Zero Sum (Zero Sight Series, Book 2)

by B. Justin Shier

  “Let’s go over everything from the top,” Dante said. “Dieter.”

  “Roger dodger. Seven months ago, Talmax purchased the Over the Top Resort and Casino. The reason for the buy is pretty obvious. Owning a casino is one of the best possible ways to launder money. You take your illicit earnings, mix them in with the cash that the gamblers use to buy chips, and walk out the back door with a nearly untraceable stream of income. Normally, this would never be allowed to happen. The state wouldn’t issue a gaming license to a group like Talmax, and the Feds would nail them right quick if they tried washing money—but things aren’t normal. The Slump has the state gaming commission willing to look the other way if Talmax’s investment means an influx of cash and jobs, and every local DEA agent is on permanent exhibition in the morgue. But this development isn’t all bad news. If Carrera and his crew are cocky enough to buy a freakin’ casino, it tells us something important: they’re getting sloppy.”

  Dante nodded. “And if Talmax is getting sloppy, they’re probably getting loose-lipped too.”

  “So Rei and I get to spend the next few days liquorin’ up gangsters and squeezin’ ‘em for info.” Jules giggled. “This is gonna be fun!”

  “I do not require alcohol to extract information out of these men,” Rei said grumpily. Her giant bunny ears flopped around as she spoke.

  “Dieter,” Dante said, “the plan’s all well and good, but I still don’t get why you signed us up to work room service.”

  “Simple. Room service attendants get access to every room in a hotel. Plus, we’ll know who’s ordering the champagne.”

  “Like a Kristal Ball,” Jules said.

  Rei stifled a chuckle and tried to revert to grouch mode.

  “Fine,” Dante said. “Jules and I will head out first. We’ve got that reconnaissance Maria wants done.”

  +

  The Over the Top. If there ever was a symbol of Las Vegas hubris, the OTT was it. A modern day tower of Babel—located conveniently off the I-15 freeway—the OTT stretched over 350 meters above the desert floor. The enormous three-legged monster was topped by a flying saucer skewered by the Washington Monument. And if that wasn’t crazy enough, the blinking metal obelisk at the top had a ride that tossed riders up and down its whole length, flaunting the absurd height. Construction of the monstrous tower had taken half my childhood. Heralded as a marvel of modern engineering, the mayor pronounced the OTT as the figurehead of a new Las Vegas renaissance. No one (including the resort’s investors) was aware of the cost overruns OTT Corp. had incurred during the tower’s construction. The whole operation went bankrupt in a month. The CEO fled the country. I think he moved to Belize.

  Our apartment was only a few blocks away from the tower. The neighborhood was a sad mix of the broken and the hopeless. Buildings were a haphazard collection of crumbling concrete and balsa wood tied together with chicken wire. Rent was cheap. Life was cheaper. The homeless had set up the usual shanties on the sidewalks. Drug-Immune Tuberculosis was rampant, and the hacking coughs of the infirm competed with the chirping of crickets throughout the night. This was what the working class had been reduced to. Walking sacs of rags that begged losers like us for change. Every few hours an ambulance would swing by to pick up another drunk or diabetic. I didn’t know why they bothered. It wasn’t like the local hospital could afford to care for them. It sucked, but that’s how it was for most folks seeking a new start in Vegas. You showed up from some shithole in the Midwest where times were even worse, moved into one of these monthlies, and tried to find a job. The goal was to save up some money, and maybe buy a house. Most never escaped. The vices cut both ways. Scores of the new employees ended up as degenerate gamblers or druggies themselves. My own father was Exhibit 1-A.

  After giving Dante and Jules a thirty-minute head start, Rei and I headed down Las Vegas Boulevard. The night was cold and windy, but the foul weather gave me an excuse to wear my new jacket. Rei was wearing a long overcoat she’d picked up last night. Obviously, the coat wasn’t for the cold, and I didn’t think she was wearing it out of a sense of modesty either. (Rei didn’t really seem to have a sense of modesty.) I figured being seen as one of the “help” bothered Rei much more than a silly bunny tail. That kinda irked me. I decided a few days in the slums might be exactly what Rei needed.

  I looked at the massive resorts rising up around us. Pirates. Italian villas. Laser light shows. Twenty story tall digital displays flashing images of all the legal deadly sins one after another. Promises of sex, wealth, and respect dangled in front of the tourists’ noses. It was all one giant inside joke—one the pudgy visitors seemed oblivious to. They still came decade after decade to rub dice and drop coins. Depression be damned, luck could still love. But in this town, luck was no lady. She was probably the one thing more vicious than the girl walking next to me.

  I caught Rei staring up into the bright neon lights.

  “Truly,” she asked, “you grew up here?”

  A group of bachelorettes stumbled out of a shiny white limo. The last girl out lost her lunch in the gutter.

  “Yep,” I replied. “I was born on the sidewalk right over there.”

  Rei rolled her eyes.

  “No. Really. That’s the casino my father works at. My mom was coming to visit him. She went into labor on the curb. I popped out right there.”

  The wind blew Rei’s long black hair into her face. She stopped walking and tucked it into her jacket. “Fascinating.” She made a slow circle, smiling as thousands of blinking lights danced across her face. “So this was Dieter Resnick’s first sight.”

  I scratched my head. I had never considered that before. “Don’t remember it,” I said with a shrug.

  Rei stuffed her hands into her overcoat. “Dieter, I am wondering about something: we have been in your homeland for four days now. In that time, you have not visited your father. I do not understand this. In my culture, that sort of an affront would be grounds for punishment.”

  My jaw tightened. Wrong topic, Rei. “I don’t have anything to say to him,” I said, walking away.

  “But I would like to see him.”

  That stopped me cold.

  “Rei…” I began, but she raised her hand to stay my voice.

  “I did not say I wished to meet him, Dieter, just that I would like to see him. He works there, yes? Take me.”

  I frowned.

  Rei batted her eyes. “Please?” It was a pathetic display, which—for some reason—made it even harder to say no.

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “But let’s make this quick. We only have thirty minutes till we have to punch in.” Timing the traffic, we rushed across the street. Jaywalking Las Vegas Boulevard is a Las Vegas tradition, but halfway across the road, some jerk decided to speed up to make a point. Faster than I could think, Rei grabbed my hand and yanked me onto the sidewalk. I turned to flip the guy off.

  “Asshole!” I screamed. “And California plates! Fucking tourists.”

  Rei grabbed her belly and laughed. “Dieter, despite the inherent symmetry, I do not wish you to die on the same street on which you were birthed.”

  I was still hot under the collar. It was everything I could do not to run after the bastard. “Kumpadre, I expect you to use your superior vision and intellect to get the license plate number next time.”

  Rei’s smile cooled. “Who says I didn’t?”

  I frowned at her. “There will be absolutely no biting. This city needs that fool’s money more than you need his blood.”

  Rei sighed. “Dieter, biting is so inaccurate. It is more like incising.”

  “Huh?”

  “They’re serrated.”

  “Huh?”

  “My teeth, Dieter.”

  “Oh.”

  Note to self: no French kissing vampires.

  We made our way around the rows of clanging slot machines to the table games in the back. I motioned to a bench by the cashier. It was only then that I realized my hand was still wrapped around hers. It
was funny. They’d fit so well that I didn’t even notice.

  “Do you see him?” Rei asked.

  “He’s not on right now. The dealers alternate every thirty minutes to stay fresh. The flip will happen soon.”

  As we waited, I spent my time watching Rei out of the corner of my eye. Her head kept darting around. The clanking of coin, the flashing of lights, the roars from the tables when someone had a strong roll; a busy casino floor is an assault on the senses. For a being with heightened perception, this place must have been like standing under a waterfall. The flip came ten minutes later. My father came with it. I gritted my teeth. I really didn’t want to be seen here. We were using fake names. This seemed like a great way to blow our cover.

  Dressed in a crisp white uniform and carrying a bundle of fresh cards under his arm, my father strode over to a table and replaced the other dealer. I did a double take. Less than six months had passed since we last saw each other face to face, but it looked like he had aged years. His usual bulk had shriveled noticeably. He looked tired, and his shoulders were slouched. Thick pillows rested under both of his eyes. I pointed him out to Rei. She nodded and watched him quietly.

  Being underage, I had never got to see my father work. Tonight’s game was blackjack. My father already had three customers at his table, so he began the first hand promptly. He dealt fast, with crisp clean strokes. His motions were precise and methodical, but he made time to greet a patron’s small talk with a smile. The tips rolled in. A few minutes later, the table was full.

  I bit my lip. A smile. I thought back to the few that had ever been directed at me, so few that I knew each and every one of them. And yet here he passed them out as easily as the cards. Like they were a cheap. Like he couldn’t get rid off them fast enough. It burned me up inside.

  “Dieter…” Rei ran a hand through her hair. “What did you say your father’s name was?”

  “I didn’t. It’s Kurtz.”

  “Fasz kivan,” Rei muttered.

  “Sorry?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” Rei looked at her watch and frowned. “I believe it is almost time for our…shift. We should depart, Dieter.”

  I couldn’t stand up fast enough. This whole scene was freaking me out. What if my father saw us? What would I say? What would he say? Who would punch whom first? I headed to the nearest row of slots and made a beeline for the exit. I was so consumed with daddy issues that I forgot to wait up for Rei. I turned around to apologize—and the bottom fell out of my stomach. My father’s smile was gone. He’d locked eyes with Rei—and she was meeting his gaze. My throat tightened. I drew in a labored breath. It lasted only a second, but I saw it clear as day. Then Rei bowed her head slightly, and my father returned the gesture. Gross…my dad was sizing her up. That was clearly not allowed. I turned and kept walking. I didn’t need that image festering in my brain.

  +

  Scrape, scrape, scrape. Wipe. Scrape, scrape, scrape.

  Man-o-man, I had forgotten how much real work sucked.

  I glanced up from my service cart’s ketchup-congealed wheel. The sous-chef was on the phone with a supplier. He was yelling about a shipment of rotten onions we’d just received. The fat-faced bastard was trying his best to include every single expletive in his diatribe.

  Dante looked at me mournfully from across the kitchen. He was receiving his own lecture on the cost of breaking plates.

  So far, my first night on the job had turned up absolutely nothing. Well, almost nothing. A cougar on the 14th floor had slipped me a twenty and her phone number, so I had that going for me. I was only certain of one thing: This place was bizarro land. Working at Newmar’s Restaurant, I’d always served locals. Sure, some of them took their clothes off for a living, but these tourists were an entirely different can of worms. As soon as they hit the runway tarmac it was like the crazy light switched on. I had just helped two other servers fill some Arab sheik’s bathtub with heavy cream. What was the cream for? Let’s just say that the maids had better get one hell of a tip come morning.

  I pried the last bit of red gunk out of the wheel. Stars above, it was amazing the trouble a mixture of hair and condiments could cause. After washing my hands (thoroughly), I picked up my next orders. Two stops on the 20th floor. Room 2017 had requested two bottles of something called Lindisfarne Mead, a pair of roast ducks, and a bottle of anti-acids. Then, Room 2021 wanted three cream cheese and jelly sandwiches and five bottles of sparking water. I shook my head. Who were these people? What planet were they from? Why did they decide to come bother me in the middle of a desert? Why? I’ll tell you why: No one else would take ‘em.

  At least I was learning a bit more about the Over the Top. Talmax had refurbished the entire facility. We’re talking some serious dinero. From new restaurants to new carpet, the place had been lavished with cash. Talking to my fellow servers, I’d learned that the money dump had really turned the place around. The newly renovated hotel was attracting more than its fair share of wealthy clientele. That meant much fatter tips. Employee moral was through the roof.

  The hotel itself was only twenty something stories tall. That wasn’t big by Vegas standards, but at the center of the resort stood that monstrous tower. It dwarfed everything in the valley, and cast shade on the entire Strip. But while the tower was tall, it had some major flaws: It was so massive that its three giant legs were dedicated to supporting its weight, and the space up top was pathetic considering the expense of building a tower that tall. Besides the observation deck on the roof, there was only room for a few guest suites and a restaurant. The previous owners had made a bit of money charging people to visit the observatory, but considering the expense of building it, the whole thing was a loser. The real earner was the casino underneath the tower’s legs. It had the usual array of slot machines and table games, plus one brand new gimmick: the entire roof was a clear plexiglass dome. It allowed the gamblers to look up at the tower from below. But for some reason, the management kept “home of the most expensive up-skirt view in the history of the world” off the brochures.

  The elevator dinged, and I rolled my cart into the hall. Room 2017 first, I decided.

  I rang the bell, and a booming Nordic voice asked, “Who is it?”

  “Room Service,” I announced. “Your, uh, mead and meat, sir.”

  I heard heavy footsteps approach the door. The man filled the entire doorframe. I arched my neck backwards. “Hello, sir.” He must have been nearly seven feet tall. His nose was the size of a teacup, and his ears, the size of saucers. I bet myself I could fit a bottle cork up one of his nostrils (not that I would try). “Would you like me to set up your food on the table?”

  The giant grunted and clomped back over to his bed.

  I took that for a yes and entered his room.

  He waited patiently and watched as I laid out his food.

  “Are you enjoying your stay, sir?” I asked at last.

  “So-so,” he rumbled. “Bit warm for me blood.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, why Vegas then?”

  “Ah, not for pleasure. Work. Olaph’s firm was hired for a job.” The flatware clattered as he spoke. “Personally hate to travel, but Norwegian taxes…” He shook his head. “By the Gods. Six piece out of ten. Will bankrupt Olaph and Company right quick if we’re not crafty.”

  I couldn’t resist a chance to promote my hometown. “Maybe you should consider moving your business here. We don’t have a state income tax in Nevada.”

  Mr. Olaph laughed heartily. I finished up the food preparation, but the two large ducks looked woefully inadequate. Mr. Olaph seemed satisfied, though. He reached over and slid the table towards the bed. It was a good decision. The chairs had no hope of bearing his weight. I un-corked the mead stuff and served it to him. The smell reminded me of honey.

  “What’s your trade, Mr. Olaph?”

  “Security. And call me Per or take a dare.” He handed me his card.

  Per Olaph

  President, Olaph Secu
rity, a division of Olaph Industries

  Olaph…I remembered that name from somewhere…“Say, Mr. Olaph, er, Per, didn’t Olaph Industries design those Quick Passage devices? You know, the ones that let cars go full speed through toll stations?”

  Mr. Olaph smiled. “Yeps. That’s pa’s invention. Different division, though.”

  “Very cool.” I handed him the bill. “Well have a good evening, sir.”

  “You too, young lad.” He signed the bill and handed it back to me, but as I reached for it, he took my whole forearm in his enormous hand. I didn’t dare pull away. I had the feeling he could pluck off my head like a dandelion. Mr. Olaph leaned forward and examined my palm. “Strange history,” he muttered. He took in a deep wheezy breath. “Tom,” he said calling me by the name on my nametag, “tough choices lie ahead.”

  I nodded quietly and he released me. Rolling my cart out the door, I couldn’t quite shake it. Why’d Mr. Olaph stare at my hands…? Must have been some Norwegian thing.

  I knocked on room 2021 next. “Room service,” I announced.

  “One sec,” a woman’s voice announced over the sound of a hairdryer. Locks shifted and the door cracked open. Propping the door open with her bare foot, she said, “I’m finishing up in the bathroom. Be a dear and set up the food on the table.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, taking the door from her foot. If the well-manicured toes were any hint…I shook my head. Job. I had a job to do. I waited for the bathroom door to shut and then rolled my cart in.

  The place looked like a suitcase exploded. Clothing hung from every available surface. The bed was dedicated to not one, not two, but three different cameras. Those really expensive lenses you saw at sporting events were strewn around like confetti. Her table was completely covered in newspapers. I shifted an open laptop to the side and set up her dinner.

  The hairdryer shut off just as I finished lining up the sandwiches on the plate. I’d formed a double-decker triad (Princess Zelda would have been proud). I hadn’t read a normal people paper in like four months, so with a few moments to spare, I glanced at one of the articles she’d circled with a marker. Apparently, a nasty drug war was developing between a major Mexican cartel and some upstarts from Canada. I caught the name of the reporter: Lauren Curray.