‘Here for Christmas, or off to visit family?’ Rex asked.
‘No place to go,’ Charlie sighed, not wanting this banal conversation, but not ready to face her own company back in the suite. ‘You?’
‘Working,’ Rex said. ‘I was supposed to take a load home to Georgia this morning, but a tire burst on my rig and spares are tough to find.’
‘I heard that,’ Charlie said, nodding as she sat herself on top of the folding bench, swinging her legs.
‘They’ve been salvaging tires off dead people’s cars and trucks, but they’ve run out,’ Rex explained. ‘Getting some Mexican brand tire delivered tomorrow. But the late start means I’ll be driving through Christmas Day.’
‘You have anyone in Georgia?’
‘Pa’s in a retirement home down that way. Killer-T got my wife and my two boys, eight and eleven.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Charlie said instinctively, though Rex could have been reading from a weather report.
‘Memories wouldn’t stop hurtin’ so I put a pin in the map. Drove to Las Vegas with the last of my money and started driving a truck. But a fresh location didn’t change anything.’
‘So, you got your one-one-seven here in Vegas?’ Charlie asked.
Rex scratched his beard and nodded. ‘Things came close to unbearable before I got modded.’
‘Unbearable,’ Charlie repeated, churning the word in her head and deciding that it summed up how she felt most of the time. ‘I’ve heard some people have their one-one-seven reversed because it makes everything feel flat.’
‘Heard that too,’ Rex said, same smile as always. ‘You still got your little swimmer with you?’
‘He’s over at Bryan’s gym with a playmate.’
‘I’ve got these big radio-controlled cars up in my room. My boys loved them. Reckon your two could blast ’em around outside. It’s a big space and there’s no traffic in the way.’
‘Motel is ninety per cent empty,’ Charlie agreed.
‘You want those cars?’
‘Patrick would certainly like one,’ Charlie said, but she wondered if it was another angle for Rex to hit on her.
‘Well, they’re just taking up space in my suite.’
‘Was your one-one-seven expensive?’ Charlie asked.
‘Dollar numbers mean nothing with inflation gone crazy. I’d say it was around one month’s salary. You thinking about getting it done?’
‘No,’ Charlie said firmly. Then, ‘I don’t know. My boyfriend died and it’s a lot of stress being in one big room with the boys.’
‘There’s a ton of empty houses for rent,’ Rex noted.
‘It’s the effort,’ Charlie sighed. ‘Calling agents, viewing places.’
And wanting to stay off the radar in case any of Fawn’s associates come looking …
‘Must have met a hundred truck drivers who’ve had a one-one-seven,’ Rex said. ‘Can’t think of one that has regretted it. You gotta be careful who you deal with, obviously. Especially a pretty girl like you. Some guys will try to slip you a one-five-one. That will zombie you to your eyeballs and they’ll wind up owning you.’
‘Where’d you get yours?’ Charlie asked, then caught herself. ‘Actually, I don’t wanna know.’
Rex answered anyway, as his dryer made a beep. ‘I used Karl’s Watches. He’s got a good rep. Runs out of a little jewellery booth at the outdoor mall, in front of Janssen Riverboat on the strip.’
‘I won’t mod,’ Charlie said firmly, more for her own benefit than Rex’s.
‘I’m heading up for a nap now this is done,’ Rex said as he scooped his dryer-hot clothes into a plastic basket. ‘Gotta head out when my replacement tire arrives.’
‘Drive safe,’ Charlie said.
‘I lost a wife and two amazing kids,’ Rex said thoughtfully, as he stopped in front of the glowing UV gate. ‘I’ve been where you’re at, Charlie. But now my family is a beautiful memory, instead of something that hurts too bad to think about.’
71 THE ACCOUNTS
Christmas carols wafted up from the coffee shop as Charlie sat in her tiny office dealing with mounds of invoices, paying bills online and doing the fortnightly payroll run.
She didn’t like leaving Patrick alone with Ed for too long, so she took the little boy with her. The five-year-old did OK, playing games on his tablet, building and knocking down towers made from cardboard take-out cups and occasionally getting fussed over by a member of staff.
Ellie called to say Happy Christmas. Killer-T had taken his wife. Two of Ellie’s kids died of superflu and the collapsing economy meant Elliegold Media never floated on the stock exchange and made him rich. Charlie was glad to hear his voice, even though it was a reminder of Harry.
It was Christmas Eve, so the shop was closing at four. Charlie had paid the last bills and switched off her computer. Chairs were on tables and floors were being mopped. Gwen wore a novelty Santa-beard virus mask as she offered the final customers free mulled wine. Charlie decided she deserved a glass herself.
‘Guys, it’s snowing!’ a Goth barista called Naomi yelled as she carried out trash bags.
Patrick had never seen snow. He ignored Charlie’s demand to put on his hoodie, squeezing past rubbish bags and out the shop’s back doors. It was a pathetic snow storm, but Charlie smiled and videoed as Patrick charged between benches in the deserted outdoor seating area, trying to catch snowflakes.
‘Makes a change to see a grin on your face,’ Gwen said, stepping out behind her boss as Naomi dropped trash into a Dumpster a few yards away. ‘I’ve got my sister and ma over tomorrow. You’re more than welcome to bring the boys for lunch.’
‘That’s kind,’ Charlie said. ‘But you had us for Thanksgiving. Ed still gets overexcited about presents, so I’m gonna have a quiet day with the boys and their gifts. You can’t cook anything decent in that motel oven, so I’ve booked a table for Christmas lunch at the Brazilian barbecue place. It costs a fortune, but Ed loves it. Then we’re gonna drive over and visit my former foster parents.’
‘Sounds nice,’ Gwen said. ‘How were the accounts looking?’
‘I ain’t getting rich, but we’re not sinking either,’ Charlie said as Patrick climbed on one of the benches.
‘Get down – don’t be stupid,’ Charlie rebuked. ‘That plastic is slippery.’
‘Another property guy called by the store,’ Gwen said, pulling a business card out of her apron. ‘Looked like another one trying to let an empty store, so he gave me this card and said you should call him.’
‘He’s a lawyer not a realtor,’ Charlie noted as she read the card Gwen handed her. ‘Shane O’Donnell, Senior Law Partner.’
‘Should I have sent him up?’ Gwen asked.
‘No … God, no,’ Charlie said. ‘You did good. Those property people are a nightmare. And you’ve been slaving since seven-thirty, so if you want to head off now I’ll lock up.’
Gwen looked over her shoulder towards a Farm Fresh grocery mart. ‘I wouldn’t mind. I couldn’t get potatoes anywhere yesterday, but Naomi said they had stacks when she was on her lunch break.’
‘All right, mister, inside,’ Charlie told Patrick firmly. ‘It’s freezing.’
There was a sinister zombie-type guy walking between some parked cars and Charlie shut the back doors sharply once they were inside. The floor in the shop was just-mopped, the drive-thru window had closed and the last customer was using the toilet before leaving.
Charlie picked a sandwich wrapper and someone’s abandoned news magazine off a table. It was a New Year preview issue. The front-page headline was When’s the Next One? and the sub-heading Have the trillions spent given us long-term protection from synthetic diseases, or is the next pandemic around the corner?
‘I sent Gwen off early,’ Charlie told Naomi, and the other remaining staff member, a modded high-schooler called Devon. ‘I’m gonna start locking up.’
Naomi’s fiancé was waiting to pick her up, and Charlie envied the couple as they pulled
down their virus masks for a kiss. A few people had mentioned the wandering zombie, so Devon was a gentleman, helping Charlie pull down the shutters and walking her across the street with Patrick to the taxi pick-up outside Farm Fresh.
‘That mulled wine goes to your head,’ Charlie smiled. ‘I’m swaying.’
Devon cracked a deep laugh. ‘It does for sure.’
Charlie met his glance. She was grieving too much to want a boyfriend, but Devon was hot in the way that modded guys generally were. He was only seventeen and she wondered if sex would jolt her brain out of missing Harry and hating her life. Even if it was only for half an hour.
Charlie might have made a move, but Patrick was swinging off her arm. There was no taxi on the rank, but an elderly man was hopping out of one and Charlie moved faster than a woman with six Farm Fresh bags.
Charlie felt lonely, and remembered how she liked the warm, detached feeling of being drunk. She wanted another drink, but she had no booze back at the motel and she couldn’t buy any in Farm Fresh because she was under twenty-one.
‘Janssen Riverboat,’ Charlie told her driver.
Patrick looked curious as she helped fasten his seatbelt. ‘Aren’t we going home?’
‘I thought we’d take a stroll. You can get an ice cream if you like.’
Every Vegas high-schooler and college undergrad knew Janssen casinos were lax about checking IDs, but there was a small Janssen-owned casino a few blocks from the motel if alcohol had been all Charlie was interested in.
I’ll check out Karl’s Watches. It might not even be there any more. Have a couple of drinks and get Patrick an ice cream. Maybe buy a bottle of rum if the casino has a liquor store. It’s Christmas after all … Though Ed’s been on his own all day, so I can’t hang around for too long.
Janssen Riverboat was a 1970s-built casino at the south end of The Strip. While the sixty-storey mega-resorts around it had crashed when the tourists stopped coming, the Riverboat’s cheap rooms and nicotine-stained walls kept pulling in underage drinkers and hardcore gamblers.
Dean Martin Christmas tunes played in the Riverboat’s lobby as Patrick squeezed Charlie’s hand.
‘This place smells funny,’ he complained. ‘My daddy lost all our money in a casino.’
‘I don’t gamble,’ Charlie reassured him.
There was no ID check as Charlie bought an overpriced bottle of rum in the hotel shop, and found a near-deserted pancake place. Patrick merrily scoffed a chocolate-and-banana float, while Charlie went for a deal offering a beer and a double shot of whisky.
‘Can we go home now?’ Patrick asked tiredly. ‘I want to be up early for my presents.’
Charlie laughed. ‘I think you’ll manage to wake up tomorrow.’
‘Mikey hit me and locked me in his car last Christmas,’ Patrick said.
‘That’s horrible,’ Charlie said, tears welling as she left two and a half thousand on the table and grabbed the rum. ‘One more stop, then home.’
The outdoor market in front of Janssen Riverboat was all enclosed stalls, selling fast food, fake designer clothing and tacky Christmas gear. The crowd ranged from messed-up-looking zombies, a lot of drunk kids, and tourists, many of whom snapped pictures of the dusting of snow on the shuttered Cascada resort across The Strip.
Charlie approached Kurt’s Watches with a slight wobble as Patrick moaned that he couldn’t walk any further. The covered stall’s glass counter contained a few dozen cheap plastic watches, and solar-powered bobble heads of President Timberlake and a bunch of celebrities.
There was nobody serving and Charlie had almost given up waiting when an obese guy with an Indian accent stepped out of a little room behind. He wore a Christmas hat and the shirt under his hoodie read, Killer-T wiped out my family and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.
‘You want a bobble head for your boy?’ he asked. ‘You can have three for a hundred dollars.’
‘Friend of mine bought a one-one-seven here,’ Charlie said, glancing around awkwardly.
‘I don’t think so,’ the guy said stiffly.
Charlie snorted, drunkenly. ‘Be hard to make a living selling this crap.’
‘My mother told me never talk to strangers,’ the guy smiled. ‘You have a good Christmas.’
Charlie was frustrated. Maybe you had to get an introduction or something. But she’d picked up some cash at the coffee shop and she opened the flap on her bag to show a wad of thousand- and five-thousand-dollar bills. The Indian raised one eyebrow, looked left and right, then tutted.
‘A one-one-seven costs three hundred thousand. You’ll need needles and stuff to inject, which is another five, but since it’s Christmas they’re on the house.’
‘What about auto-immune drugs?’
The guy shook his head. ‘You might get sick for a few days, but it’s not a big deal.’
‘What are you buying?’ Patrick asked loudly, and Charlie shushed him.
This is scary, but I can’t go on feeling like crap all the time.
‘I’m in,’ Charlie said.
As Charlie counted money, the guy opened a drawer under the counter. He came up with a watch box, which he opened to show three glass vials inside. From another drawer came a clear bag containing two dozen sterile injection packs. Charlie always paid extra for quality syringes when she ran her modding business, because she’d heard horror stories about needles breaking under the skin.
‘Do you have anything better than those?’ she asked.
‘These are excellent,’ the guy said. ‘No problems, ever.’
Charlie felt sure this was a lie and her suspicion turned to the vials themselves. I can buy a test kit online that will tell me if the mod is genuine and probably find some better needles and auto-immune pills. But this is a lot of cash. Do I really want to make this decision when I’m drunk?
‘Can we please go home,’ Patrick begged, yanking Charlie’s arm.
At the same moment, the guy behind the counter snapped. ‘I can’t leave this stuff on show. Do you want it or not?’
I can’t stand the thought of another day waking up missing Harry and feeling like the whole world is crushing me. But …
Patrick tugged her arm. ‘Cooooome on …’
‘OK,’ Charlie said sharply, pulling a wodge of dollars out of her bag.
But shouldn’t I do more research? Those syringes are the worst. And the vials haven’t even been kept in a fridge. But Rex used this place and said it was good …
The big Indian snatched the money, and Charlie shoved the vials and syringes inside her bag.
‘I can take you in the back and show you how to inject,’ he said.
‘I can handle that,’ Charlie said, eyes welling as she scooped Patrick into her arms. ‘Happy Christmas.’
72 SISTER MIRACULOUS
Last year we had Christmas dinner at Vern and Rosie’s. Their youngest was home on shore leave. Ed got tipsy on Vern’s homemade wine and dozed off, so I went to bed with Harry and we had sex and fell asleep in each other’s arms. One year later, Harry’s gone. I can’t see through tears and everyone in this shitty casino is staring at me.
‘Excuse me,’ an elderly woman said, struggling to keep up as Charlie dragged Patrick past the Janssen Riverboat’s poker room.
Trusting your life to crappy syringes sold by a guy in a Santa hat. You should ditch the vials in the nearest trash can so you don’t get tempted to use them next time your mood tanks.
But I just paid three hundred grand for them …
Patrick looked back as the woman got closer. Orthopaedic shoes, herringbone skirt and wispy grey hair.
‘I’m begging you not to use the one-one-seven,’ the woman yelled. ‘I’m Sister Miraculous. May I please talk to you?’
Charlie stopped, turned and roared so loud it made Patrick jump. ‘Why are you following me? Leave me alone.’
‘I saw you at the watch stall,’ Sister Miraculous explained as she rattled a bundle of small leaflets entitled God, Not Mods. ‘I kno
w what they sell there. I’ve told the police many times, but they don’t act.’
‘Believe me, sister,’ Charlie said, shaking her head and starting to walk again. ‘There’s no god. My life is proof of that.’
‘You’re hurting my arm, Charlie,’ Patrick whined, having to run to keep pace.
There were three steps where the casino met the hotel lobby. Charlie took the first two in one stride, then clumsily kicked her own heel and wound up flat on her face.
‘Why are you crazy?’ Patrick demanded, ripping his hand free and scowling.
Charlie tried to get up, but her legs weren’t following orders. A burly casino security officer closed on the scene as Sister Miraculous urged Charlie to stay still and calm down.
‘Take a few deep breaths,’ Miraculous urged, kneeling on the carpet beside Charlie and pulling a man-sized Kleenex out of her sleeve.
‘Sister, you’ve been told you can’t hand out leaflets on casino property,’ the security guard boomed, closing in.
‘Do I look like I’m handing out leaflets?’ Miraculous asked. ‘This girl is distressed.’
Two more burly guards arrived on the scene. None seemed interested in Charlie and they formed a tight triangle around Sister Miraculous.
‘You’re banned from Janssen Corporation property,’ a gravel-voiced guard said. ‘Are you going to leave, or do we have to drag you out?’
The shock of falling had sobered Charlie a little.
‘What has she done?’ Charlie asked indignantly. ‘Show some respect.’
Two more guards jogged in, plus a woman in a suit who appeared to be in charge.
‘The sister’s banned; the girl’s intoxicated,’ the boss woman growled. ‘Ship ’em out and keep ’em out.’
‘Hands off,’ Charlie yelled as men with big necks lifted her off the carpet.
The woman snatched Patrick, and the guards marched Charlie and Sister Miraculous outside via the hotel reception. They passed a busy cab lane, went down a curved driveway and stopped on an isolated stretch of sidewalk alongside the Riverboat’s parking structure.
KILLER T Page 35
