“Certainly.”
“And do you have any idea how much thrust need be generated in order for those vehicles to overcome the pull of Earth’s gravity?”
Spotswood looked to his screen again. “Ballpark? I’d guess something around, say, uh, maybe, I dunno… about 37 million horsepower?”
Scanlan smiled and shook his head as if in disbelief. “You are correct, sir. And according to JF… actually, it appears they’ve given us some information but not the whole story.”
Now Spotswood grew serious. “According to JF, the four engines plus a fifth device labeled the Sweeper are capable of producing in excess of61 million horses.”
“Which might account for that brief dimming of the lights here inside the Oasis. But what, as you stressed, does in excess of mean? 62 million horse power? 100 million horse power?”
“Connie, however many ponies are in that stable, the results were mind-boggling.” He paused. “Next came kind of a burp which shot a load of coins maybe twenty feet into the air. That was followed by a second burp which maybe doubled the height of the spray. And then boom! All four tubes started firing a torrent of coins, looked to me to be 20, 25 stories into the air where they met and then fell straight down into the center of the enclosure creating a sound the likes of which I’ve never heard. Millions of steel raindrops hitting the ground is all I can think of.”
“And then quickly as it began, the engines shut down and we literally could have heard a pin drop as the final penny landed. The audience, both outside and sharing the spectacle inside with us, and I should add myself, was stunned into silence for perhaps five seconds, and then as if on cue burst into another window-rattling ovation, calming down only after Ben motioned to them then casually announced We’ll start this pup back up in a few moments after we take care of a small task my young friends are going to help us with.”
“Small task, huh?” Spotswood looked to his screen. “Walbee’s young friends, specifically Jill Kupsco, Billy Parshall and Barbara Siwy had the honor of drawing a single entry each from the tumbler and pending verification, and if you answer to the name Ravi Rajan, Lauren Sternberg, Guy Mullin, Paula Seth and/or Butterfly Reddy you might want to keep your transphone handy to accept a call because your bank account may have just increased to the tune of five million dollars. Congratulations.”
“Coming up, following some messages from our sponsors, a repeat of the inauguration of the Pyramid of Change followed by the second and third rounds of the one hundred million dollar World Standoff! Tournament from the Prism Resort and Casino here on the far end of Meadows Boulevard, a.k.a. Las Vegas Boulevard, exclusively here on Fox. Stay tuned.”
***
Reynolds paced back and forth in his private sanctuary beside Security Control, tapping the ball of his walking stick into a palm with each step. Stopping, he stared at an image frozen in place on a screen on the upper-right of the Big Board showing Spotswood and Cassie sitting at a table in Calico. Turning to one of the adjacent offices he called, “Mary? You got a minute?”
“Be right there.” And in a moment she was. Reynolds motioned her to take a seat in front of the Drafter console then pulled over a stool to join her.
“What’s the best def photo you’ve got of Spotswood. Something recent. Full frontal.”
“How ’bout something from the broadcast last night?”
“That’d be fine.” He gestured to the Board. “Put it up on number three.”
After a quick search, she found her target then displayed it. “How’s this one?”
“We’ll keep that shot for the time being.” He paused. “Now what’ve we got from say… something from when we started on the surveillance in November. Something that was taken before Thanksgiving.”
The search took longer then she said, “I’ve got some with him coming out of Pinkiefinger onto the sidewalk from… November 17th.”
“Show me a few that… do you have any that roughly match the image on three? Pop it onto number four.”
She sorted through the folder, brought up one, changed her mind then replaced it with another. “How’s that?”
“Good.” He thought a moment. “Finally, I’d like to see something that predates the one on four.”
“By how much?”
“By months if possible?”
She took a sip from her coffee cup. “How about… can’t be sure of the exact dates they were taken but his pictures on the backs of his two books’d probably do the trick. The image from Inside The Box’s gotta be at least what? Nine months old? Which’d make the one from Wheels Up probably at least eighteen months, maybe more. Give me a few minutes to find them.”
“Take your time,” Reynolds agreed then after standing began to pace again, his trans beeping as he reached the far end of the office. “Reynolds… When?... I suppose that’d be a good idea… How many Floaters do we still have available?… Nah, just one ought to be enough… Okay… ”
“Got ’em Chief,” Mary called.
“On numbers five and six, please,” he instructed, then went across to dim the lights down to a pleasant glow. Returning to his stool, he gazed at the four photos. “Mar? I’d like to ask you a few questions, you being a woman.”
“You finally noticed?” she chuckled.
He gestured to the screens. “Tell me what you see, darling?”
She set an elbow on the desk then rested a cheek against her closed hand. “How do you mean?”
“Four photos of the same man. Although you’re a happily engaged woman to a very… did Geoff manage to… when am I going to meet this lucky man?”
She smiled. “He’s… transed earlier from our room as soon as he got in. Loves it. Absolutely loves it, and’s really over the moon with the tickets for the Battle. Huge fan of Pandora’s.” She paused. “Uh, have you decided about my schedule for tonight?”
“Aside from that everybody’s on call?”
“Dave. I’ve been working my ass two months straight and taken a total of three days off.”
“You’re point being?”
“My point is that… ah, I don’t know. It’d just be nice to enjoy a little bit of everything rather than trying to figure out what’s gonna go wrong.”
Reynolds nodded. “Actually, I was thinking it might be a good idea to have an extra somebody in BB One ‘case… in case I needed somebody there.”
“That would be absolutely wonderful but it’d be more wonderful if I could see the concert with Geoff.”
“Well you’d have to have a guy with you, you know, as a cover to get them thinking you’re just a lucky couple who knows somebody important.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you saying that… ”
“That you and your financier should, if it wouldn’t be an imposition, watch the show from seats where you can keep an eye on old Jip.”
She jumped up and wrapped her arms around him. “Please don’t tell me you’re kidding.”
“I won’t because I’m not,” he responded, gently pulling her arms away.
“I owe you big for this, Chief. If there’s anything I can ever… ”
“There is. Have a seat and follow my instructions.”
“Yesssssssir!” she saluted.
Reynolds began to pace yet again, looking to the floor and then the photos and then the floor and then the photos, finally stepping around the counter to give them a closer look. “Can you give me a better resolution?”
Mary made a few adjustments, bringing the four images into an almost three dimensional focus. “Better?”
He nodded then moved even nearer, nodding again to himself. Returning to the stool, he gestured toward them with an index finger. “Four photos of the same man, though not identical photos.” He paused. “Which one would you say most attracts your attention?”
“The one from last night,” she replied without hesitation.
“Why?”
“Can’t say. He just looks really nice in that one.”
Reynolds motioned her t
o stand then sat down at the console, pulling up the list of files it contained. “Where do you keep my personal reference stuff?”
“Try Research... Research.”
He gave her a look, paged down to the file then opened it. Finding one labeled The Eyes Have It—M, he clicked it open and sent the image to monitor seven. It was a pair of identical photos of a handsome man in his thirties wearing a suit and tie smiling casually into the camera. “One man, same photos. Which image do you like best?”
She thought a beat. “The one on the right.”
“Why?”
“Not sure, but I like that one best.”
“But they’re the same.”
“I can see that, but the one on the right is still my choice.”
“Sure you can’t see any differences?”
“Positive.”
Reynolds folded his arms then leaned back into the chair. “There is… one of them has been doctored.” He paused. “You can sense it, at least your subconscious can.” He paused again. “I could show these to a 100 women and 80, 85 % will pick the one you did.”
She did some counting on her fingers. “That’s way outside chance and probability,” she grinned. “What’s the secret?”
He stood, motioned her to follow then they stepped around to the monitor where he placed a fingertip below one of the eyes on the left-side photo. “See the size of his pupil? About normal size?”
“Uh-huh.”
Then he did the same to the right-side image. “The one here covers practically all of the iris.”
She cocked her head then slowly nodded. “And?”
“Our pupils dilate when we see something we like, especially if it’s something we want.”
She raised both hands and spread her fingers as if to ask So?
“We’ve established you’re a woman. A man is looking at you. Somewhere in the primordial past our brains were wired to sense when a potential mate found us attractive. You chose the man who found you attractive… at least more attractive… than the other guy.” He smiled. “And you knew why even if you didn’t know why you did. Make sense?”
She chuckled but didn’t reply.
“So let’s try and figure out why you like one Jip rather than the other Jips.”
She eased over to the four images for a better look. After studying them she said, “All of the pupes are about the same. Medium.”
Reynolds sighed then returned to his stool, motioning her to stand beside him. “Look again. Why do you like the one on number three?”
“I don’t know, Dave. I just do. Which one do you like best?”
“Same as yours.” He thought a moment then gestured her to return to the console. “Run a RecPro on the two book covers.”
“It’s the same guy.”
“Would you mind?”
“Coming up.”
A pair of green rectangles isolated the faces on five and six followed by a series of yellow Xs on different features followed almost instantly by a red legend below the two flashing > 98%.
“Okay,” he said. “Same on number five to the one from November.”
This time the reading was >96%.
“Okay. Now November to the one from last night.”
The analysis came slower this time, recalibrating a few times until it indicated that there was less than a forty-nine percent probability of a match.
“That can’t be right,” Mary said. “Lemme run them through a few buffers.”
Four overlays later, the result remained the same.
Chapter Twelve
Spotswood and Denny stepped up to the door of the rehearsal room covered by a pair of uniformed guards, one of them grinning broadly. “Den? Slumming today?”
“C’mon, Brandi. You know I go slumming every day!”
“And may I ask who your handsome assignment is?”
“Brand, meet Jonathan P. Spotswood.”
Her eyes widened. “Jip Spotswood?”
“That’s me.”
“Oh? Wow. I read you all the time on Pinkie. That story you did recently on, uh, Choke Santagomez? The guitar pick one? Loved it.”
“Thank you.”
“So whadda you need to see, girl?”Denny teased.
Brandi shook her head. “Nothin’. Enough of the guys are in there to stop an invasion from North Korea.” Opening the door, she gestured them in.
The first thing that caught Spotswood’s eye were seven additional security personnel—five males and two females, some uniformed, some not—standing or sitting off to the left, most of whom greeted his with words or nods. The second was the three men who began approaching, all smiles.
Harry Hansen was the first to welcome him. The original lead guitarist of The Alliance, he’d only stuck around for the first two albums then decided the grind didn’t suit him, electing to return to college, earn a doctoral degree in Pharmacy then embark on a successful career as an administrator at a private hospital, eventually rising to become the Director of Pharmacies for a large health care conglomerate. When Polanski and Lera decided to again reshuffle the backing lineup for CCBBA, he was their first choice but he’d turned them down, not signing up until he learned that his company was in talks to merge with an even bigger conglomerate whose chairman had a penchant for dispatching anybody who’d ever criticized his management style, something Harry had been doing for years. But he was nearing retirement anyway, he’d told Lera, when he eventually agreed to strap on his Barney Kessel, which Spotswood didn’t buy then and still didn’t. Though easily the shyest member in the group, the twinkles he’d seen in the man’s pale blue eyes when receiving an ovation from an audience after completing one of his memorable breaks told the real story. But the arthritis in both hands told an additional story, the visible deformities evidence that Old Barnacle might soon be silenced.
“I’d shake your hand, Jip,” Hansen said, displaying knuckles the size of marbles, “but for one, I know that creeps you out, and for two, I gotta save these for tonight.”
“How ’bout we shake after the show?”
“You’ve got a deal.”
The next in line was DJ Wingrove, Alliance’s original bassist, who like Hansen had left the band early on, he to pursue a career in fiction writing. A darling of the critics but not so with mainstream readers, he nonetheless hit the mother lode when his entire Empire Of Ice series had been optioned then purchased by Time Warner which allowed for a luxurious life for him, his wife Suzie and their four daughters. But unlike Hansen, he’d jumped at the chance to rejoin the group upon receipt of the invitation and provided just the spark Lera was searching for to reignite the Alliance engine; sort of a tune-up to bring the five musicians back to the original factory specs.
“You just get better looking every time I bump into you, Spots,” he said, wrapping an arm around Spotswood’s neck and pulling him close. “And don’t give me any of that no hugging no kissing shit!”
Spotswood pushed him away then spread his arms. “Come and get all you want, Birdman.”
Wingrove gave a puzzled look, then accepted the embrace saying, “You are the same dude who wrote Wheels Up, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“If so, when are my royalty checks going to arrive? You promised me a cut, remember?”
“Ohhhh,” Spotswood smiled. “They’re in the mail.”
The third was Jeremy Sutter-Zeichech who’d been the official manager of The Alliance since day one, who’d gotten them their first recording contract and who’d went on to lead them to superstardom with a deft touch for business and a schoolmaster’s discipline. But as the organization grew and grew, his responsibilities began to shrink in favor of younger and more skilled specialists to the point that he was now probably the highest paid hanger-on in the history of music.
“Good to see you again,” Zeichech said, extending a hand.
After shaking it Spotswood returned, “You too, Jeremy.” Then glancing to a corner of the room he spied Lera at a drafting table c
overed with large sheets of staff paper, composing a musical arrangement as Christie stood watching over his shoulder. He’d seen the man at work before, sometimes not content to simply demonstrate how he wanted a piece played but instead penning out the fine details to force his band mates—including Andy—to put the kid gloves on. A couple pages of Wheels Up had been devoted to an hours-long tutorial Lera had conducted for the author and since that time the two had exchanged a number of emails as Spotswood continued his studies of this fascinating discipline he knew he now understood more than many of the musicians he wrote about, most of them not knowing a G clef from a Treble. He went across and tapped Lera softly on his shoulder.
“Hey, Jipster! Taking a break from being a television sensation?”
“Dave. My services aren’t required until yours are.”
“So what’cha think?” he asked, gesturing to the project.
Spotswood studied a page then shook his head. “I’ll take a clue, please.”
“No leads, just backing. Three instruments.”
“I see the three instruments but it reads like… like something that’d be played on… like in an orchestra?”
“Not bad, my man.” He paused. “Okay. The one in the middle is a viola.”
“Viola?”
“Yeah. A violin on growth hormones. Therefore, the other two must be… what?”
Spotswood thought it through. “Violin and cello?”
“Damn you’re good.”
“I have a good teacher.”
“Very impressive,” Christie put in, rubbing his back. He didn’t want her to stop the kneading, but hearing the door open, she turned and quickly stepped away towards Polanski who entered the hall with Marcy, Clark and a new pair of guards trailing behind. She whispered something in his ear, he nodded and she left, her own personal security trotting after to catch up. Polanski walked over to where he was standing, nodded a greeting then eased him aside to gaze at his partner’s progress.
“First page?” he requested, and Lera moved it to the top. “This is sweet,” he continued, then tapped at the viola line. “This will bring tears to her eyes.”
Weekend at Prism Page 18
