly fell, grabbed the chair again and dropped into it heavily, blinking, wiping a trembling hand across his eyes. Paying no attention to the handful of other customers who undoubtedly figured he was close enough to drunk that the security guy had to give him a quiet talking-to. A sideways glance in his direction; a smirk; a whisper.

  He reached for the glass of soda, gripped it tightly without lifting it because his hand shook too hard, and he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t drop it. A swallow, an inhalation, and the trembling eased.

  someone comes looking

  God damn, he thought, and drank quickly and deeply, taking some of the tiny hollow ice cubes into his mouth. Crunching them between his teeth. Shuddering at the cold, hearing the sound of the chewing resonate in his skull, reminding him oddly of steady footsteps in a snow-covered field.

  someone comes looking

  Another drink emptied the glass, and he reached into it, pinched an ice cube between thumb and forefinger and pressed it against his brow, holding it there with his palm until it melted. Drying the numb skin with the back of his hand. Wiping the back of his hand across his thigh.

  This, he thought, is ridiculous.

  No; it’s past ridiculous into ludicrous.

  Some outlandish old man is looking for him, for whatever damn reason, so O’Cleary overreacts and gets bent out of shape, for whatever damn reason, and now he feels as if a battalion of geese has marched over his grave.

  For whatever damn reason.

  You do know what it is, he told himself.

  “Right,” he muttered. “Right.”

  He stood again, waited, then made his way out of the coffee shop. Slowly. Carefully. Walking as if he’d just been released after six months in a hospital bed, the fearful anticipation of falling, keeping his head down, his stride short.

  He wasn’t quite sure what to do next. He didn’t feel up to taking on another casino and adding to the slight heft he felt his pocket needed, and he damn sure wasn’t about to search for that old guy, no matter what O’Cleary wanted. He supposed he’d kind of like to know what the big deal was, but right now he had more impo
rtant things to worry about, like, for example, finding a new place to live before they shut Emerald City down.

  He told himself that one more time, and gave up because he didn’t believe it.

  someone comes looking and you’re angry at yourself and you’re angry at the old man

  At the escalators/staircase, he moved to one side and looked down and out over the casino. It was quiet down there now, normal world quiet. Most of the tables had been shut down, most of the players were concentrated mostly at the slots and around one roulette wheel. In the limited area he could see he counted less than two dozen people, a few still with air-filter masks, but not one of them wearing a straw cowboy hat.