by Dima Zales
When I get to the hall, the girl is already gone, so I move on to the lobby and methodically search for her. Seeing a girl with a ponytail near the elevator, I run over and grab her. As I turn her to get a look at her face, I wonder if my touch will also bring her into the Quiet. I’m pretty sure that’s what happened before—she touched me and brought me in.
But nothing happens this time, and the face that looks at me is completely unfamiliar.
Damn it. I’ve got the wrong person.
My frustration turns to anger as I realize that I lost her because those idiots delayed me at the most critical moment. Fuming, I punch a nearby person with all my strength, needing to vent. As is always the case in the Quiet, the object of my aggression doesn’t react in any way. Unfortunately, I don’t really feel better either.
Before I decide on my next course of action, I think about what happened at the table. The girl somehow got me to phase into the Quiet, and she was already there. When she saw me, she freaked out and ran. Maybe, like me, this was the first time she’s seen anyone ‘alive’ in there. Everyone reacts differently to strange events, and meeting another person after years of being solo in the Quiet definitely qualifies as strange.
Standing here thinking about it isn’t going to get me any answers, so I decide to be thorough and take one more look at the lobby again.
No luck. The girl is nowhere to be found.
Next, I go outside and walk around the casino driveway, trying to see if I can spot her there. I even look inside a few idling cabs, but she’s not there either.
Looking up at the flashy building towering over me, I consider searching every room in the hotel. There are at least a couple thousand of them. It would take me a long time, but it might be worth it. I have to find her and get some answers.
Although thoroughly searching a building that huge seems like a daunting task, it wouldn’t be impossible—at least not for me. I don’t get hungry, thirsty, or even tired in the Quiet. Never need to use the bathroom either. It’s very handy for situations like these, when you need to give yourself extra time. I can theoretically search every room—provided I can figure out how to get in. Those electronic doors won’t work in the Quiet, not even if I have the original key from the room’s occupants. Technology doesn’t usually function here; it’s frozen along with everything else. Unless it’s something mechanical and simple, like my wind-up watch, it won’t work—and even my watch I have to wind every time I’m in the Quiet.
Weighing my options, I try to imagine having to use physical force to break into thousands of hotel doors. Since my iPhone is sadly another technology casualty of the Quiet, I wouldn’t even be able to listen to some tunes to kill the time. Even for a cause this important, I’m not sure I want to go to those extremes.
Besides, if I do decide to search the building, now probably isn’t the best time to do it. Even if I find her, I won’t be able to go after her in the real world thanks to those idiot guards in my way. I need to get rid of them before determining what to do next.
Sighing, I slowly walk back to the hotel. When I enter the lobby, I scan it again, hoping that I somehow missed her the first time. I feel that same compulsion I get when I lose something around the house. When that happens, I always search the place from top to bottom and then start doing it again—looking in the same places I already checked, irrationally hoping that the third time will be the charm. Or maybe the fourth. I really need to stop doing that. As Einstein said, insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
Finally admitting defeat, I approach the bouncers. I can spend forever in the Quiet, but when I get out, they’ll still be here. There’s no avoiding that.
Moving in close, I look in the pocket of the fatter guy to find out what I’m up against. According to his ID, his name is Nick Shifer, and he’s with security. So I was right—he’s a bouncer. His driver’s license is also there, as well as a small family photo. I study both, in case I need the information later.
Next, I turn my attention to the pocket near which Nick’s hand is hovering. Looks like I was right again: he has a gun. If I took this gun and shot Nick at close range, he would get a bloody wound and likely fall from the impact. He wouldn’t scream, though, and he wouldn’t clutch his chest. And when I phase out, he would be whole again, with no signs of damage. It would be like nothing happened.
Don’t ask me how I know what happens when you shoot someone in the Quiet. Or stab him. Or hit him with a baseball bat. Or whack him with a golf club. Or kick him in the balls. Or drop bricks on his head—or a TV. The only thing I can say is that I can unequivocally confirm that in a wide variety of cruel and unusual experiments, the subjects turn out to be unharmed once I phase out of the Quiet.
Okay, that’s enough reminiscing. Right now, I have a problem to solve, and I need to be careful, with the guns being involved and all.
I smack my frozen self on the back of the head to phase out of the Quiet.
The world unfreezes, and I’m back with the bouncers in real time. I try to look calm, as though I haven’t been running around like a crazy man looking for whoever this girl is—because for them, none of that has happened.
“Okay, Nick, I’ll be happy to accompany you and resolve this misunderstanding,” I say in my most compliant tone.
Nick’s eyes widen at hearing his name. “How do you know me?”
“You read the file, Nick,” his lean partner says, obviously unimpressed. “The kid is very clever.”
The file? What the hell is he talking about? I’ve never been to this casino before. Oh, and I would love to know how being clever would help someone know the name of a complete stranger on a moment’s notice. People always say stuff like that about me, even though it makes no sense. I debate phasing into the Quiet to learn the second guy’s name as well, just to mess with them more, but I decide against it. It would be overkill. Instead I decide to mentally refer to the lean guy as Buff.
“Just come with me quietly, please,” Buff says. He stands aside, so that he’s able to walk behind me. Nick leads the way, muttering something about the impossibility of my knowing his name, no matter how smart I am. He’s clearly brighter than Buff. I wonder what he would say if I told him where he lives and that he has two kids. Would he start a cult, or shoot me?
As we make the trek through the casino, I reflect on how knowing things I shouldn’t has served me well over the years. It’s kind of my thing, and it’s gotten me far in life. Of course, it’s possible that knowing things I shouldn’t is also the reason they have a file on me. Maybe casinos keep records on people who seem to have a history of beating the odds, so to speak.
When we get to the office—a modest-sized room filled with cameras overlooking different parts of the casino—Buff’s first question confirms that theory. “Do you know how much money you won today?” he asks, glaring at me.
I decide to play dumb. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re quite the statistical anomaly,” Nick says. He’s clearly proud of knowing such big words. “I want to show you something.” He takes a remote from the desk, which has a bunch of folders scattered on its surface. With Nick’s press of a button, one of the monitors begins showing footage of me playing at the blackjack table. Watching it, I realize that I did win too much.
In fact, I won just about every time.
Shit. Could I have been any more obvious? I didn’t think I’d be watched this closely, but that was stupid of me. I should’ve taken a couple of hits even when I knew I would bust, just to hide my tracks.
“You’re obviously counting cards,” Nick states, giving me a hard stare. “There’s no other explanation.”
Actually, there is, but I’m not about to give it to him. “With eight decks?” I say instead, making my voice as incredulous as possible.
Nick picks up a file on the desk and leafs through it.
“Darren Wang Goldberg, graduated from Harvard with an MBA and a law degree at eighteen.
Near-perfect SAT, LSAT, GMAT, and GRE scores. CFA, CPA, plus a bunch more acronyms.” Nick chuckles as if amused at that last tidbit, but then his expression hardens as he continues. “The list goes on and on. If anyone could do it, it would be you.”
I take a deep breath, trying to contain my annoyance. “Since you’re so impressed with my bona fides, you should trust me when I tell you that no one can count cards with eight decks.” I have no clue if that’s actually true, but I do know casinos have been trying to stack the odds in the house’s favor for ages now, and eight decks is too many cards to count even for a mathematical prodigy.
As if reading my mind, Buff says, “Yeah, well, even if you can’t do it by yourself, you might be able to pull it off with partners.”
Partners? Where did they get the idea that I have partners?
In response to my blank look, Nick hits the remote again, and I see a new recording. This time it’s of the girl—of her winning at the blackjack table, then working a number of poker tables. Winning an impressive amount of cash, I might add.
“Another statistical anomaly,” Nick says, looking at me intently. “A friend of yours?” He must’ve worked as a detective before this gig, seeing as how he’s pretty good at this interrogation thing. I guess my chasing her through the casino set off some red flags. My reaction was definitely not for the reasons he thinks, though.
“No,” I say truthfully. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
Nick’s face tightens with anger. “You just played at the same poker table,” he says, his voice growing in volume with every word. “Then you both started running away just as we were coming toward you. I suppose that’s just a coincidence, huh? Do the two of you have someone on the inside? Who else is in on it?” He’s full-on yelling at this point, spittle flying in every direction.
This fierce grilling is too much for me, and I phase into the Quiet to give myself a few moments to think.
Contrary to Nick’s belief, the girl and I are definitely not partners. Yet it’s obvious she was here doing the same thing I was, as the recordings clearly show her winning over and over. That means I didn’t have a hallucination, and she really was in the Quiet somehow. She can do what I can. My heart beats faster with excitement as I realize again that I’m not the only one. This girl is like me—which means I really need to find her.
On a hunch, I approach the table and pick up the thickest folder I see.
And that’s when I hit the biggest jackpot of the night.
Staring back at me from the file is her picture. Her real name, according to the file, is Mira Tsiolkovsky. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
Her age shocks me. She’s only eighteen. I thought she’d be in her mid-twenties—which would conveniently fit right within my datable age range. As I further investigate the information they’ve compiled on her, I find the reason I was fooled by her age: she intentionally tries to make herself look older to get into casinos. The folder lists a bunch of her aliases, all of which are banned from casinos. All are aged between twenty-one and twenty-five.
According to the folder, she does this cheating thing professionally. One section details her involvement in cheating both in casinos and underground gambling joints. Scary places by the sound of it, with links to organized crime.
She sounds reckless. I, on the other hand, am most decidedly not reckless. I use my strange ability to make money in the financial industry, which is much safer than what Mira does. Not to mention, the kind of money I bring in through legitimate channels makes the risks of cheating in casinos far outweigh the benefits—especially given what I’m learning today. Apparently casinos don’t sit idly by while you take their money. They start files on you if they think you’re likely to cheat them, and they blacklist you if you get too lucky. Seems unfair, but I guess it makes business sense.
Returning my attention to the file, I find little personal information beyond her name and address—just other casinos, games, and the amounts she’s won under different aliases, plus pictures. She’s good at changing her appearance; all the pictures feature women who look very different from one another. Impressive.
Having memorized as much of Mira’s file as I can, I walk over to Nick and take my own file from his hands.
I’m relieved to find that there’s not much to this folder. They have my name and address, which they must’ve gotten from the credit card I used to pay for drinks. They know that I work at a hedge fund and that I’ve never had problems with the law—all stuff easily found on the web. Same goes for Harvard and my other achievements. They probably just did a Google search on me once they knew my name.
Reading the file makes me feel better. They’re not on to me or anything like that. They probably just saw me winning too much and decided to nip the situation in the bud. The best thing to do at this point is to placate them, so I can go home and digest all this. No need to search the hotel anymore. I have more than enough information about Mira now, and my friend Bert can help me fill in the rest of the puzzle.
Thus resolved, I walk back to myself. My frozen self’s face looks scared, but I don’t feel scared anymore because I now have a plan.
Taking a deep breath, I touch my frozen forehead again and phase out.
Nick is still yelling at me, so I tell him politely, “Sir, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what or whom you’re talking about. I was lucky, yes, but I didn’t cheat.” My voice quavers on that last bit. I might be overacting now, but I want to be convincing as a scared young man. “I’ll be happy to leave the money and never come back to this casino again.”
“You are going to leave the money, and you won’t ever come back to this city again,” corrects Buff.
“Fine, I won’t. I was just here to have fun,” I say in a steadier but still deferential voice, like I’m totally in awe of their authority. “I just turned twenty-one and it’s Labor Day weekend, so I went gambling for the first time,” I add. This should add an air of sincerity, because it’s the truth. “I work at a hedge fund. I don’t need to cheat for money.”
Nick snorts. “Please. Guys like you cheat because you like the rush of being so much smarter than everyone else.”
Despite his obvious contempt for me, I don’t reply. Every remark I form in my head sounds snide. Instead I just continue groveling, saying that I know nothing, gradually becoming more and more polite. They keep asking me about Mira and about how I cheat, and I keep denying it. The conversation goes in circles for a while. I can tell they’re getting as tired of it as I am—maybe more so.
Seeing an opening, I go in for the kill. “I need to know how much longer I’ll be detained, sir,” I tell Nick, “so that I can notify my family.”
The implication is that people will wonder where I am if I don’t show up soon. Also, my subtle use of the word ‘detained’ reminds them of the legality of their position—or more likely, the lack thereof.
Frowning, but apparently unwilling to give in, Nick says stubbornly, “You can leave as soon as you tell us something useful.” There isn’t much conviction in his voice, though, and I can tell that my question hit the mark. He’s just saving face at this point.
Doggedly continuing the interrogation, he asks me the same questions again, to which I respond with the same answers. After a couple of minutes, Buff touches his shoulder. They exchange a look.
“Wait here,” Buff says. They leave, presumably to have a quick discussion out of my earshot.
I wish I could listen in, but sadly it’s not possible with the Quiet. Well, that’s not entirely true. If I learned to read lips and phased in and out very quickly, I could probably piece together some of the conversation by looking at their frozen faces, over and over again. But that would be a long, tedious process. Plus, I don’t need to do that. I can use logic to figure out the gist of what they’re saying. I’m guessing it goes something like this: “The kid’s too smart for us; we should let him go, get doughnuts, and swing by a strip club.”
They return after a
few minutes, and Buff tells me, “We’re going to let you go, but we don’t want to see you—or your girlfriend—here ever again.” I can tell Nick isn’t happy about having to abandon his questioning without getting the answers he wanted, but he doesn’t voice any objections.
I suppress a relieved sigh. I half-thought they’d rough me up or something. It would’ve sucked, but it wouldn’t have been unexpected—or perhaps even undeserved, given that I did cheat. But then again, they have no proof that I cheated. And they probably think I’m clever enough to cause legal problems—particularly given my law degree.
Of course, it’s also possible that they know more about me than what’s in the file. Maybe they’ve come across some info about my moms. Oh yeah, did I mention that I have two moms? Well, I do. Trust me, I know how strange that sounds. And before there’s any temptation, I never want to hear another joke on the subject. I got enough of that in school. Even in college, people used to say shit sometimes. I usually made sure they regretted it, of course.
In any case, Lucy, who is my adoptive mom—but is nonetheless the most awesome mom ever—is a tough-as-nails detective. If these bozos laid a finger on me, she’d probably track them down and personally kick their asses with a baseball bat. She also has a team that reports to her, and they would likely chime in, too. And Sara, my biological mom—who is usually quite peace-loving—wouldn’t stop her. Not in this case.
Nick and Buff are silent as they lead me out of their office and through the casino to the cab waiting area outside.
“If you come here again,” Nick says as I get into an empty cab, “I’ll break something of yours. Personally.”
I nod and quickly close the door. All he had to do was ask me nicely like that. In retrospect, Atlantic City wasn’t even that much fun.
I’m convinced I won’t ever want to come back.
