Vickers

by Mick Farren

  Klauswitz put down the Yasha on the coffee table on which they'd been playing poker. Vickers grinned briefly and went on.

  "So Cardew starts laughing at him. M'Tubo's got this nickel-plated machine gun laying on the table beside the head. It went everywhere with him. He'd damn nearly started to think of it as his symbol of office. Cardew points at the machine gun and tells M'Tubo that he wouldn't be able to shit at all if he, Cardew, simply picked up the gun and blew him away. Cardew and M'Tubo both have a good laugh about this and then Cardew does exactly that. He picks up the machine gun and blows the bastard clean across the room."

  As if by magic, the Yasha was in Vickers' hands. He was no longer drunk. Without a moment's hesitation, he shot Klaus­witz in the head. The next instant he had it pointed at Malmud.

  "If you don't want to end up like M'Tubo and your pal, you'd better not move a muscle, kidlet."

  Malmud raised his hands. "I'm not arguing."

  "Do you have a set of handcuffs?"

  "Of course."

  "Cuff your hands behind your back and get down on the floor."

  The bedroom door opened. Ilsa was silhouetted against the light. She was naked. Her voice was sleepy.

  "What the hell's going on out here?"

  Vickers covered her with the Yasha.

  "Put your hands on your head or I'll cut you in half."

  "Fuck you, Vickers."

  "Just put your hands on your head."

  Mad as she might be, she knew enough to do only what she was told. As she raised her arms, he couldn't help noticing what nice breasts she had.

  "I believe that I'm expected to kill you but, instead, I'm going to give you a break. If I was you, I'd take the matter up with your boss—or your girl friend—whichever way you think of her."

  THREE

  The beat up Ford was waiting as promised. The driver was a heavyset black man with a 'fro combed out past his shoulders. He was wearing anonymous mechanic's overalls.

  "I want to go to the Amjet terminal."

  "I know."

  The driver pulled quickly away from the front of the Holiday Inn. Once they were on the airport connector road, he picked up a plastic folder from beside him on the front seat and tossed it back to Vickers.

  "I was told to give you this."

  Vickers broke the seal. The folder contained four thousand in cash and a one-way plane ticket to Las Vegas.

  "Is this all? No ID? No credit cards?"

  "Don't ask me. I'm just doing what I'm told. I did hear, though, that Vegas is one of the last places they really welcome old fashioned cash money."

  Vickers grunted. He felt like he'd been screwed again. Without ID, he'd never get his gun onto the plane. He'd arrive in Las Vegas completely unarmed. He would have to dump Klauswitz's Yasha that was right then nestling under his coat. He was suddenly rather glad he'd let Ilsa live. It was never too soon to start deviating from the program. With any luck, Ilsa would go crazy and have a crack at Victoria.

  The black man dropped him at Amjet departures and drove away. Vickers watched the Ford disappear down the ramp. He suddenly felt very alone. He fought down the feeling and headed for the check-in desk. With the formalities completed, there were still some forty-five minutes before the plane left. He needed something to do that would preferably keep him largely out of sight. On the next level up, there was a row of therapy booths. For a deposit of ten dollars, you could talk to a computer that was programmed in basic psychology. The booths in airports were mainly concerned with the fear of flying.

  Vickers normally hated the damn things. He considered them as so much shuck and jive. The benefits were minimal and he was certain that confessions made in these booths were taped and filed for future use. In his current situation, a booth, with its spherical, dark-blue plastic bubble, would be an ideal place to keep out of sight until the plane left. The bubble was almost opaque when a customer was inside and the lights were down. He ducked into the nearest one and slid the door closed. The door catch activated the computer.

  "How would you like to pay?"

  "Cash."

  Vickers could have sworn that the flat, synthetic voice sounded disgusted.

  "I have no facility for handling cash. The only machines capable of handling cash in this location are at the far end of the line, nearest to the book stall."

  Vickers hurried down the row of blue spheres. Fortunately, the one at the end was empty. He fed a ten dollar bill into a slot and stretched out on the plastic recliner. The lights dimmed and the computer became electronically soothing.

  "Why don't you describe the anxieties that you are ex­periencing."

  "Every time I get into one of these things I have an overwhelming urge to blow up the machine and myself with it. The only thing that's consistently saved me is that I've never had any explosives with me."

  "How long have you been experiencing these hostilities?"

  "Since I was weaned."

  "Go on."

  "Listen, would you please just leave me alone? I ducked in here to stay out of the way until my plane boards."

  "Why are you so fearful? Why don't you tell me about the things that scare you."

  Vickers sat up straight, aware that he was getting mad with a machine. The knowledge only made him madder.

  "I'm a professional assassin with a price on my head and my picture's been splashed all over TV. I've got a right to be scared."

  The only advantage of a cash-operated machine was that, if there really was someone recording the session, without a credit card there was no record of his identity.

  * * *

  The 1009 eased its bulk into level flight, and the warning lights went out. The passengers started to relax. Back in smoking they were turning the air blue. Vickers flicked on the tiny TV screen in the back panel on the seat in front of him. The cabin attendants were breaking out the booze carts. The woman next to him was looking around as though she needed a drink. He read her as an out-of-towner who thought that she was cute and slick but had altogether overdone it. The elaborate ringlet coif was draped too heavily onto her right shoulder. The neckline of the black, tailored exec suit plunged just a little too deep. The skirt was fractionally too tight and the slit up the side was fractionally too long, or maybe she just intended to have a good time in Las Vegas. Vickers had given her a look of polite interest when she'd first sat down but there'd been no response and from then on he'd minded his own business.

  Amjet prided itself on being a sensible airline. Apart from cramming its cabin attendants, man and women alike, into ludicrously brief shorts and halters, it had resisted the trend toward increasing the in-flight fun. It had no swing flights with people fucking in every toilet, no dip movies, no lasers and no audio pressure. All you got on Amjet was food, booze and seat television. Vickers flicked channels on the TV until he got to what looked like newsreel tape of ragged, wild-eyed soldiers ravaging some bleak, snowbound steppe village. It was undoubtedly supposed to be Russia. He slipped on the headphones. Sure enough, a smug commentary was describing how breakaway units of the disintegrating and half-starved Red Army were preying on the civilian population of the eastern Soviet Union but all the time moving west toward richer European picking. The commentator's concern over the human suffering involved was thoroughly swamped by his obvious glee at how this was final proof of the failure of the Marxist system. The woman next to him was pointing her index finger at the screen. The nail polish was black with a tiny red dragon decal on each finger. Vickers hadn't seen such attention to detail in a long time. Maybe she really did want to have a good time in Las Vegas. He pulled off the headphones.

  "I'm sorry, were you speaking to me?"

  "They mass produce those things in northern Canada. All that Russian atrocity stuff. I work for KJHJY back in Trenton. We buy it by the mile."

  "Should you be telling me this?"

  "Sure, why not? Nobody believes what they see on TV. They know anything goes. All the news shows use simufilm. The corps are
too cheap to send crews all over the world. Mind you, I doubt you'd be able to find a cameraman willing to point a lens at the Red Army. I figure we're probably doing the Reds a favor. The real thing's probably ten times worse."

  "You sound cynical."

  "Sure I'm cynical, I'm going for a weekend in Vegas on my own."

  Vickers took another look at her. She was running just a tad toward overblown but there was somthing quite attractive about the severe way she kept it in check. Vickers smiled despite the fact that he didn't feel in any condition for conversation. The arrival of the booze cart gave him a little more time to put off the effort. The woman ordered a martini and Vickers asked for a scotch. She half raised her glass.

  "Are you on vacation?"

  Vickers shook his head. "Just looking for a change of scene." He realized that he'd delayed too long in the matter of assuming an identity. He didn't know who he was and what he did. He could see that, at any moment, she'd be asking him exactly those questions. Already she had halfway confided in him and was certainly looking for some kind of reciprocation. He got in with the first question.

  "Why Vegas, though?"

  "Isn't that what it's there for?" She took a swift hit from a plastic PAM puffer. This could be the reason why she was so talkative. He pretended not to have noticed. "It's nice to be in among a lot of people who appear to make a profession out of being lucky."

  "They run out of luck and they move on."

  "So what? I'm only going for the weekend. I can pretend." The woman looked around for the cabin attendent to give her another martini. The carts had all returned to the galley. Vickers swallowed the last of his scotch. "Maybe I should go and get us two more."

  The woman shook her head. "No, no, I'll go. I'm on the outside."

  As she slid out of the seat, the slit in her tapered skirt allowed Vickers a fast glimpse of an expanse of thigh topped with black lace. He doubted that it was an accident. While the woman was gone, he did some swift thinking. In the normal run of things, he would have rebuffed her. A lady TV exec on a desperate spree was the kind of relationship that could end, if not in disaster, at least in a mess of resentment well before her weekend was out. Not that he wasn't tempted; there was a part of him that could think of nothing better than spending seventy-two hours wallowing in bed and booze. It was just that he'd been down this same road too many times before. On the other hand, though, his brain had started ticking. Nobody looked twice at a guy flying into Las Vegas with a good looking woman. They also had a ready made excuse for why he didn't use a credit card or produce major ID. Husband and bimbo on a classic weekend. She might well be the best cover he could come up with on the spur of the moment.

  She returned, juggling a couple of miniature scotches for him, two readymixed martinis in those plastic bulb containers, disposable glasses and some ice. She deftly slid into her seat without using her hands, which, on reflection, Vickers decided was quite a feat. She put Vickers' scotch in front of him, cracked the neck on the first readymix, poured it and raised her plastic cocktail glass in semi-toast. "Viva Las Vegas!"

  Vickers hadn't opened his scotch yet. The old fashioned metal cap was fighting back. He swirled his ice. "Yeah . . . right."

  "My name's Lavern Brisk."

  It was that moment. He extended a hand. "Mort . . . Mort Vickers."

  She squeezed it.

  "Well, hi, Mort."

  "Hi Lavern."

  It wasn't as crazy as it seemed at first. He had no choice but to go into Las Vegas and wait for someone to contact him. If he had to be a sitting duck, he might as well use his own name. It would at least hasten the process. He finally wrestled the cap off the scotch. He sipped it and smiled. The TV screen had given up on the Russians. Stanley Frog was doing something offensive in a polkadot suit. Lavern again pointed at the screen.

  "You mind if I shut this off?"

  "Not one bit."

  He was fascinated by the dragon decals. He'd made a decision and he might as well get into the spirit of it. Lavern seemed to be doing the same. She cracked her second readymix, eased over into the corner of her seat, kicked her shoes off and tucked her feet up under her.

  "I can't handle Stanley Frog. He's got to be an all-time slime."

  Vickers began to ponder on just how soft and pink she might be beneath the suit. He found that, despite himself, he was actually starting to relax. The scotch helped, easing his imagination as far as wondering just how shockable she might be, in just how much experimentation she'd be happy to engage.

  "I travel a lot. I manage to avoid him."

  "I didn't think there was anywhere on the planet that didn't get Stanley Frog. He's on every fucking satellite."

  Her propensity to talk might prove to be a problem.

  "Or do you work off-planet?"

  Vickers blinked. He'd known that he would have to concoct some story sooner or later. He'd been so busy speculating about Lavern that he'd been hoping it would be later. The question was sufficiently close to home to prevent anything coming trippingly to his tongue. The best he could do was mysterious.

  "Not quite."

  There was something watchful in Lavern's eyes. This woman might be horny but she wasn't stupid.

  "What's that supposed to mean? You work in midair?"

  "That's where I am now."

  The language of her body became a good deal less inviting.

  "You can be pretty oblique when you want to."

  "I'm sorry. There are times when I tend to fall into it. What I was going to say is that I did once make the jump up to one of the donuts."

  Once again the truth was as good as anything else. Certainly Lavern's eyebrows shot up. She even clutched at his arm.

  "You really went into space? Oh, I'd love to do that. It must have been so exciting."

  "Actually, I hated every minute. I was sick as a dog from liftoff to touchdown. I sincerely hope I never have to do it again."

  The clutch relaxed. Lavern drew her hand away, she was no longer impressed. Vickers smiled and attempted to regain ground.

  "A lot of things aren't as wonderful as they appear."

  "That's not a very romantic view of the world."

  "It's not a very romantic world. The best we can do is take our pleasures where we find them."

  Lavern made a wry grimace and swallowed the last of her third martini. "That's true enough." She beckoned to a cabin attendent. He seemed to be forgiven for not liking space travel. Vickers stretched out in his seat.

  "Where will you be staying when we land?"

  Lavern turned from ordering. A half-smile played around the corners of her mouth.

  "I have a reservation at the Pyramid. How about you?"

  Eye contact was direct. Vickers' smile turned into a grin. He half shrugged.

  "I hadn't really made any plans. This trip was kind of spur of the moment. I'd been thinking that I might check into one of the older joints on the strip, but I should go to the Pyramid too."

  The pause was long and the eye contact total. Then Lavern produced a lipstick and a tiny mirror from her bag. She checked her reflection.

  "That could be nice. Maybe we'll have the chance to get to know each other better."

  * * *

  The desk clerk was beckoning him back. Lavern, with a bellhop in tow with her luggage, was almost at the elevator. She turned and called to him. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing, go on ahead. I'll catch up with you."

  She nodded and was swallowed up by the crowd around the banks of elevators. Vickers went back to the desk.

  "I didn't want to say anything in front of the lady but ..."

  Vickers scowled. "I don't understand."

  "The Intercontinental Pyramid can't accept you as a guest under the present circumstances."

  "What are you talking about? I just registered and paid for three days in advance."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Donne. We have to think of the security of the other guests."

  Vickers had registered und
er the name of John Donne. There was no way, in the time, that they could have found out who he was.

  "What's the matter with me?"

  "Nothing, sir. It's just that you don't have any credit cards or any backup identification. You could be anybody."

  Vickers jerked his head in the direction that he'd last seen Lavern.

  "I just don't want this visit to be on the record. It might prove embarrassing."

  "I can understand that, sir, but there are a lot of strange people on the wander these days."

  "I'm not on the wander, damn it. I'm a respectable citizen."

  "The trouble is that you have no way of proving that, sir."

  "So what am I supposed to do? Stay in some fleabag motel full of roamers and structurals?"

  "We might possibly reach an accommodation."

  Vickers raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

  "If you felt like leaving a further sum on deposit, we could issue you with a temporary hotel credit card. It'd make for greater convenience for you and give us a greater sense of security."

  "I bet it would."

  "I don't see any other way around it."

  "In other words, I have to put up a bond to stay in your damned hotel."

  "It's for your greater safety and pleasure."

  "So how much do you want?"

  "That would be up to you, sir."

  Vickers was resigned. "Would two thousand make Intercon­tinental Hotels feel any more secure?"

  The desk clerk smiled one of those bland, computerized, cream-of-wheat smiles that they teach at low echelon corporate seminars with names like The Human Interface.

  "I'm sure that would be adequate."

  The clerk prepared the temporary card. It was one of the fancy new clear-plastic kind that are almost impossible to read. He extended it to Vickers on a small silver tray.

  "If you'd just validate it by placing your thumb on the blue area."

  Vickers silently cursed. The damn card was printcoded. In half an hour everyone with access to the hotel computers would know who he was. There seemed to be no way around it. Both the right and wrong people would find out who he was eventually. With a sense of plunging off the deep end, he pressed down on the small blue panel on the card. Finally he counted out two thousand dollars for the impassively pleasant clerk. As he walked away from the desk he wondered exactly what they'd find. Presumably Victoria had continued with the makebelieve that he was an employee who'd been terminated in high disgrace. He could easily be listed as having no job, no corporate line and, in fact, no visible means of support. The only redeeming feature of all this was that, if fired, no bounty would be payable on him. Of course, there still could be amateurs with old information.