by Tim Lees
“Can we get on with it?” I said.
He took a long breath, eyed me from beneath his brows.
“If you so wish, then, Mr. Copeland.”
He gave the paper an irritable little shake. Then he said, “‘Mr. McAvoy was hired in a consultative capacity. His contract is with Allstar Leisure, not with Second Eden. Allstar is a company subsidiary, operating under license, wholly independent—’”
“You use his logo.”
“Mr. Copeland. Please.
“‘He’—McAvoy—‘provided no materials of any kind, and neither Allstar, nor Second Eden, has possession of any property, physical or otherwise, furnished by said Mr. McAvoy or through his agency, in whatever capacity. All Second Eden properties with which said Mr. McAvoy may have been associated were acquired without his input, on an individual basis, and with all full legal procedures in place. Any such transaction—’”
“Oh, come on. We both know this is bollocks. Cut to the chase.”
He raised the paper so that I could see it. What I saw more prominently was the size of his hands, and the scars across his knuckles.
I said, “Where d’you get the god?”
“Mr. Copeland. It’s been requested that I read this to you. If you don’t wish to listen, that’s entirely up to you, but I am going to read it, hell or high water. Mr. McAvoy has, for reasons of his own, agreed to speak to you, and the company requires I make a few things clear before he does. Shall I go on?”
“This is the McAvoy that previously you’d never heard of, right? That McAvoy?”
“You will appreciate that we respect the privacy of both our clients and our employees, including those employed in temporary or auxiliary capacities,” he said, his voice a long, slow, dying fall. He thrust his face towards me, looked me in the eye. “We have shit going down here, Mr. Copeland. Please do try not to make it any worse.”
Angel said, “You feel that?”
“What?” I said.
“Like a shiver in the air? You turn your head, and—”
“Exciting?”
“Sometimes. Then others, it’s like fingernails on glass.”
“I feel it.”
Shwetz had left us at the bar. We looked out across the gaming floor. The ambience had changed a little now; a scattering of daytime guests had given it a faint gloss of normality, drinking and chattering, playing a few innocuous games. But I could spot the regulars. It wasn’t hard. There was a woman near us, for example, practically glued to her machine. It wasn’t just the dedication that got to me, it was the look on her face: after a few quick spins, her head would nod, her eyes roll back, her body start to sway. She could have stood in for the portrait of a saint in some old Spanish church, and only when the money ran out did she rouse herself, tug at her wrap, almost surprised to find herself there, in a public place. Her hands would move across the console, fluttering, uncertain; and she’d dip into her purse, and start the whole process again.
Angel and I drank coffee. I kept my phone out on the tabletop, desperate to send another message, but holding back.
Don’t look too eager. Don’t scare him off.
The meeting had been set for 3:00 p.m.
3:00 p.m. had come and gone.
“He reckons I’m his friend,” I said. “Here to take him home.”
She sipped her drink.
“This place could get to you,” she said.
“Yeah. Leave, or stay forever.”
3:15.
“You’re watching me,” she said.
“I like watching you.”
“No. You’re watching me, but you’re thinking, is she up to it? Is she OK?”
“I—”
“Don’t lie, Chris. For one, you’re no good at it. For two, it’s kind of demeaning, yeah?”
I felt myself tense up. Thinking, this would be the worst time in the world to have a fight.
Wondering if it was just the atmosphere, putting me on edge. Something in the air, or in the place itself . . .
Or else in me.
The same thing that had killed off every other good relationship I’d ever had—
3:25.
“That’s it,” I said. “I’m done.”
I downed my coffee, slapped my hand on the tabletop. I went to put my phone back in my pocket, then, as if by instinct, stopped, and sat there, two, three minutes more.
The phone buzzed.
Coming down, the message said.
Angel made to stand, but I motioned her to stay.
“Hold on a while,” I said. “Let’s watch . . .”
A bank of elevators led to the hotel above. It was always busy. Right now, a bunch of elderly vacationers seemed to have commandeered it, spread out in bright, primary colors like a row of flags. I watched the other guests coming and going round them: a couple of upmarket goths, a bachelor party, and then a solo devotee, who marched straight to the nearest vacant slot, sat, and started working.
McAvoy, I missed, initially.
He must have sneaked down with another group—the bachelor party, probably—and slipped out behind the mob of seniors. He was over to the side before I even noticed him.
The clothes were the same, the shades, and the rolled sleeves on his jacket. His hair was tied back. He was thinner and more angular than I’d expected, and he moved in short, mistrustful little steps, like a man on ice. I caught the shine of a bracelet, the glint of a medallion. Retro chic. Irony? Disguise? Role play?
Or maybe he’d just not grown up?
Angel and I stepped out into the aisle.
At the same moment, ahead of us, a pair of burly-looking guys detached themselves from the scenery, and they, too, headed for McAvoy.
Angel touched my arm.
“I see them.”
They, though, had not seen us.
They dressed like tourists—Hawaiian shirts and baseball caps—but they didn’t act like tourists, they didn’t walk like tourists. They split up—eight, nine feet between them, and scarcely glanced at one another, but they moved in perfect sync. Two sharks, homing in on lunch.
“Perhaps he does have enemies, then, after all.”
McAvoy saw them, too, and his reaction told me plenty.
He’d come expecting to see me. So far as I knew, he’d no idea of what I looked like. But he knew I wasn’t either of these guys. And I could bet he knew exactly who they were, as well—or at least, who’d sent them.
I saw him glance back at the elevators, realize he’d never get to them in time. A look of panic crossed his face. Then he ducked down, into the avenues of slot machines, and I lost him.
I told Angel, “Circle. Get behind him.” She was faster than I was. For me, I took a side turn, hoping I could cut him off.
There were too many unanswered questions here. These two guys had been waiting for him. So how did they know to be here now, today? Through Shwetz? I doubted that. And I could bet it wasn’t just good luck.
I saw him again. McAvoy. Twenty yards away, crouched behind a big machine called Golden Goddess. Reflections from the lights flashed on his face, flared on his suit. He craned up, checking the area—
And bolted. Straight across the floor. He stumbled, smacked into a waitress, sending her tray of glasses smashing to the ground.
After that, it all went very, very fast.
The guys in the Hawaiian shirts began to run. The house security was up, too, and moving. Suddenly I saw where McAvoy was heading. A small red exit sign marked an emergency door. At a sprint, he’d get there well before security, his pursuers—and me.
But I was nearer than the others. And I ran, too.
I lost him for a moment, in among the pillars and the potted palms. Next time I saw him he was pelting, flat out, hands splayed in front of him, a helpless, panic-stricken flight. In the video, he’d had some poise, some cool; all that was gone now.
He reached the door and flung himself against it. The bar gave and he tumbled through. Alarms began to shriek, mingling wit
h the bleep and ping of the machines. I heard another sound—a low, soft thump, and felt a moment’s pressure in my ears. A thick white cloud began to curl over the tops of the machines. A smoke bomb? In seconds, someone would yell “Fire!” and then the whole place would go to hell. There’d be panic everywhere. I couldn’t see Angel. But if I waited, I’d lose McAvoy. I hit the door and barreled through.
I ran down a service corridor. At the end there was a flight of stairs. I froze a moment, listening.
Footsteps, down below.
Angel was right. I was out of shape. I scrambled down the steps, jumping the last few in each flight. I was breathing hard.
Something clattered, one flight down.
And then I saw him. He was trying to get a door open. An ordinary wooden door. He kicked it, pulled it, shook it in its frame.
It wouldn’t budge.
I slowed. I caught my breath.
“Looks like it’s shut,” I said.
He spun around, one arm up, as if fending off a blow.
“Copeland,” I said. “I think we had a date?”
I showed him my ID. He snatched at it, pulled it to him. I let him read it, and then took it back.
He said, “I need to get the door open. It’s never locked! They tricked me. It’s a trick—”
He kicked it, like a child in a tantrum.
“Locked is locked,” I said.
“You’re meant to have a key!” He turned on me, accusingly. Spit hung from his lips. “You’re meant to get me out of here! You’re meant to get me home—”
And then it dawned on him.
“You’re not control,” he said.
“I’m all you’ve got.”
“You’re not—”
We heard the lock click.
Someone outside wrenched the door open.
They were soldiers—maybe half a dozen—and they poured into the stairwell, quick and silent. They wore flak jackets and gloves and desert camouflage. They carried billy clubs and Tasers.
I put my hands up in the air.
“OK,” I said. “OK.”
McAvoy lunged for the stairs.
They grabbed him and he fell headlong.
I was frisked, searched. Quick, professional. They took my phone, my reader, and my wallet with my three IDs.
“This one’s our guy, too.”
A couple of them traded knuckle-bumps and high-fives.
But not with me.
I said, “‘Our guy’?”
They dragged McAvoy onto his feet. He squirmed and struggled, then all at once went limp. He seemed to fold in on himself, hanging from his captors’ grip. He whimpered, sobbed, then let go the most awful wail. It wasn’t fear or pain. It was frustration, like a child denied his favorite toy. He threw his head from side to side, and that dreadful sound just echoed, bouncing off the concrete, moaning, on and on.
One of the soldiers stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it, for fun.
Then he went up to McAvoy, and smacked him in the face.
That shut him up, all right.
“Who are you guys?” I said.
Nobody answered me.
“You got names? ID?”
But I got no names from them, and no ID. Instead, I was shoved towards the stairs, and then, with McAvoy beside me, prodded and manhandled, back the way we’d come.
The gaming floor looked like a riot had just taken place.
But then, I’d been expecting that.
Chapter 56
Assault on a Casino
A thick white smoke hung just below the ceiling, trailing from the pillars and the chandeliers. Lights flashed on its underside. There was a stink of fireworks. My eyes began to itch, my nose began to run.
A group of guests fled past, chivvied by a man in combat gear. One of the women kept on asking, over and over, “Is it a shooter? Is it a shooter?” She got as much response as I had to my own questions.
The alarm throbbed. Someone was shouting. I heard a crack. Not gunfire—Taser, possibly?
A voice beside my ear said, “Not secure,” and we fell back, first to the wall, then, after a hasty reconnoiter, retreated to the gift shop. One window had been smashed. The carpet here was strewn with broken glass.
“Down.”
McAvoy and I were made to sit upon the floor. I saw figures race by outside. Somebody was screaming. It was hard to make things out. I craned my neck, trying to get a view. The soldiers took up their positions, in between the Hermès scarves, the china cups, the displays of Sony, Rolex, Nikon.
I watched a man dragged from a slot machine and bundled out. Incredibly, he had still been playing, even through the mêlée. A running battle had begun between security and the invading force. I heard orders bellowed over pop music and bleeping slots. At the same time, ordinary tourists were quickly and efficiently rushed to the exits. The scene was one of violence and confusion, but the operation had been smartly planned. With only a handful of men—I thought twenty, at the most—the building was subdued with an extraordinary speed. People were evacuated. Guests were brought down from their rooms and ushered out in groups.
So, in the midst of such a sweep, it was all the more surprising to see a newcomer appear.
He wore a dark bandana stretched across his mouth and nose. He moved carefully but quickly, slipping from machine to machine, zigzagging across the floor, constantly glancing back and forth. On his shoulder he had some piece of machinery. I couldn’t get a clear view. Rocket launcher? Bazooka? I felt a jolt of fear. Was he going to use military weapons? I watched him climb one of the machines, standing on the seat, one leg braced against the screen, a sniper taking up position. He swung the instrument around, panned left and right—
A camera.
The guy was carrying a camera.
A power pack was slung around his waist. He wore a photographer’s vest, the pockets crammed. His manner was astonishingly calm, as if his very concentration shielded him from any danger, and from the chaos all around.
“Silverman . . . ?”
This, it struck me, was the way that he had always seen himself, deep down: guerilla filmmaker, pioneer, adventurer . . . His nervousness was gone. He glanced around himself, checked his monitor screen. He focused for a moment on an incident I couldn’t see, then climbed down, headed for the café, where a fierce punch-up was in progress. The invaders had cornered a group of security men. I heard the snap of a Taser, the shouts, the screams—
No sign of Angel. That bothered me. It didn’t matter just how smart she was, how capable. I had to know she was OK.
I caught the eye of the officer. I begged him for my phone.
“This will be over soon,” he said.
“I’ve got to find my girlfriend. I need to know she’s safe.”
I leaned towards him, tried to get his sympathy.
“You understand that, don’t you? You’d feel the same?”
“Sit back,” he told me. “Wait it out.” Then, “Be glad you’re not the one he really wants.”
His eyes flicked to McAvoy, but McAvoy said nothing.
A loud hiss filled the air. A familiar sound—curiously English, like a downpour on a summer’s day . . .
The sprinkler system had kicked in.
A thin rain glimmered through the hall. The smoke curled lazily under its impact. Water drummed against the leaves of potted palms. It bounced on gaming tables and on chair seats. The slot machines began to wink out, bank by bank. I watched a lone croupier stumble out of hiding, his mouth open, pulling at his wet shirt—more baffled by the downpour, it seemed, than the assault which had preceded it.
McAvoy’s head bobbed nervously, a harsh, insistent tic. I tried to speak to him, to calm him down, but he would not respond.
Then Silverman was back.
He saw me now. His hand came up, he waved. He pulled the wet bandana from his face, mouthed something I couldn’t hear. He picked his way towards me, skirting an upturned rubbish cart, stepping round a fallen palm. Hi
s hair was plastered to his skull. He swung the camera left and right.
He got to within ten feet. Then the officer said, “OK, buddy. Close enough.” He raised his billy club in warning.
“It’s all right!” Silverman fumbled in his pocket, held out a crumpled piece of paper. It bounced and shook under the downpour. “See? I’m with you. I’m official!”
Twilight had fallen on the gambling hall. A dim halo of emergency lights turned Silverman into a silhouette before us.
“Switch the camera off.”
“I’m here to film. That’s my job, that’s what I was hired to do—”
“Switch it off.”
He lowered the lens. And the soldier beckoned him inside.
He wiped his mouth. He peered at me.
“Chris—you look roughed up . . .”
“What the hell is happening?”
“Yeah. Bit lively, isn’t it?” He glanced back at the devastation, shook his head. “Great cinema. At least, I hope it is . . .”
“What’s happening? These guys won’t tell me anything!”
“Ah.” He ran a hand over his scalp. Water dribbled down his face, dripped off his nose. “I suppose it’s what you’d call a hostile takeover. Bit more hostile than expected, to be honest . . .”
He’d been watching McAvoy. Now he looked a question at me.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s him.”
“Serious?” He raised the camera, but the soldier glared at him, and he put it down again. To me, he whispered, “Is he ill?”
“They jumped him. He’s pretty shaken.”
“I was expecting somebody more . . . you know.”
“Proactive?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
“Perhaps he was, once. You seen Angel?”
“No.”
“Shit. She might have got out, I don’t know—”
“It’s not as bad as it looks. I don’t think anybody’s seriously hurt, and . . .”
“Tell me what’s happening.”
“Well, it’s . . . sort of complicated. And I thought you’d be, you know, informed . . .”
The sprinklers stopped. Water gleamed in beads over the slot machines, slithered down the screens. It dripped from ceiling fixtures and the leaves of potted palms, it dribbled down the walls. A gentle pattering sound filled the air. The fighting, too, had ended, as suddenly as any barroom brawl. We were taken from our refuge, led into the hall. The air felt damp. It stank of smoke.
