Thus a fictional world was created by con men—a stage show in which the mark was the only person unaware that he was in the middle of a theatrical performance. The show was so convincing that marks believed that they had stumbled upon a surefire way to get rich. The con men would allow a mark to win a few races at their fake gambling dens, with the benefit of “inside information”—in order to whet the mark’s appetite. Then, with the mark’s greed fanned red-hot, the con men put the mark on the send—that is, they allowed him to return home and gather every drop of cash he could muster, perhaps by taking out a loan on his property, or withdrawing cash from his bank. The mark would then return to his new business associates loaded with cash, ready to place the single bet that would make him rich beyond his wildest dreams! Of course, the only people who got rich at this point were the con men themselves.
The mechanism for taking the cash varied. Sometimes, the con men would deliver their “inside information” in a way that could be—and of course was—misinterpreted. For example, right before the crucial race, the mark would receive a phone call from his tipster. “Place it on Shadow Dancer,” the caller would whisper. The mark would hang up the phone, hurry to the betting window, and lay out a hundred thousand dollars of cash on Shadow Dancer to win the race. The bet made, the cash paid, the con man working alongside the mark would examine the betting ticket and cry in a horrified voice, “No! He said put it on Shadow Dancer to place! Not to win! Don’t you understand the difference between win and place?” At which point, despite the pleas of the mark to the “manager” of the gambling establishment, the fake race would begin and all betting would be closed. Needless to say, Shadow Dancer would come in second, and the mark’s ticket would prove worthless.
Alternately, con men would blow off their mark by having the gambling parlor raided by a swarm of blue-uniformed policemen at the critical moment before the mark was about to collect his winning bet. Fake paddy wagons would line up outside the establishment, ready to cart people off to prison. The mark would escape from the (imposter) police’s grasp, but only just, and his hundred-thousand-dollar bet would be lost. But he would return home happy at least that he had evaded disgrace and prison time.
By the 1920s, the Wire con game disappeared from this country. The telegraph was superseded by more advanced communication technology, and people had grown more sophisticated.
The consensus today is that the Wire is dead, that modern technology has rendered it merely a quaint relic from a colorful age. After all, people these days are far too sophisticated to fall for it, or anything like it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next morning, the four of us—me, Jess, Peter, and Toby—are in the Pythia offices, playing foosball, waiting for Napier to take the next step. It’s not clear what the next step is, or when it will be taken, but as we play our game we learn the answers: ten o’clock, and with a knock on the exterior glass door of our office.
I leave the game to answer it. Toby hobbles behind me on crutches. Standing in the vestibule is a large muscular man in a suit, with a crew cut and dark shades. I push open the door. “Yes?” I say.
“Mr. Napier sent me. He wants me to take the four of you to the airport.”
Behind him, in the parking lot outside, I see a black stretch limo, engine idling. “I’m not really dressed for the prom,” I say.
The guy with the crew cut stares at me without expression.
“Do we have a choice?” I ask.
“Not really.”
I appreciate his honesty. I tell him to wait for us outside, and I return with Toby to the foosball game.
I say, “Ed Napier’s courting us. He’s trying to win our hearts and minds.”
Jess says, whacking the foosball with a flick of her wrist: “Too bad we’re heartless.”
The limo takes us to the Palo Alto Airport, a postage stamp with one runway. We drive onto the tarmac and pull up alongside a Citation X private jet, which is waiting outside the hangar, engines burning.
The driver sticks the limo into park, gets out, and opens our door. We climb out. The hatch of the Citation is open, stairs unfurled to the tarmac. A man in a pilot’s uniform sticks his head from the hatch. He smiles. Yelling over the roar of the jets, he says, “Welcome aboard.”
On board, there’s room for eight people, but we’re only four. The hot blond stewardess counts as one, so that leaves room to stretch. Napier has stocked the plane with champagne, a Ridge zinfandel, and a Marlborough sauvignon blanc. In addition, there’s caviar and shrimp. The stewardess is scuttling up and down the aisle, pushing drinks and hors d’oeuvres with the gusto of a peanut vendor at Pac Bell Park.
When she reaches me, I accept a glass of white wine. As she leans over, I ask her cleavage, “Are you allowed to tell us where we’re going?”
“Allowed?” She looks puzzled. “Of course. We’re going to Las Vegas.”
“Of course,” I say.
After we take off, Toby and Peter unfasten their belts and retreat to the rear of the plane. I notice Peter’s face is pale and drawn, with thin lines of worry around his mouth. I wonder: Part of the con? A superb acting job? Or is he in over his head—regretful about getting involved, suddenly worried about consequences? He stares out his window sullenly, absentmindedly stroking his long red ponytail.
In contrast, Toby is beaming, nursing a glass of champagne. Either he’s playing his part brilliantly, doing a convincing imitation of a feckless kid blown away by the high life, or he’s really a feckless kid blown away by the high life.
Jess and I sit next to each other at the front of the plane. There may be cameras and microphones on board, and Napier may debrief the platinum blond stewardess when we touch down, so we remain quiet, each facing a different window. My solace is the feeling of the warm skin of her arm against mine. It’s hardly noticeable to the stewardess—not worth a mention to Napier, if he asks—but secretly, I hope her arm remains there for the rest of the flight. For hours she doesn’t move it, so maybe she feels the same way.
We touch down in Las Vegas ninety minutes later. Another stretch limousine, a white one this time, waits for us on the tarmac. We pile in and are greeted by another muscleman in a suit.
“Mr. Napier sends his greetings,” the driver says over his shoulder. “He regrets that he can’t meet you personally, but he will see you in The Clouds.”
The Clouds is Napier’s hotel. It’s one of the newest on the Strip, built at a cost of two billion dollars, a colossal real estate gamble that provided plenty of fodder for Napier’s critics. You can imagine the headlines in the business press: “Send in the Clouds,” or “Napier’s Folly,” or “Clouded Vision.” But Napier, as always, proved his critics wrong. The hotel was finished, and today stands fully occupied almost every day of the year.
I guess people can’t get enough of bellhops dressed like angels—with tiny, vestigial wings stitched onto the back of their jackets; of harp music in the lobby; or of a white and taupe color scheme that extends from the bathrooms, to the hallways, to the casino.
The driver pulls the limo into the reception circle. The Clouds is a huge white sandstone building in flamboyant Italian Renaissance style. If Michelangelo ate a bad mushroom, this is what he’d trip about: thirty-six floors of rococo stonework and ornate cornices; of grotesque gargoyles hunched on ledges; of statues of cherubim with outstretched hands, either in welcome or in warning.
The driver gets out of the limo and opens the door for us. We climb from the car. Toby cranes his neck upward and flips down his sunglasses. “Cool,” he says.
The driver leads us into the reception area. When we enter, the blast of air-conditioning is so cold that my balls shrink into cherry pits. At the far end of the hall, a young woman strums on a full-size harp, playing what sounds like a bastardized version of “Memories.” Or maybe “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Or maybe “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The harp is, alas, a difficult instrument.
At the far end of the hall I see
a huge banner, fifty feet across, hanging from the ceiling. It shows an artist’s conception of a new hotel on the Strip. The banner says: “The New Tracadero, from Napier Casinos. Coming Soon!”
The driver escorts us across the lobby floor to a discreet alcove with a desk marked VIP Check-In. “Here you go,” he says.
Toby, vaulting across the floor on his crutches, whispers to me: “VIP . . . Cool.”
Behind the VIP desk sits a pretty brunette, with big blue eyes. She wears a white dress with two large angel wings on her back. I suspect that her smile is forced: Sitting in a chair all day, hunched forward because of fake angel wings, must be painful.
The driver says to her, “Clarissa, this is Mr. Napier’s party.”
“Thank you, Charlie,” she tells the driver. He nods and leaves. The blue-eyed angel turns to us. Her smile grows even wider: “Welcome to The Clouds! Mr. Napier has asked me to make sure that your stay with us is wonderful!” She opens her desk drawer and removes four electronic card keys. “Each of you will receive a suite in our penthouse tower. They’re on the thirty-sixth floor.” She hands us each a key. “You’ll need your key for elevator access. The entire floor is private.”
Peter says, “Uh, listen, how much does this cost, exactly?”
The smile stays firmly planted on the blue-eyed angel’s face, like a mollusk on the side of a fish tank. “This is Mr. Napier’s gift to you. Everything this weekend is on the house. He’s asked me to make sure you enjoy yourselves.”
“Awesome,” Toby says.
The angel continues, “You can use your card keys to pay for services in the gym, the spa, or any of the six restaurants here in The Clouds. I’m aware that you came here without any clothes. You can use your card in any of the clothing shops in the atrium to outfit yourself for your stay here. Please do not be shy. It is Mr. Napier’s pleasure to have you as his guests.”
“That’s very kind,” I say.
The angel says: “Mr. Napier asks that you now go to your rooms to freshen up. And then, if you would, please meet him at one o’clock, on the thirty-fifth floor, for a caviar and champagne toast to celebrate your new business partnership.”
We need to pass through the casino on the way to the elevator. All the hotels in Las Vegas are designed this way. You have to pass through the casino no matter where you want to go. Looking for the restaurant? It’s back that way, past the casino. The concierge? Head through the casino and turn left. It’s only a matter of time, I think, before Las Vegas designers take the next logical step: putting a casino in the middle of your hotel room, between your bed and the toilet. Yeah, sure, I have explosive shits from the sushi last night, but let’s see if I can’t fit in one hand of blackjack before I take a crap.
As we walk through the casino, Jess says softly, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Ed was trying to butter us up.”
The tones of the slots are musical, mesmerizing. The lighting here in the casino is soft, inviting. I want to stay for a while.
“You think?” I say. But I’m concentrating on Peter Room, who is walking fifteen feet ahead of the rest of us, as if to physically represent how he feels—separate. I say softly to Jess, “Peter’s acting strange, isn’t he?”
Jess shrugs. “Computer guys,” she says, by way of explanation.
We reach the elevator bank and press the button marked “Penthouse Only.” We wait for a moment, and then the elevator softly chimes, and the doors open. As if on cue, out walks Lauren Napier, stunning in a tailored white three-piece suit, with a black and white checkered clutch. Her hair is pulled back into a crisp bun. She smiles at me.
“Hello,” she says.
I nod to her.
She is about to say something more, but then sees Toby, Jess, and Peter. She thinks better of it and presses her lips closed. She turns and walks away. I watch her ass as it disappears into the casino.
“Who is that?” Toby asks.
“Napier’s wife,” I explain.
“He’s married?”
“When it suits him,” I say. And for some reason, I think of Jess when I say it.
We meet at one o’clock on the thirty-fifth floor. It’s one big suite, occupying the entire floor—all windows, overlooking the flashing lights of the Strip below, and the desert to the southwest. Tables with white linens have been set up, loaded with crushed ice, atop which sit oysters on the half-shell, small bowls of caviar, and shrimp. A table nearby holds flutes of champagne, pre-poured, ready to be tossed down the gullet.
When we arrive, Edward Napier is nowhere to be found. In his place are two beefy security men, with bud earpieces and wires running into their suit jackets. They stand at the side of the room, stoically.
Peter, Jess, Toby, and I mill around near the table of oysters, uncertain if we should eat. Of course Toby has no such inhibitions. He balances on his crutches and fixes himself a plate of blini, sour cream, and caviar. He places an entire blini on his tongue and swallows it, like a Eucharist wafer. “Fantastic,” he says. “Franklin,” he says, stressing my alias so that it sounds even more ridiculous than it is, “you’ve got to try these.”
Before I have a chance to glare at him, there’s a commotion at the entrance of the suite. Napier walks into the room, accompanied by the brunette angel that checked us into the hotel. Across the room Napier sees us and smiles brightly. With his Caribbean tan, his teeth glow like Limoges porcelain. He’s wearing an impeccable Armani suit, yellow tie, white shirt. His entire person glows, like a small corner of the Strip, thousands of exciting watts entering our presence. He walks to the front of the suite and then addresses us, as if we were a crowd.
“My friends,” he says. He holds his hand out, vaguely in the direction of one of his beefy bodyguards, and rubs his fingers together. A bodyguard sees the signal, and scampers to the table holding champagne glasses. He grabs one, puts it in his boss’s fingers.
Without acknowledging the man, Napier raises his glass. “I’d like to welcome you all here. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I hope your trip was pleasant.”
There’s a pause. I’m unsure if he’s giving a speech, or if he expects some kind of response. Finally, I make an executive decision. “Very pleasant,” I say.
“Good, good.” He nods at me, as if I have done well by speaking. “Franklin, I’m excited to begin our business partnership. I want the four of you to enjoy the next day, here at my hotel. Consider this a gesture of my thanks. I’m glad to be in business with you.”
He raises his glass. There’s another pause. I realize he’s waiting for us to make a toast with him. I take a champagne flute from the table and hand it to Jess. Then I take another and hand it to Peter. I’m about to hand a final one to Toby, but of course he already has one, half-empty.
I take the glass for myself and raise it in the air. “Hear hear,” I say.
Jess says, “Hear hear.”
Napier says, “Let’s make some money together.”
We drink the champagne. It is, I must admit, the most exquisite champagne I have ever tasted. I’m accustomed to the stuff you pick up at Safeway the day before New Year’s Eve, the stuff that you don’t feel bad about pouring over someone’s head at the end of a big softball game. The stuff in my mouth, though, is like electric nectar, delicious. It is not meant to be used as a shampoo.
Napier says, “On Wednesday we’re going to test Pythia with real money. Franklin, you’ve deposited my check in your brokerage account?”
“Yes,” I say. “It’ll clear by Wednesday.”
Napier turns to Peter. “And Peter, will the software be ready to place real trades?”
“I suppose,” Peter answers sullenly. He sounds like a kid being asked if he finally cleaned his room.
When Peter answers, a fleeting look of concern crosses Napier’s face. Then it vanishes, and he smiles again. “Excellent! Now then . . .” He gestures at the brunette angel standing at the door of the suite. Napier says to us, “Would all of you like some chips?�
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For a moment I think he’s offering us tortillas and guacamole, which seems out of place after Cristal and beluga. Then I see the brunette carries four boxes, each the size of a tennis ball and covered in black velvet. The brunette hands each of us a box.
Toby opens his first. It contains a stack of black casino chips with The Clouds logo stamped on them. Blacks are worth a hundred dollars. I’m guessing there are twenty-five of them in each of our boxes. That’s twenty-five hundred bucks’ worth of party favors. I open mine. I’ve received the same.
“These are complimentary,” Napier says. “Please feel free to use them in the casino and enjoy yourselves. You’re all my partners now. I want to share everything with you.” The unspoken part of the equation, I understand, is that he wants us to share everything with him.
As if to confirm my suspicion, Napier walks over to Jess. He smiles warmly. “Jess, why don’t you come with me? I know that, as a marketing person, you’ll be interested in some of the business aspects of The Clouds. Allow me to give you a private tour.”
She smiles demurely. He takes her hand and leads her from the room. Over his shoulder, he calls out, “Please, enjoy!”
When he and Jess leave the room, I stare after them. Through the open door, I can see them standing at the end of the short hallway, waiting for an elevator. Finally the elevator arrives, and I watch Jess and Napier step inside and start their descent to his residence, where I’m sure he will show her many interesting “business aspects” of The Clouds, about which she was previously ignorant.
Four hours later, I’m downstairs in the casino at a ten-dollar blackjack table. I’ve already returned Napier’s gift and have additionally contributed two hundred of my own dollars to the casino coffers.
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