The Prometheus Effect

by David Fleming

  Jessica took that as her excuse to make an exit and get on with her list.

  The escalator to the casino level glittered with signs and flashing arrows. Gamble, Jack had said. If this were actually her money, she sure as hell wouldn’t piss it away gambling; this city thrived on losers. She paused at the bottom of the escalator, unsure how to proceed.

  A suited man with a hotel nametag approached her. “May I help you, Miss Stafford?”

  Jack had said he wanted her to be seen. And it appeared that everyone involved with the hotel already knew her. They must have circulated her picture among the staff so she could be singled out for preferential treatment.

  “I…” She rubbed her hands together. “I would like to gamble.”

  “Please allow me to show you to the private cashier.”

  He led her past the main cashier cage where long lines of people with plastic cups waited to exchange colorful tokens. At one point, the casinos had gotten rid of tokens altogether, opting instead to do business with purely electronic transfers. But they had soon realized that, psychologically, people felt better about using the tokens in the game of surrendering money. Plain electronic debiting of their coin left them feeling coldly swindled.

  She opted for a tray of ten-thousand-dollar cheques. The private cashier informed her that the table maximums had been removed for any game she wished to play, and that the tables were sufficiently funded so as not to inconvenience her on a big win. She felt it unnecessary to thank them for such generosity. It was more likely that she would be the one funding the tables.

  The high roller area sported plush chairs and subdued lighting. It served nicely if one desired to lose money in comfort, but it wouldn’t serve her purpose at all: she wanted to follow Jack’s plan to be visible. So she roamed out to the main casino.

  Cradling a one-million-dollar tray of cheques, she pondered where to start. Her previous gambling experience had been limited to spare change donated to grocery store slot machines. This was altogether different.

  Table games ringed the floor. She decided to see how far her stacks would last around the loop before she lost it all.

  The elaborate spectator sport of dice-dancing appeared to be going on at the table nearest her. She knew nothing about craps, but from a discreet distance away, she observed and absorbed the lingo. It seemed to be only as hard as one chose to make it. When a man sulked away empty-handed, she sidled into his spot. The rail still held his warmth. The men nearest her surreptitiously glanced at her tray of cheques with envy.

  “New shooter!” a dealer called out. The man to her left picked up the dice. He ground them together in his palms and sent them spinning across the table.

  “Six! The point is six!” the dealer said in a booming baritone.

  With the grace of a klutzy physicist, Jessica selected an entire stack of cheques between thumb and forefinger and dropped them on the green felt with a resounding thunk.

  “Hard eight,” she said.

  Everyone at the table instantly became statues. Conversations and dealer chatter stopped. All eyes marveled at the beautiful stack of glittering violet cheques. Then they all stared at her. No one moved.

  “Please?” she asked when it appeared they needed assurance from her to resume operations.

  The box man regained his composure first. “Of course, Miss Stafford,” he said. His eyes appeared to hold a measure of sadness for her, as if he were certain of the fate of her money. A low murmuring spread among the other players. Some tugged on the shirts of gamblers at nearby tables to get their attention. Within seconds, a large crowd of attentive patrons had formed concentric rings around the table, all wanting to witness this once-in-a-lifetime roll of the dice.

  The stick man slid the dice to the shooter. He tentatively picked up the dice and cradled them in his palm. Then he crushed them into his fist, pounded his fist twice on the padded rail, and said to the dealer, “I don’t want to be responsible for this.” Staring at the two-hundred-thousand-dollar stack in the middle of the table, he opened his hand and held out the dice to Jessica.

  It was a breach of casino protocol as well as poor table etiquette. The dealers all looked to the box man in charge of the table. “Any objections?” he asked, scanning the bettors’ faces.

  None objected.

  “The dice are yours, Miss Stafford,” he said.

  Tension quieted the crowd.

  “Coward,” she spat contemptuously as she snatched the dice. In the same movement, she redirected her hand to nonchalantly toss the dice against the rubber pyramids across the table. The crowd of bodies pressed in to see the result. Two tiny red squares ricocheted off each other and then spun to a stop.

  A raucous roar erupted and reverberated throughout the casino. All heads turned to see what had happened to cause such an outburst. Two dice lay motionless on the green felt, their faces staring up into the lights and security domes. Painted indentations graced all four corners of the top facets.

  Hard eight. Winner.

  Jessica had thought it was going to be a challenge to get people to notice her. Now she held the attention of the entire casino. Men wanted to pat her on the back in congratulations, or touch her for luck. Her cold demeanor kept them at bay. She’d almost tripled her gambling stake on one roll of the dice. The box man pulled her stack into his racks and slid two one-million-dollar plaques toward her. Her payout for nine-to-one odds.

  “Congratulations, Miss Stafford,” he said.

  She took possession of the two plaques and slid them under her cheque tray. Feeling quite generous from her big win, she took an entire stack of the ten-thousand-dollar cheques and set them in the center of the table. She ran an index finger up its length and toppled them toward the box man. After making brief eye contact with the table crew, she said, “Gentlemen,” and turned to leave.

  The crowd parted for her in awed respect.

  “Wait!” the previous shooter called out. “Would you… would you roll my six for me? … Please?”

  She smirked, took the dice, and sent them flying once more.

  “Hard six! Winner!”

  Everyone within earshot now knew her name.

  By the end of her two-hour gambling run, she had become a legend. She had lost wagers, of course, but the outrageous bets she won made them forgettable. And by the time she’d tasted all of the table games, she cradled ten million dollars more than she’d started with.

  Security stopped her entourage of followers at the high-roller entrance, and she was glad to be free of her hounding shadow. They leached her energy to create the charged atmosphere around them. She felt drained.

  A lone gambler, an older Asian man, sat at a baccarat table with his back to her. Curiosity about a game she hadn’t yet played drew her closer. He was playing at five thousand dollars a hand, and using a score sheet to record the results of his bets. Judging by the look of the sheet and the horde of empty cocktail glasses, he had been grinding for hours. And judging by the size of his meager stack of cheques, he wasn’t doing very well.

  Jessica started to ask how the game was played, but it appeared the casino did all the dealing and drawing. A no-skill game; just bet and wait. Feeling a shade guilty for shaving the casino’s profits with money that, in actuality, didn’t even belong to her, she placed a million-dollar plaque in the betting circle.

  The man looked up from his recording sheet and scowled at her. She gave him a “deal with it” sneer and smiled sweetly to the dealer.

  A king and a nine snapped into her betting circle. An ace and six to her table partner. The dealer revealed his own pair of threes, then drew a card from the shoe. A two of hearts.

  “Player wins,” the dealer said to Jessica. He withdrew a plaque to match hers from beneath a covered stash and slid it next to her bet.

  “Player loses,” the dealer directed at the Asian man, and swiftly removed the last of his remaining stack.

  “Well, that was easy,” Jessica said. One stack of ten-thousand-d
ollar cheques remained in her tray. She placed the tray on the table and slid it to the dealer. “Yours,” she said.

  The dealer respectfully bowed his head in acceptance.

  Picking up her two million-dollar plaques, she said, “Mine,” smiled, and sauntered away, ignoring the furious glare of the Asian man. She didn’t know she had badly insulted the boss of the Chinese couriers. Nor the danger of such an action.

  “Would you like this deposited to your main bank account, Miss Stafford?” the woman at the cashier window asked her.

  She remembered now that Jack had mentioned something about a bank account. The number of zeros in her credit line had effectively wiped out any thought of there being more money available to her.

  Jessica pushed her plaques under the bars of the window. “Yes, please,” she said. The cashier counted out eleven million dollars in plaques and made an entry into her computer. She then passed a receipt across the polished granite counter.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Stafford?”

  “No,” Jessica said, taking the receipt. She read it. Her mouth went dry. She read it again. “No,” she repeated as she walked away.

  Her account held three billion dollars. Plus the pittance she had just deposited.

  Jessica suddenly felt very vulnerable. This kind of money made people a target. She now understood why the super-rich became recluses and lived in the tops of hotels. She wanted nothing more than to disappear into her suite now. Everyone wished for money. But at what point did it become a curse?

  Jessica inhaled deeply to soothe her anxiety. Only one more thing to accomplish tonight. The rest can wait.

  She approached the nearest security guard. “I need a few bodyguards for a while. Can you arrange that?”

  The security guard relayed her request into his collar radio. “They will be right here,” he said.

  Three large men in loosely fitted suits soon arrived. Their jackets hung open. From the front, one could easily see an arsenal of holstered firearms. No one in their right mind would mess with even one of these men, let alone three. Jessica’s tension eased slightly.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, “I need to purchase a car at the dealership across the street.”

  The men made tiny nods and head movements at each other as if they were telepathic. Then one said, “Follow me.”

  She followed. The other two tucked in close behind her. They moved through the casino like a spear, penetrating the mass of bodies between her and the exit. Rarely did her point man need to touch anyone to get them to make way. Whether it was his facial expression or the visible butts of his weapons, people eagerly stepped aside.

  At the shady car dealership, her guards established a no-nonsense screen of muscle to shield her from shenanigans. Classier places existed nearby, with much larger selections, but Jack had insisted she make her purchase here. The dealership divided its lot into two halves. One side rented ego cars to that certain class of men who lacked the income to purchase one and the self-confidence to do without. The other side catered to the type of clientele who never negotiated prices or even asked what they were. If they wanted something, they bought it. All of those cars prowled behind polished glass in a glittering showroom, unsullied by grubby hands unable to afford them.

  Jessica wouldn’t have been at all surprised if a salesperson came out wearing an outfit split down the center: one side in a suit, the other in a T-shirt and dirty jeans. Instead, the man who greeted them wore baggy velour sweats and oversized sunglasses, even though it was dark out.

  “Whatcha want?” he asked. “I’m the owner.”

  “I want to buy a car,” Jessica replied.

  “Do ya now? What about your friends?”

  “They’re selling cookies.”

  He pulled down his glasses to peer at the bruisers behind her. “Yep. Seen ’em before. Show me the money. I show you the cars.”

  Jessica immediately tagged him as a douchebag. He seemed as if he couldn’t care less about selling her a vehicle. But Jack must have had his reasons for picking this place. One might be that they accepted casino credit in lieu of cash. That was normally illegal, but when money is concerned, deals can always be made.

  The man held out a portable scanner, and she presented her wrist with a wry smile.

  “Will that cover it?” she asked haughtily.

  “You got a license?”

  “No.” While she knew how to drive, she had never actually owned a car before—the outrageous fuel costs made them too expensive. Hence she’d had no need for a license.

  “That’ll be extra.”

  “Fine.”

  He swished an open hand at his showroom. “Pick your poison.”

  Every car sported sleek precision lines only possible in handmade automotive art. Luxury models appeared to lean back in relaxation against an invisible wind. Sport versions hugged low to the ground like a predator, ready to pounce, and able to catch anything that moved. She didn’t know a lot about cars, but Jack had said she wouldn’t have to. Buy the best one on the lot, he’d said. You’ll know it when you see it. It would have been a lot easier if he had told her exactly which car to buy, but he’d said she would look more natural to those observing if she found it on her own.

  “May I make a suggestion?” the owner asked.

  “Make it quick. I’m in a hurry.”

  Gesturing with his whole arm like a striking cobra, he pointed at a car precariously perched on a sculpted pedestal and said, “That one.”

  It radiated color like fresh lava pouring out an angry volcano, and it looked equally as hot to touch. Jessica wondered why the snow-themed pedestal beneath it didn’t melt. The owner depressed a switch on a nearby desk, and the pedestal slowly retracted into the ground, fulfilling the illusion of melting snow. If any car could intimidate Jessica, this one achieved it in one big goose-pimply shiver.

  Jessica dared to run a finger along the polished paint. She was disappointed that it didn’t make a sizzling sound. “Why this one?” she asked.

  “Because you can afford it.”

  Jessica leveled an irritated stare at the man.

  He held up his hands defensively. “You’re the first person to visit that can afford it since it came in on consignment. The owner’s a crazy old man who’s asking way too much for it, but he pays the rent on the floor space on time, so…” He shrugged.

  “What’s so special about it?” Jessica began a more critical evaluation of the beast.

  “Hell if I know. It’s satellite-locked and requires an encrypted download to unlock the doors. I haven’t even sat inside the damned thing,” he said petulantly.

  “So you don’t even know if it runs?”

  “It looks pretty.” He flashed her a That should be good enough for you smile, then quickly switched tactics. “You’re probably not going to be allowed to purchase it anyway. The wannabe buyer’s details and credit information have to be approved by the owner first. Not sure how he would feel about a woman without a license driving his baby.”

  Righteous anger simmered within Jessica. She wanted to whack him upside the head with one of those million-dollar cheques she’d cashed in. Lucky for him, “crazy old man” was a decent description of Jack. Which meant this was the car she needed to buy.

  “Send him my details. I want to see inside.”

  He mocked a submissive bow with the words, “By your command.” Then he smirked and disappeared into his office. Jessica suppressed an extreme urge to kick the car and walk off the lot.

  The salesperson wore an entirely new expression when he returned—an expression that said he had just completed a sale. He confidently approached the car, opened the driver-side door, which scissored upward, and gestured for her to look inside. “Have a seat? See for yourself. Get a whiff of that new car smell.”

  The narrow driver’s seat was deeply contoured and fitted with racing style safety belts. Jessica squirmed into it. Damn, this feels good! Its soft curves and indentations
matched her body. It was almost as if the seat was made for her. And then she realized: it was made for her. Specifically for her.

  As if she needed brick-over-the-head confirmation, a line of text only she could see flashed on the digital steering display: “Buy it! —J.”

  She wrapped her fingers around the steering wheel and gave the owner a side-eyed glance.

  “Push the green button on the dash to start it,” the man said.

  “Inside?”

  “The exhaust is connected to a ventilation system. It’s safe.”

  She did as instructed and started the engine. It didn’t have the roar and rumble that ego cars needed. This one purred contentedly, satisfied that it had no match in this jungle or any other.

  The owner removed his sunglasses and leaned in further. “You know, with the commission on this, I can retire and move to Australia.”

  “What does this red button do?” Jessica asked, reaching for it.

  “Whoa! Never touch the red button!”

  Jessica jerked her hand back.

  “Just kidding,” he said. “That’s the kill switch to stop the motor. Sorry.” He looked less than apologetic.

  She mashed the red button and searched for the door release. He assisted her out and back to her feet.

  “So…you like it?” he asked, sounding supremely confident that this was a done deal.

  She wasn’t ready to put him into retirement just yet. “I don’t know.” She tsked. “Does it come in black?”

  CHAPTER 59

  An angry air horn and sirens in the distance had woken James at false dawn. He scrounged for food and snuck out of the Box before anyone else woke.

  Now he wandered about inside the main entrance to the E Pluribus Unum. Not many people filled the casino at this hour, but cocktail waitresses unceasingly ran drinks to the early risers and yet-to-call-it-a-nighters. It had been years since James had hustled the casino sidewalks for tokens, and even back then, he had never taken the opportunity to explore the inside much. He found himself at a loss in the maze of shops, slots, restaurants, and gaming tables. Where is this caterer’s kitchen?