Vickers

by Mick Farren

  The main elevators were lavish affairs of Art Nouveax glass that ran up and down the sloping sides of the huge entertain­ment complex. For twelve years the Intercontinental Pyramid had been the single landmark by which the city of Las Vegas was recognized across the world. By sheer volume, it was the world's largest solid structure. Unlike its ancient cousins in the Egyptian desert, its four faces were more than just bare areas of stepped stone. The surface of this modern extravaganza was textured with terraces, glass canopies, solar reflectors and the tracks of its dozens of elevators. Of course, the Las Vegas dome would have eclipsed the Pyramid if the dome had ever been built. The dome, which had been intended to enclose a whole section of the city like an air-conditioned moon colony, occupied another place in history as, so far unchallenged, the world's greatest development swindle. All that was left was a couple of abandoned sections of block-wide base ring.

  Once the elevators cleared the thirtieth floor they offered a panoramic view out across the city. The desert sunset was sufficiently majestic to slow even Vickers' racing thoughts. It was a deep, brooding and slightly preposterous red that completely matched his mood. The lights of the city were starting to come on and the skysigns were just faintly beginning to show. As the day faded further, the holograms would ghost in the darkness. Formless afternoon was turning into the manic, driven night. Down on the street they'd be getting restless pretty soon. So much to want before sleeping. Lights were the hallmark of this city whose only industry was raw fun. They were so important that they actually usurped the solid architecture of the skyline with dazzling structures of light and air that soared up and out, at times seemingly reaching for space. A billboard blimp drifted in close to the pyramid, glowing with a Teshko commercial that alternated Japanese text with the regular English and Spanish. The Japanese came to Las Vegas in the millions, spending their welfare money while the robots worked the Nissan and the Shogi factories. They were not only gambling-happy but also perversely excited by the ethos of the place. They'd also spend hours taking pictures of the statues of Elvis and Ann-Margret in Wayne Newton Plaza.

  The elevator stopped at the fifty-fourth floor. Vickers crossed to the moving walkway that took him closer to his room. He and Lavern had decided to take two separate but adjoining rooms. That way they were acknowledging the possibilities but also not making any commitment. The two rooms could be opened up into a single suite or the doors could be locked on the two units. It was the seemly way to do things. It was, after all, the Age of Appearances. After the discovery of the ephracine treatment, debauchery was once again the norm, except one was expected to close the doors first. They'd even paid top dollar and taken rooms on the outside of the building. This got them a small, shared terrace as a bonus.

  All the way there, Vickers kept turning his situation over and over. If, indeed, he had been officially fired from Contec, how many people knew that he was really still working for them? The chances were that Victoria Morgenstern was the only one. That put him in an extremely precarious position. The moment anything went wrong, she'd just let him fall. The termination would become real and his lack of support would be breathtak­ing. Another not too pleasant thought occurred to him. If, as his cover suggested, he'd been terminated, held pending an inquiry and then escaped, it would be a matter of course for Victoria to send a team after him, either to kill him or to bring him back. If she didn't, someone would be bound to smell a rat. As if his problems weren't varied and complex enough, he would have to constantly be on the alert for a Contec murder squad dropping on him. It was possible that Victoria might have mitigated the threat by sending a team of dummies, but he couldn't count on that. For all practical purposes, he'd have to behave as though there's never been any conversation with Victoria and that the bunker mission didn't exist. He was an ex-corpse on the run from his former employers. That was as much as anyone could be expected to handle. The cover was too damn tight and too damn convincing. The worst part was that he had to absolutely trust Victoria Morgenstern. It was this single fact that made him the most uncomfortable.

  The walkway was bringing him up to the drop-off point for his room. He wanted a shower, a scotch and then a long, dreamless sleep. He was in no mood for a bout of strenuous romance with a hyperactive TV exec from New Jersey who puffed PAM, talked incessantly and probably had all kinds of odd ideas about him. He walked down the short corridor and slid his card into the lock to let himself into his own room. The connecting doors were closed. There was something very wrong with moving into a hotel room with absolutely nothing. There was a refrigerator in the bathroom. Inside, he found a selection of miniatures. There was only one scotch. He drank it straight from the plastic. It didn't make him feel much better. He crossed the room and pulled open the glass doors that led to the terrace. As he stepped out of the air conditioning, the heat sandbagged him. The outside air reeked of dry, overheated city.

  The sunset had faded to a final, deep purple. The holograms were now clear and ghostly among the first shimmering desert stars. A dozen blocks away, a twenty-story cartoon cowboy leered and beckoned, pointing down at the neon slab of the New Gold Nugget at his feet. Immediately outside, on the forecourt of the Pyramid, a hologram showgirl, maybe twice as tall as the cowboy, bumped and ground. Why the hell did they have to send him to Las Vegas? It was a city with nothing to do with reality. Behind him, the doors to Lavern's room were also open. Vickers leaned on the balustrade and watched the cars fifty stories below. He turned and looked at the open doors. What was she doing in there? He faintly hoped she might have passed out. She'd had enough martinis on the plane. Then a voice came from within.

  "Is that you out there, Mort?"

  He sighed. "It sure is."

  "You sound tired."

  "Maybe I am."

  He was going to go in to her, but then she was there, framed in the doorway with soft, yellow light behind her. She was holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

  "We'll have to see what we can do about that, won't we?"

  She was wearing the same red shoes that she had worn on the plane. Vickers hadn't noticed before quite how high the heels were. The stockings were a matching red as was the corselette with the straps and the intricate lacing. It was an exact recreation of the costume Vespa Matins had worn for the chapel scene in The Penal Colony; it was indeed the Age of Appearances. The red fox fur was a whimsical and slightly improvisational touch, as were the blinking red LEDS that she's twined into her piled hair. It was a full-scale show.

  "You look magnificent."

  * * *

  Vickers wasn't sure for how long he'd dozed. It was still bright Las Vegas night on the other side of the terrace. He could just see one giant undulating thigh of the huge, hologram showgirl. Lavern was asleep on her back. Her mouth was slightly open, allowing small, ladylike snores to escape. Just one red stocking still remained. The floor was littered with the debris of her somewhat over-energetic lovemaking. The discarded corselette with the straps and buckles was directly in his line of sight. There was also broken glass. He seemed to remember something about a tray of glasses going over. He hadn't been in a position to care at the time. He pushed himself up on the pillows and massaged his right wrist with his left hand. He felt ragged. Lavern had proved to be not only enthusiastic but also Girlscout-prepared for all eventualities. Later she'd probably want to run the tapes with him and, after they'd watched them, she'd want to do it all over again with variations. Over on the other side of the room the TV was playing some kind of multiple pornography with the sound shut off. The light on the ceiling camera had gone out. Vickers sighed. For the first time in years, he wanted a cigarette. Lavern's PAM puffer was down between the pillows. He hated the stuff but he took a puff anyway. The room spun and he knew that it'd been a mistake. Lavern muttered something in her sleep but didn't wake.

  The phone rang in the next room, his room. It shrilled through the open connecting door. Vickers looked balefully toward the source of the sound. It could only mean troub
le. He decided not to answer it. He didn't see how he could learn anything to his advantage. It rang seven times and stopped. He relaxed and closed his eyes, only to have them jerked open again when the phone shrilled right beside him in Lavern's room. This was too much of an invasion of privacy to ignore. He reached for it but stopped in mid-reach. Las Vegas was the only city in the world to have installed video phones. It had been around the same time as the dome scheme had been in full swing. They had proved to be almost as much of a white elephant. Although they were a fine idea in theory, in practice nobody wanted them. Nobody wanted other people peering into their homes. Everyone kept the lens covered except hookers on call, exhibitionists and a couple of obscure religious groups who believed they had nothing to hide and constantly called each other to make sure. He grabbed his shirt, draped it over the lens and picked up the handset.

  "Yes?"

  The screen glowed. It had a pretty blue graphic on it. There was a message: This Is A Call From Eisenwoe Associates. The voice on the other end sounded like an associate.

  "Mr. Vickers, my name is George Revlon."

  "I think you have the wrong peron."

  "I don't think so."

  "So much for privacy."

  The voice sounded singularly uninterested. "We all have to make sacrifices in this life."

  "I seem to be making more than my fair share. What do you want?"

  "I represent Eisenwoe Associates, Mr. Vickers."

  "I've read that much already."

  "We handle intercorporate liaison."

  "A dip outfit?"

  "We prefer the word liaison to diplomacy. Diplomacy has too many connotations."

  "What do you want with me?"

  "One of our accounts is to handle relations between Intercontinental and Global Leisure."

  "Global Leisure?"

  "That's right."

  Vickers wished that he hadn't taken the toot of PAM. Victoria Morgenstern's plan seemed to be coming together with alarming swiftness.

  "I realize that I'm staying in Intercontinental's Pyramid but I can't see for the life of me what interest Global Leisure might have in me."

  "You underestimate yourself. When anyone with your background arrives in the city, Mr. Mossman likes to know about it."

  "So we're not just talking Global Leisure? We're actually talking Herbie Mossman himself."

  "Indeed we are."

  "Are you sure you're not doing some sort of liaison for Contec?"

  "I understand that you terminated your relationship with Contec."

  "They terminated it, Mr. Revlon. I'm not altogether certain that they don't still intend to terminate me. Since you seem so particularly well informed, you probably already know that up until yesterday they were holding me under house arrest."

  "The management of the Pyramid also knows about it. They're a little distressed. They fear an incident."

  "What time is it?"

  Revlon sounded puzzled. "Five thirty in the morning, why?"

  "Couldn't this have waited until a more civilized hour?"

  "The management is quite agitated and Mr. Mossman wants to talk with you as soon as possible. I was instructed to call you straight away."

  "Mossman wants to see me at five thirty AM?"

  "Mr. Mossman keeps unconventional hours."

  "There's no bounty on me."

  "I'm not a bounty hunter, Mr. Vickers."

  "I still have the feeling that I'm being set up."

  Lavern moved. She was awake. Her voice was slurred.

  "Setting you up for what?"

  "Sshh."

  "Huh?"

  "Is there someone there with you?" Revlon's voice was suddenly guarded.

  Vickers was im­patient. "You know there is. Tell me what you want me to do."

  "I want you to come to see Mr. Mossman as quickly as you can."

  "And if I don't?"

  "At this moment, the Pyramid is intent on ejecting you as a security risk. How long do you think you could survive as a tagged security risk without a single corporate line, Mr. Vickers? You'd be better off a non-person."

  "I feel fucking terrible; I ache all over."

  Lavern was out of bed, stumbling for the fridge. Vickers didn't even glance around.

  "I can't just take a cab to the Global tower and ask for Herbie Mossman."

  Lavern had found herself a container of orange juice and was peering at the TV with a puzzled expression. At Mossman's name her head snapped around.

  "What the fuck are you taking about?"

  Vickers ignored her. He was listening to Revlon.

  "I'll send an escort for you."

  "The hell you will."

  "Why not?"

  "I still think it's a setup."

  "So you tell me."

  "Will somebody tell me what's going on in here?"

  Lavern was struggling into a silk robe.

  "I'll leave here. I'll walk around for a couple hours, maybe have breakfast and then, when I feel enough time has passed, I'll call the main switchboard at Global. You'd better make sure by that time they can connect me with a George Revlon. That's when we'll talk about my meeting with Mossman."

  "Mr. Mossman could be doing you a favor."

  "I doubt it."

  "Then all I can say is that I'll be waiting for your call."

  Vickers nodded and slowly put the phone down. Lavern no longer looked bleary. She was staring at Vickers as though she didn't quite believe what she saw.

  "What are you, Mort? Nobody meets Herbie Mossman, for God's sake. Nobody. Even I know that."

  Vickers was searching around for his clothes. "It's best that you don't know anything about it."

  "What are you doing?"

  In fact, he was pulling on his pants, but he suspected that she wanted a little more background information.

  "I have to go out."

  "Where? You're making me crazy."

  She seemed to be looking for something in the bed. Vickers was pulling on his jacket.

  "You heard me on the phone. I have to see Herbie Mossman."

  She'd found the PAM puffer.

  "There you go again. How can you do this to me?"

  Vickers shrugged and headed for the door. Lavern's face dissolved.

  "After last night? Just like that? Don't you have any finesse at all?"

  Vickers turned; he walked over and put a hand on her shoulder.

  "I'm in more trouble than you could ever want to know about. I'll try and get back."

  He kissed her. She grabbed and pressed against him. Her voice was angry.

  "You make me crazy."

  * * *

  Vickers selected himself a strategically placed corner table. It was about the best he could get. He could see three of the five entrances and had adequate warning of people coming through the other two. He was in the restaurant of the Pharaoh Room on the Pyramid's thirty-sixth floor. He'd chosen the floor at random. He hadn't even pressed a button in the elevator, just stepped out when someone else had. He figured that if the hotel's security was already tracking him, he might as well make it as hard as possible for them. Picking a floor was an easy bet. They all had roughly the same facilities. On any one, he knew that he'd be able to find a public room in which he could vanish for a couple of hours.

  The restaurant was separated from the main gambling room by a long glass wall. Its lights were a little more dim than those in the main room and the diners were treated to a panoramic view of the crowds around the flashing Mirage machine, the old fashioned slots, the crap and blackjack tables, the roulette wheels and the fan tan games. All along the wall behind him, giant hieroglyphics, cartoon versions of Isis, Anubis and Ra followed each other across a huge fiber-optic display with the angular jerkiness of sand dancers.

  "You want something?"

  The waitress looked like she was just about to go off shift. She was the usual statuesque, leggy, Las Vegas type. They didn't seem to employ any other kind for jobs that involved handling the pu
blic. There were so many unemployed they could ultimately pick and choose. This one was definitely five hours frayed and starting to wilt a little. Her extremely short tunic and overdone eye makeup was some cheap Hollywood mogul's idea of an ancient Egyptian slavegirl right down to the incongruous platform sandals. The look she gave Vickers owed its lack of enthusiasm to something more than her weary feet. He realized that he must have started to look noticeably disreputable.

  "What time is it?"

  "Just after six."

  "I guess I might as well have breakfast."

  "You can have what you want. We serve all things at all times."

  "Breakfast will do. It'll help get me on to real time."

  Without a word, she handed him a breakfast menu.

  "A large scotch, a glass of milk, eggs benedict and coffee."

  "How do you want your salad?"

  "I don't."

  "Any particular scotch?"

  "Johnnie Walker Black."

  "Cash or plastic?"

  "Cash."

  It was a protective impulse. Using the card would instantly give his location. He watched the waitress walk away and then stared up at the mirrored ceiling. If he wasn't being scanned right then he certainly soon would be. There was little doubt that she would tap in a report that someone who didn't look quite right was sitting at one of her tables paying cash. In a world of infinite data, everyone spies for the computers. He wasn't all that worried. If Mossman wanted to see him, it was unlikely that the Pyramid security would make a move to eject him or anything of the kind, but it didn't hurt to protect himself. Protection was more a matter of carefully cultivated unconscious habits than any considered design. All too often, there wasn't time for a plan.