Behind her, standing in the doorway, I saw what must be the Shepherds. An elderly couple, trim and tidy, with smiles plastered on their faces that had nothing to do with happiness. They were watching every move I made.
“Rachel, honey, I guess the man says you have to stay here for a while. But I’m going to hire an attorney and fight. I’ll get you back.”
“Please hurry. I can’t stand it here.”
“Why?” I put a finger under her chin and raised her eyes to mine. “Have they hurt you?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Made you do a lot of chores?”
“They haven’t made me do anything. They’re just so… you know. Boring. I want to go home.”
“About that.” I figured the best approach was to come right out with it. “I lost the house.”
“What?” Almost instantly, water welled up in her eyes.
“Yeah. Bank took it.”
“But-all my stuff-”
“Lisa saved it. And I’ve got a new place.”
She wiped her eyes. “Where’s the new house?”
“It’s… an apartment. But it’s nice-sized and there’s a room for you. So all your stuff will be waiting for you once I bust you out of Stalag 13.”
Rachel was a lovely girl-she took after my brother, not me. She had auburn hair, getting redder by the day. Clear-skinned and pretty. I knew for a fact she was popular with the boys at school. So far she’d shown good sense about that, for which I was grateful. “Can I see it?”
“Well… let me talk to Ozzie and Harriet.”
Their expressions changed when they realized I was coming for them. They made no approach but braced themselves, as if I were some malevolent force they couldn’t escape. I knew it would be awkward-a meeting between the guardian who’d lost custody and the guardians who’d been given custody. But I wanted to minimize the discomfort. What was the point in hassling them? Better to try to charm them, at least until such time as a court put custody back where it belonged.
“Hello,” I said, hand extended. “I’m Lieutenant Susan Pulaski. I want to thank you for taking care of my niece while I was in the hospital.”
The man took my hand and shook it feebly. The woman just stared.
“Looks as if you have a fine home.”
“We like it,” he said. “Been here twenty-seven years.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ve just moved into a new place. Rachel is anxious to see it.” I laughed and acted very casual. “Probably what she really wants to see is her stuff. Pick up her Discman and some eyeliner. Mind if I show her the new spread?”
The Shepherds exchanged a silent look.
“What do you say? I’ll have her back in an hour.”
The man took forever, like he had to crank up his motor before he could speak. “We were told not to let you remove her from the premises.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t leave town. I just-”
“We were told not to let you take her anywhere.”
Stay calm, I told myself. A portrait in tranquility. This old man can’t get to you.
“We only want what’s best for the child,” the woman interjected.
“Well, ma’am, I’ve kept Rachel for the last three years, so I feel as if I can be trusted to-”
“We were told that Rachel has had a most unstable home environment,” the man said. “That you worked odd hours, were gone for extended periods of time. That she was habitually late for school and missed extracurricular activities, the few she was involved in. That her grades have dropped dramatically.”
“We’ve both had a difficult year. I’m sure you know why. But Rachel is tough. All us Pulaski girls are.”
“Nonetheless-”
“She’ll bounce back. As long as her spirit isn’t smothered under your two-car-garage, sex-every-Thursday mentality.” Damn. Shouldn’t have said that…
“I don’t appreciate that kind of talk.”
I couldn’t stop myself. “And what is it you’ve got to give her that you think is so hot? A riding lawn mower and a color TV? Now I remember where I’ve seen you before. In the dictionary, under mundane.”
“You can stop that abusive talk right now.” He was nervous, twitchy. My God, what had they told him about me? “You aren’t going to take her anywhere.”
“Is that right.”
“That’s right.”
“And what makes you think you could stop me?”
He leaned close to me and sniffed the air. “Have you been drinking?”
“Are you out of-”
“I know all about your substance abuse. The NDHS people told me. And Rachel told me.”
“Look-I don’t do that now.”
His silence clearly communicated how little weight that statement carried with him.
“I’m serious. I’m not drinking anymore.”
“Good.”
“I mean it.”
“Good.” He paused. “But you’re still a drinker. And drinkers are liars.”
It took all my restraint-never my best quality-to keep from decking him. “Look, Mr. High and Mighty, I don’t need any crap about-”
“This interview is over.” He raised his voice. “Rachel. Come in now.” She reluctantly obeyed.
“Wait just a goddamn minute. I’m not-”
“If you don’t leave my property immediately, I’ll call the authorities.”
“I didn’t do anything. I just-”
“Goodbye.” He tucked Rachel behind the door, but she rushed forward and hugged me, hard. He eventually pried her away. Then he shut the door and left me standing like a goon on his well-swept porch. Alone.
Annabel raked in the dough, all the while giggling and acting as if she barely knew what she was doing, as if her big wagers were made out of boredom rather than expertise. She’d ask the dealer for advice-they do that now, ever since Vegas decided to become friendly. Not that they could tell her anything she didn’t already know. It was all for show.
Back around 1994, a team of six MIT students began flying to Vegas to prove what many had speculated for years-that a keen understanding of advanced mathematics could pay off at the blackjack table. Half the team-the Spotters-would spread through the casino and sit at various blackjack tables making normal bets, never varying the amount-but counting cards. Some of these guys were absolute geniuses. They could bring off a slick trick called shuffle tracking, which took advantage of probability-distribution mathematics and the fact that most dealers do a light shuffle so as to resume the game as quickly as possible. Shuffle tracking allowed the Spotters to follow a pocket of favorable cards from one shoe to the next, calculating the amount of low-card infiltration caused by the shuffle. Some Spotters would even intentionally blow hands to control the flow of cards-that is, to make specific cards they were tracking come up when and where they wanted them.
When the deck favored the players, the Spotters would signal one of the Gorillas, who wandered the floor, usually pretending to be drunk or inexperienced or both. When they got the signal, they sat at the Spotter’s table and made the big bets, cleaning up until the Spotter signaled them to leave because the deck was no longer favorable. The Gorillas couldn’t be accused of counting cards; they barely looked at the cards. And it was nearly impossible to nail the Spotters, since they never made any money and often lost. At the end of the day, all members of the team shared the loot. In this manner, the MIT invasion managed to make big bucks and not be detected.
For a few years. Then the casinos caught on and came down on the students-hard. Not only were they all banned, but some were beaten, apartments were robbed and raided, and everyone was terrorized. House rules were changed to make counting less reliable. But new students kept coming. They became the scourge of Vegas; rumor had it the big security firms were willing to take drastic steps to stop the students. Annabel thought it seemed like a crazy risk and had never expected to do it herself.
Until she found out she was pregnant.
Warre
n had saved her life. When she first came to MIT, she was all alone, had no friends. She was awkward and isolated and tended to stutter in class. Even with a famous mother, she was a standout nerd-and at MIT, that took some doing. She knew some of the boys made fun of her behind her back. But not Warren. He adopted her, took care of her, showed her the ropes, invited her to parties. They’d been going out for more than a month before he even tried to have sex with her. And by then, she was so in love that she melted like an ice cube.
She loved Warren, but he was in no position to marry her, not now, when they were both in school and had no money. He told her it would be a mistake and she knew that he was right. Once again, he was looking out for her. But she couldn’t bear the thought of having an abortion. And even less could she bear asking her mother for help. The mother who could spend hours with the network suits she belittled but couldn’t find time to see her daughter win the Academic Bowl state finals. She had never given Annabel any direction or advice or help other than financial. Her mother had chosen to make her job Priority One, to never be seriously involved in Annabel’s life. Well, fine. She wasn’t about to go running to the woman now.
Which meant she needed to come up with some cash, fast. So she’d flown west, slapped on this blond wig, and come to the Transylvania. And on the eighth hand, the last dealt from the favorable shoe, she split two tens-not normally a smart move, but the deck favored her, and the dealer had a six showing, his worst possible card. It paid off. She doubled a two-thousand-dollar bet twice, took all her winnings, and quit. Now she had the stake she needed. She could marry Warren, give this baby a name, and continue their education without involving her mother.
She pushed away from the table. “That’s enough for me. It can’t get any better than that.”
The little man sitting beside her grabbed her hand. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
She yanked her hand away. Something about the man’s touch made her skin crawl. “I’m afraid I am. B-B-Best of luck to you.”
She cashed out, then quickly made her way to the elevators that descended to the parking garage. She didn’t want to risk being stopped by pit bosses or mashers or thieves. All she wanted was to get back to Warren and start their life together. This development wouldn’t advance her plan to be the youngest woman ever to win the Fields Medal, but she didn’t mind. She liked the idea of settling down, being a married woman. And she loved the thought of being a mother. Annabel would take a different approach than her own mother had done. Better. She would turn her heartache into empowerment.
The elevator doors dinged and she stepped out into the cold, barren garage. It was quiet and dark, shadowy. This was one area where the haunted house motif did not need to extend, she thought.
Her pace quickened; she heard each step echo in her wake. Chill bumps rose on her arms and legs. She moved even faster.
That was when she heard the footsteps.
No one had come off that elevator since she arrived, she was certain of that. Nonetheless, someone else was here. She fumbled in her purse for her keys. She was practically running now, her heart thumping in her chest. She was alone, dressed provocatively, carrying a big wad of cash-an obvious target, an easy one. Please, God, just get me back to the rental…
She rounded a lane of cars and sprinted. Just a few more steps and she’d be safe. Just a few more steps…
He jumped right in front of her. She screamed.
It was the man from the blackjack table. The little man with the mustache.
“Where you going in such a hurry?” he said, his vulpine eyes dancing.
“Leave me alone.” She held her purse up, brandishing it like a club.
He was quick, smooth, as if he’d had martial arts training. He knocked the purse out of her hand, then grabbed her by the hair. The wig came off in his hands.
“Not a natural blonde? That’s disappointing.” He tossed the wig away and grabbed her brunette locks, jerking her head back. He pressed his face close to hers. “If you take that pretty dress off yourself, I won’t have to rip it.”
“Please leave me alone. Please.”
“After, bitch.”
“You don’t want me. I-I’m pregnant.”
“Sure you are,” he said, flinging her back against the hood of the car. He grabbed the front of her dress with both hands, one over each breast. “Don’t forget that I gave you a chance to do this the easy way.”
“Freeze!”
Her assailant’s head jerked around.
It was the security guard from the casino. He stood about ten feet away and had his gun pointed right at them. “Good thing I kept my eye on you. I thought you were a thief, not a rapist.” He stepped closer, keeping his weapon level. “Now let go of the little lady.”
Instead the assailant thrust Annabel forward, locking his arm around her neck. “She’s my shield, man.”
The guard continued his steady approach. “Do you think I can’t hit you without hitting her? Think again.” He adjusted the aim of the gun, obviously training it on the man’s head. “She won’t even get dirty.”
“All right, all right!” The man released Annabel and pressed himself face-first against the car. “I give up.”
“Very wise.” Lowering his gun, he grabbed the assailant’s right arm and swung it behind his back.
In a sudden flurry of movement, the man whipped around and knocked the gun out of the guard’s hand. He pushed the guard backward and tore off running.
“Stop!”
He bolted down the parking garage, back toward the stairs.
The guard scrambled under a car to retrieve his gun, then gave chase. Before he was halfway across the expanse, the man had disappeared through a stairwell door.
“Damnation!” The guard pulled out his radio and called for help. Then he returned to Annabel’s side. “Are you okay, ma’am?”
“I’ll live,” she said, steadying herself with one hand on the car roof. “You think they’ll catch him?”
“The way he was running? He’ll be at the Luxor before the men upstairs are on their feet. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, I’m just glad you showed up when you did. You’re my hero.”
His eyes twinkled. “Told you that man was dangerous, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“You’ll need to fill out a report.”
“Ohhh…”
“You can do it tomorrow if you’d rather.”
“I would, thanks.” She smiled. He was kind of cute, really.
“Got your purse?”
“Sure.” She bent down and picked it up. “Well, thanks again.”
“Of course.” He started to go, then stopped. “One other thing.”
“Yes?”
“That dress you’re wearing? I don’t like it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look at yourself in the mirror. Your breasts are on display, as if you were a southern plantation slave girl.”
“I-I didn’t realize-”
“Your teats are for nursing children, my dear. Not for attracting men.” His voice seemed to slow, to acquire a more pronounced drawl. “Not for producing unholy thoughts. Luring men to their doom. Throwing your sex at them like some kind of harlot.”
She turned toward her car. “I-I think I should go.”
“Too late for that, petunia.” One hand on the back of her head, he jabbed a syringe into her neck. Her legs wobbled.
He scooped her up into his arms and carried her to his pickup. “I am sorry about the pain, my dear. But you won’t feel it for long.”
Annabel was dazed, limp. “What… what are you going to do…?”
“I’m going to help you. Help you be something better than you are. Something wonderful.”
4
Chin up, Susan, chest out, I told myself as I made a beeline toward the yellow crime scene tape. Walk like you know exactly what you’re doing and you’re in a hurry to get there. That’s how I’ve managed to bluster my way past guard
s, thugs, reluctant witnesses, and on one occasion, Secret Service agents.
I nodded at the patrolman posted by the entrance to the ballroom-and kept on walking. I could read his confusion, his uncertainty. No doubt he’d heard that I’d been relieved of duty and didn’t know what I was doing here. But he didn’t stop me. There was also a hotel security guard standing by the door, a little guy with a tangled mess of black hair and a big bad gun. He was watching me carefully, too. But I kept on walking.
This ballroom was something else. I had been out to this hotel before, not for work but for pleasure. I liked the joint. It appealed to my sense of the macabre. Of all the themed casinos that had sprung up over the last couple of decades, this was my favorite. It was built back in the early Nineties, when Steve Wynn and some of the other high rollers were doing their Vegas Is for Families initiative. Disneyland of the Desert, that’s what they wanted. That’s when the new improved Strip got Treasure Island (pirates) and the Excalibur (Camelot) and the Luxor (fantasy Egypt). Then we got the geographical reconstructions-the New York, complete with a fake Statue of Liberty, and the Paris, complete with a fake Eiffel Tower (like the original, only better-lit). By the end of the decade, the pendulum had swung back again and Vegas was refocusing on its old reliable: vice. This has always been a city of addictions-booze, drugs, sex, money, risk-and now they were back in fashion. Most of the new resorts focused on providing premier shopping or replicating high-dollar vacation spots. Truth was, most of the chumps who came to Vegas had never been to Europe and would be bored stiff at the real Bellagio. But they loved the chance to pretend to be cosmopolitan sophisticates-with girlie shows and free drinks, of course.
The Transylvania had come in about the same time as Treasure Island and the Excalibur. With a choice spot just up the Strip from Circus Circus (now there was an interesting concept-Gambling for the Whole Family!), it had done a brisk business, specializing in those with a taste for the outré. Most of the joint was more tongue-in-cheek than terrifying. Scary more in the sense of, say, Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion than, say, a Jason movie. That showed in the galleries, too. That was another hot Vegas trend-everyone wanted a exhibition. The Bellagio had originally sported Steve Wynn’s art collection. The Venetian had a Guggenheim museum. Mandalay Bay had art treasures collected from around the world. And the Transylvania had a series of ballroom galleries exhibiting re-creations of various fright classics such as Frankenstein, Dracula, and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
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