Secret of the Seventh Sons

by Cooper, Glenn

  “As of last week he hadn’t.”

  “Do you think he’ll read it this week?” he pleaded.

  There was silence on the line. He thought he could hear the rapid-fire clicking of a ballpoint pen. Finally, “Look, Peter, you’re a nice guy. I’m not supposed to say this, but we got the coverage of Counters from our readers and it wasn’t good. It’s a waste of your time to keep calling here. Mr. Schwartz is a very busy man and he’s not going to represent this project.”

  Mark gulped and squeezed the phone so hard it hurt his hand.

  “Peter?”

  His throat was tight and it burned. “Thank you, Roz. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  He hung up and let his knees buckle him onto the nearest chair.

  It started as a tear from his left eye, then his right. As he wiped away the moisture, the pressure rose from below his diaphragm reached his chest and escaped his larynx as a single low rumbling sob. Then another and another until his shoulders were heaving and he was crying uncontrollably. Like a child, like a baby. No. No.

  The desert sky turned coronation purple as Mark numbly walked into the Constellation, his right hand curled around a wad of cash in his pants. He plowed through the crowded lobby with a tunnel vision that blurred the periphery and set a clear path toward the Grand Astro Casino. As he crossed the threshold he hardly noticed the din of voices, the clanging and goofy musical tones of the slots and video poker machines. Instead, he heard blood throbbing in his ears, like a pulsing, heavy surf. Uncharacteristically, he paid no attention to the points of light on the planetary dome, with Taurus, Perseus, and Auriga directly overhead. He bore left through the valley of the slots and passed beneath Orion and Gemini on his way to Ursus Major, the Great Bear, where the high-stakes blackjack room beckoned.

  There were a half-dozen $5,000 tables to choose from, and he picked the one where Marty, one of his favorite dealers, was working. Marty was a New Jersey transplant, his wavy brown hair pulled back into a neat little ponytail. Marty’s eyes lit up when he saw him approaching. “Hey, Mr. Benedict! I got a nice chair for you!” Mark sat down and mumbled hello to the four other players, all men, all deadly serious. He pulled out his wad and traded it for $8,500 in chips. The stake was the largest Marty had ever seen from him. “Okay!” he said loudly, catching the ear of the pit boss nearby. “I hope you do real well tonight, Mr. B.”

  Mark stacked his chips and stared at them stupidly, his mind gummy. He bet the $500 minimum and played automatically for a few minutes, breaking even until Marty reshuffled and started a fresh deal. Then his head cleared as if he’d taken a whiff of smelling salts and he began to hear numbers pinging in his head like an audible beacon in the fog.

  Plus three, minus two, plus one, plus four.

  The count was calling out to him, and hypnotically he allowed himself for once to link the count to his bets. For the next hour he ebbed and flowed, retreating to the minimum bet on low counts and jacking the wager on high counts. His stack grew to $13,000, then $31,000, and he played on, hardly noticing that Marty was gone, replaced by some sourface named Sandra with nicotine-stained fingertips. A half hour later he hardly noticed that Sandra was shuffling more frequently. He hardly noticed that his stack had grown to over $60,000. He hardly noticed that his beer hadn’t been refreshed. And he hardly noticed when the pit boss sidled up behind him with two security guards.

  “Mr. Benedict,” the pit boss said. “I wonder if you could come with us?”

  Gil Flores moved back and forth with quick little steps like one of the Siberian tigers in Siegfried and Roy’s old act. The meek humiliated man sitting before him could almost feel plumes of hot breath on his bald pate.

  “What the fuck were you thinking of,” Flores demanded. “Did you think we wouldn’t spot this, Peter?”

  Mark didn’t answer.

  “You’re not talking to me? This isn’t a fucking court of law. It’s not like you’re innocent till proven guilty. You are guilty, my friend. You basically fucked me up the ass and I do not like my sex that way.”

  A blank, mute stare.

  “I think you should answer me. I really think you’d fucking better answer me.”

  Mark swallowed hard, a dry, difficult swallow that produced a comical gulp. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did it.”

  Gil ran his hand through his thick black hair, mussing himself in exasperation. “How can an intelligent man say ‘I don’t know why I did something’? To me, that doesn’t make any sense. Of course you know why you did it. Why did you do this?”

  Mark looked at him finally and started to cry.

  “Don’t be crying at me,” Flores warned. “I’m not your fucking mother.” That said, he tossed a box of tissues into Mark’s lap.

  He dabbed his eyes. “I had a disappointment today. I was angry. I felt angry and this is how I reacted. It was stupid and I apologize. You can keep the money.”

  Flores had almost been mollified until the last concept, which threw him into a tizzy. “I can keep the money? You mean the money you stole from me? This is your solution? To let me keep that which already fucking belongs to me!”

  Mark winced at the shouting and needed another tissue.

  The desk phone rang.

  Flores picked it up and listened for a while. “You sure about this?” After a pause, he continued, “Of course. Absolutely.”

  He put the phone down and moved in front of Mark, making him crane his neck. “Okay, Peter, this is how we’re going to handle this.”

  “Please don’t report this to the police,” Mark begged. “I’ll lose my job.”

  “Would you please shut your mouth and listen to me. This is not a conversation. I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen. That’s the asymmetry that your actions have brought upon you.”

  A whisper. “Okay.”

  “Number one: you’re permanently banned from the Constellation. If you walk into this casino again you will be arrested and we will seek your prosecution for criminal trespass. Number two: you are leaving with the $8,500 you walked in with. Not a penny more, not a penny less. Number three: you violated a trust and a friendship so I want you to get the fuck out of my office and out of my casino right now.”

  Mark blinked at him.

  “Why are you still here?”

  “You’re not going to call the police?”

  “Were you not listening to me?”

  “And you’re not going to have me banned at other casinos?”

  Flores shook his head in amazement. “Are you giving me ideas? Believe me, I could think of a lot of things I’d like to do to you including sending you to an orthopedic surgeon. Get lost, Peter Benedict.” He spit out the last words: “You are persona non grata.”

  From the penthouse, Victor Kemp watched the stoop-shouldered man push himself out of a chair and shuffle out the door, and on other video feeds he followed him, accompanied by security as he made his way back into the casino, where he scanned the planetarium dome a final time in a last-ditch effort to spot Coma Berineces, through the lobby, and out into the parking lot and the authentic night sky.

  Kemp freshened his drink and spoke out loud in a rich tenor to the colossal empty living room: “Victor, you will never make a buck trusting people.”

  Mark slowly drove his Corvette down the Strip in stop-and-go traffic. It was three hours till midnight and the town was getting busy as people were settling on the evening’s entertainment. He was heading south, the Constellation in his rearview mirror, but he had no particular destination. He tried not to think about what had just happened. He was cast out. Banished. The Constellation was his home away from home and he could never return. What had he done?

  He didn’t want to be alone in his house, he wanted to be in a casino bar, with giddy action and loopy slot-machine jingles to distract him. Thank God Flores hadn’t put the word out and blasted his photo to every casino in the state. He had caught a break. So, the question he mulled as he jerked down the Strip was: whe
re should he go? He could drink anywhere. He could play blackjack anywhere. What he needed was a place with the right atmosphere to suit his peculiar temperament—a place like the Constellation, which had an intellectual component, albeit a token one.

  He passed Caesars then the Venetian, but they were too fakey and Disneylike. Harrahs and the Flamingo left him cold. The Bellagio was too flash. New York New York, another theme park. He was running out of Strip. The MGM Grand was a possibility. He didn’t love it but he didn’t hate it either. At the corner of Tropicana he almost made a left to swing into the MGM parking lot. But then he saw it and knew it was going to be his new place.

  Of course, he had seen it before, thousands of times, since after all it was a Las Vegas landmark. Thirty stories of black glass, the Luxor pyramid rose 350 feet into the desert sky. An obelisk and the Great Sphinx of Giza marked the entrance, but the true marker was at the apex, a spotlight pointing straight upward, piercing the darkness, the brightest beacon on the planet, putting out an insane forty-one gigacandela of luminosity, more than enough to blind an unsuspecting pilot making an approach into McCarran. He drove toward the glass edifice and drank in the mathematical perfection of the triangular faces. His mind filled with the geometrical equations of pyramids and triangles, and then a name tenderly slipped from his lips.

  “Pythagoras.”

  Before Mark settled into the sedate bar at the casino-level steakhouse, he gave the property a once-over as if he were a prospective house buyer. It wasn’t the Constellation but it punched a lot of tickets. He liked the bold hieroglyph designs on the gold, red, and lapis carpets, the towering lobby re-creation of the temple statues of Luxor, and the museum quality mock-up of Tutankhamen’s tomb. Yes, it was kitschy but this was Vegas, for heaven’s sake, not the Louvre.

  He drank his second Heineken and pondered his next move. He had located the high-limit rooms behind frosted glass partitions to the rear of the casino floor. He had money in his pocket and knew that even if he refused to acknowledge the count in his head he could still spend a few diverting hours at the tables. Tomorrow was Friday, a workday, and his alarm would sound at five-thirty. But tonight there was something titillating about being in a new casino; it was like a first date, and he was feeling shy and stimulated.

  The bar was nearing capacity, clumps of diners awaiting tables, couples and groups spouting animated conversation and throaty laughter. He had chosen the empty middle stool in a row of three and as the alcohol took effect wondered why the stools on either side of him remained unoccupied. Was he radioactive, tainted? Did these people know he was a failed writer? Had they heard he was a card cheat? Even the bartender had treated him coolly, hardly making the effort for a decent tip. His mood darkened again. He drank the last of his beer fast and tapped the bar for another.

  As the alcohol soaked into his brain he had a paranoid notion: what if they also knew his real secret? No, they were clueless, he decided contemptuously. You people have no idea, he thought angrily, no fucking idea. I know things you’ll never know in your whole fucking insignificant lives.

  To his right a busty woman in her forties leaning hard on the bar shrieked like a girl when the fat guy standing next to her touched the back of her neck with an ice cube. Mark swiveled to take in the little drama, and when he swiveled back a man was occupying the stool to his left.

  “If someone did that to me I would split their lip,” the man said.

  Mark looked at him, startled. “I’m sorry, were you talking to me?” he asked.

  “I was just saying, if a stranger did that to me, it would be all over, you know what I mean?”

  The fat man and the lady with a cold neck were pawing each other, having a jolly time.

  “I don’t think they’re strangers,” Mark said.

  “Maybe not. I’m just saying what I would have done.”

  The man was thin but extremely muscular, clean-shaven and black-haired, with soft fleshy lips and oily skin the color of hazelnuts. He was Puerto Rican with a strong island accent, casually dressed in black slacks and loose-fitting tropical shirt open to the breastbone. He had long manicured fingers, a square gold ring on each hand, and shiny gold chains around his neck. At most he was thirty-five. He extended a hand, and Mark had to grab it out of politeness. The ring seemed to weigh as much as the appendage. “Luis Camacho,” the man said. “How you doin’?”

  “Peter Benedict,” Mark replied. “I’m doing okay.”

  Luis pointed emphatically at the floor. “When I’m in town, this is my favorite place. I love the Luxor, man.”

  Mark sipped his beer. There was never a good time for small talk, especially tonight. A blender whirred loudly.

  Undeterred, Luis continued, “I like the way the rooms have sloping walls, you know on account of the pyramid. I think that’s pretty cool, you know?” Luis waited for a reply, and Mark knew he had to fill the void or perhaps risk getting a split lip.

  “I’ve never stayed here,” he said.

  “No? Which hotel you stayin’ at?”

  “I live in Vegas.”

  “No shit! A local! I love that! I’m here like twice a week and I almost never meet locals outside of the people who work here, you know?”

  The bartender poured something thick from the blender into Luis’s glass. “It’s a frozen margarita,” Luis declared proudly. “You want one?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got a beer.”

  “Heineken,” Luis observed. “Nice beer.”

  “Yep, nice beer,” Mark replied stiffly. Unfortunately the beer was too fresh to excuse himself gracefully.

  “So what kind of work do you do, Peter?”

  Mark glanced sideways and saw that a comical frothy moustache had appeared on Luis’s lip. So who would he be tonight? Writer? Gambler? Computer analyst? Like a slot machine, the possibilities rolled around until the wheels stopped. “I’m a writer,” he answered.

  “No shit! Like novels?”

  “Films. I write screenplays.”

  “Wow! Have I seen any of your movies?”

  Mark fidgeted on his stool. “They haven’t been produced yet but I’m looking at a studio deal later this year.”

  “That’s great, man! Like thrillers? Or funny comedies?”

  “Thrillers mostly. Big budget stuff.”

  Luis took large slushy pulls on his drink. “So where do you get your ideas from?”

  Mark gestured broadly. “All around. This is Vegas. If you can’t get ideas in Vegas, you can’t get them anywhere.”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean. Maybe I could read something you wrote. That would be cool.”

  The only way Mark could think to change the conversation was to ask a question himself. “So what do you do, Luis?”

  “I’m a flight attendant, man. For US Air. This is my route, New York to Vegas. I go back and forth, back and forth.” He moved his hand one way then another to illustrate the concept.

  “You like it?” Mark asked automatically.

  “Yeah, you know, it’s okay. It’s like a six hour flight so I get to overnight in Vegas a few times a week and stay here, so yeah, I like it pretty well. I could get paid more but I got good benefits and shit and they treat us with respect most of the time.”

  Luis’s drink was spent. He waved the bartender over for another. “You sure I can’t get you one, or another Heineken, Peter?”

  Mark declined. “I’ve got to take off soon.”

  “You play the tables?” Luis asked.

  “Yeah, I play blackjack sometimes,” Mark answered.

  “I don’t like that game so much. I like the slots. But I’m a flight attendant, man, so I gotta watch out. What I do is limit myself to fifty bucks. I blow through that, I’m like done.” He tensed a little then asked, “You bet big?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Another margarita was served up. Luis seemed overtly nervous now and licked his lips to keep them moist. He took his wallet out and paid for his drinks with Visa. The wallet was slim but stu
ffed, and his New York driver’s license slid out with the credit card. He absently let the license sit on the bar and placed his wallet over it and took a large gulp of his fresh margarita.

  “So, Peter,” he said finally. “You feel like betting big on me tonight?”

  Mark didn’t understand the question. It disoriented him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Luis let his hand move across the polished wood until his pinky touched Mark’s hand ever so slightly. “You said you never saw what the rooms here look like. I could show you what mine looks like.”

  Mark felt faint. There was a legitimate chance he was going to pass out, fall right off the bar stool like a drunk in a slapstick. He could feel his heart start to pound and his breathing become rapid and shallow. His chest felt like it was mummy-wrapped. He straightened his spine and pulled his hand away, sputtering, “You think I—”

  “Hey, man, I’m sorry. I thought, you know, that maybe you dug guys. It’s no big deal.” Then, almost under his breath, “Anyway, my boyfriend, John, would be happy I struck out.”

  No big deal? Mark thought violently. No fucking big deal! Hey, asshole, this is a major big deal, you fucking faggot! I don’t want to hear about your fucking boyfriend! Leave me the fuck alone! This broadside blared inside his head as a cascade of visceral sensations piled on, dizziness, rising nausea, full-blown panic. He didn’t think he’d be able to stand up and walk away without hitting the ground. The sounds of the restaurant and casino disappeared; he could only hear thumping in his chest.

  Luis seemed alarmed by Mark’s wide eyes and crazy stare. “Hey, man, chill, you know. You’re a nice guy. I don’t want to stress you out. I’m just going to hit the john, then we can just talk. Forget about the room thing. Cool?”

  Mark didn’t respond. He sat motionless trying to get his body under control. Luis grabbed his wallet and said, “Be right back. Watch my drink, okay?” He lightly patted Mark’s back and tried to sound soothing. “Chill, okay?”