“Good evening, child,” he said.
She gaped.
There weren’t many wrinkles on his face, and when he took off his hat, there wasn’t much hair up there either. Combed straight back, most of what was there a glittery silver. He squinted as he examined the house, looked up and down the street, and she had the definite feeling that he could look down his nose at a giant without lifting his head.
“You’re English,” she blurted.
His smile widened. “As indeed I am, child. Indeed I am.”
The voice. Momma made them watch Shakespeare on PBS all the time, and most of the time the actors were English. It sounded weird unless they were.
This man looked and sounded just like every one of them. Except for the hat. And the stupid boots.
“Sir John,” the driver said impatiently.
Moonbow backed up a step.
Sir John?
“You a king or something?” Starshine asked.
Moonbow whirled, nearly colliding with her sister who was right behind her.
“No, child,” he said, still smiling. “Tonight I am just a tourist. Looking for someone.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Starshine!” Moonbow snapped. “Be nice.”
“Starshine?” The man held out his hand. “So very pleased to meet a young woman with such a lovely name.”
It wasn’t the words; it was the way he said them.
Moonbow gaped again when her sister really, no kidding, blushed and shook the man’s hand. For a moment there, she thought the creep would actually curtsy.
“And you, my dear?” he asked.
“Moonbow,” she answered shyly, softly, and took the offered hand, and shook it. Lightly. The way she thought a real lady would.
“Delightful,” he exclaimed. “Did you hear that, Beatrice? Starshine and Moonbow. Lovely. Absolutely lovely. What a marvelous imagination their mother must have.”
The driver only scowled, fingers tapping the steering wheel. “Sir John, it’s getting late, and—”
“Yes, of course.” He looked at the street again. “My dear young ladies, I am searching for a man I used to know a very long time ago. I...” He inhaled slowly, deeply. “I thought to surprise him, but he is a very difficult man to find.”
Moonbow watched his hands, the long fingers and the way they folded the handkerchief into a perfect square with a tail thing on top, then tucked it into his jacket pocket and patted the part that stayed on the outside. All without looking at it once.
The entire display hadn’t taken more than a couple of seconds, but it made her acutely aware of how she and Starshine were dressed. His clothes were kind of silly, especially with that accent; nevertheless, she suddenly felt as if they were dressed in rags.
“Sir John,” the driver warned.
Startled, Moonbow looked at her. She could only see the woman’s profile, but it, and her voice, was enough to let her know that she was scared.
That made her frown.
“In good time,” the man told her, as if he had all the time in the world. “All in good time.”
That smile, those never-all-the-way-open eyes, those long elegant fingers . . . Moonbow felt dizzy and grabbed her sister’s hand, hoping she’d say something, even if it wasn’t very polite.
But Starshine had gone mute.
Finally, Moonbow, fearing her voice would crack and make her sound like a little kid, said, “We’ll help if we can, sir.”
Sir?
She never, ever called a man sir.
“Splendid,” he said. A raised finger. “A surprise, remember? It must be a surprise, or I—we will have traveled quite far in vain.”
The girls nodded mutely.
“Splendid. Wonderful.” He looked at the house, then at the girls. “I’m looking for Mr. Wallace Falkirk. I believe he’s called Trey by his friends. I’ve tried to call but—”
“He doesn’t have a phone anymore,” Moonbow said in what sounded to her like an apology.
“Really? You don’t say.”
“He pulled it out of the wall a couple of months ago. He never got it fixed.”
“Is that so. How interesting.” A glance to the driver. “Well, that explains quite a bit, wouldn’t you say, Beatrice?” He looked back to Moonbow. “And where, then, did you say I might find him?”
“He—” Starshine yanked her arm sharply. “He’s not here.”
The man nodded. “Ah. Too bad. Uncrossed paths yet again.” He lifted his chin slightly and scratched idly at his neck. “Do we know where we can find him at this time of the evening?”
“Nope,” Starshine answered instantly.
Moonbow shook her head.
“Now!” the driver insisted. “Now, Sir John, before—”
“It’s all right, Beatrice,” he said calmly. Sniffed. Replaced his hat. Touched the handkerchief again. “I would offer you an inducement to tell me where he is, my dears, but I think that would insult you.”
“Damn right,” Starshine said, her old self again.
The man laughed silently, nodded, and looked right at Moonbow. “I suspect, child, he is a special friend of yours. Would you tell an old man where he might be?”
It came out before Moonbow could stop it: “He went to fight the dragon.”
The man didn’t blink. “The . . . dragon, you say.”
“That’s right,” Starshine said.
“I. . . see.”
Starshine half-turned toward the house, pulling Moonbow with her. “We gotta go, mister. We got homework to do. It’s a school night, you know.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, and rounded to his car door. “You go right ahead. I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you. Have a wonderful evening, and do give my best to your wonderful mother.”
Moonbow didn’t look back until Starshine had practically dragged her onto the porch.
Momma wasn’t at the door.
When she heard the car start, she pulled free and turned around, just in time to see the man hurry up the walk toward them. Starshine called to their mother, but Moonbow stood there, waiting.
“My dear child,” he said, puffing a little, “when you see our mutual friend again, you will give him a message for me, won’t you?”
“I. . . sure, I guess so.”
The man lowered his voice. “Wonderful. How kind of you.” He touched a finger to the side of his nose. “Tell him for me, if you will, that I am looking for him. That I must speak to him of urgent business. Can you remember that?”
She nodded.
Starshine, sounding panicked, called for her mother again.
“And tell him one more thing,” he said as he turned to go. The voice deepened. The shadows beneath the hat brim hid his eyes. “Tell him he can’t run anymore.”
“What?”
“Tell him he can’t hide anymore.” The man raised a finger, a reminder to remember. “Tell him, dear child, that his dragon is dying.”
* * * *
3
1
T
rey had never told anyone how nervous he was, the nights he chose to leave the house, fight the dragon. The display for the girls was nothing more than bravado. And as soon as the music had ended, the fear returned— what if this was the night the streak ended, the luck ran out, the dream was over and he woke up with no way to protect himself anymore.
What if it was all over.
He sat in the parking lot behind the Excalibur, taking deep breaths, searching for calm.
Fear or not, he’d never know until he made the first move; until he left the chariot behind.
Sort of.
Just before he opened the door, he touched the center of his chest, feeling beneath the shirt a small gold casino chip his mother had given him when he was nineteen. On its face had been etched a chariot drawn by rearing horses. Nothing fancy. It hung from a piece of high-test fishing line because he’d gotten tired of all the broken strings he’d had. For years he believed she’d bought
it for him in some Las Vegas or Reno souvenir shop, but one night, after a particularly good session, she told him some guy had given it to her, she couldn’t remember his name. A good luck piece. A warding off of evil spirits. Protection against whatever she wanted protection against.
A nut, she’d said, laughing when she hung it around Trey’s neck; lost a bundle and he still gives me this.
Gamblers are nuts, kid, she told him; don’t ever forget it. They’re just plain nuts.
A one-sided smile, a swallow, a pat for the gold chip, and he opened the door, grabbed his jacket from the front seat and put it on so he wouldn’t have to carry it. Above him the hotel poked at the night with fairy-tale towers topped with pennants and flags, much larger at night because spotlights made it so, in storybook colors.
Onward, he thought, and made for the entrance.
The routine seldom varied.
A ritual to calm him, bring him balance and confidence, keep his hands and knees from shaking, and his stomach from throwing up what wasn’t there because he never dared eat before he made the first move.
Once through the sliding-door entrance, he moved quickly across a small, high-ceiling lobby toward a broad, carpeted ramp that led up to the casino proper. Walls that looked made of large stone blocks. Heraldic flags hanging from the ceiling. Crossed swords and shields and crossed lances just out of reach. On either side, on the flat before the ramp, entrances to the towers that housed the guests; no chairs, no benches, no place to rest.
At the top he paused, letting his eyes adjust to the light, while the sound of lost-and-found money struck him as if he had never heard it before.
Incessant bells to signal tiny victories, coins and tokens rattling into metal trays to make those victories seem much greater than they were; electronic beeps and whistles, electronic snippets of unrecognizable tunes; voices of the dealers, voices of the players, voices of those who stand and watch and encourage and laugh and cheer and commiserate and urge friends and strangers to give it another shot; roulette balls and table dice and the slide and slap of cards from a hand or boot. Waitresses trolling, coins jingling in pockets, music from a lounge open to the floor. ,
It didn’t take long for it all to become white noise.
For it all to become silence.
Only when it did, did he move on, around the perimeter to avoid walking through the crooked aisles that separated the slot machine rows. That would come later; right now he had to keep moving. Strolling, really, pausing at the roulette tables to wonder how it would be to put one fifty-dollar chip on one number and win; pausing at the craps tables and trying to figure out how three or four men and women could keep track of dozens of bets and dozens of combinations and not go crazy by the end of their shift; passing right by the blackjack stands because these people were too solemn, too busy trying to read the dealer’s mind; ignoring the sucker variations of the wheel of fortune; fascinated in but not tempted by the newer games, most of which claimed to be Oriental, some with cards, some with tiles and cards, all with too much movement, too little joy.
An hour, not much more.
Noting, as he always did, how this casino, like all the others, was arranged so you couldn’t get from one part of the hotel to the next, or to any of the exits or the attractions, without passing through the games; noting the staircase and elevators that led to the second level, to shops and eateries and a long passageway that led to the black pyramid of the Luxor; noting that his stomach wasn’t jumping anymore.
Walking until he couldn’t stall any longer.
Until the ritual was over.
A deep breath, an adjustment of the windbreaker’s collar, and he made straight for the nearest change booth, got himself fifty dollars in quarters and a fat plastic cup, and began to wander through the islands of slot machines, their aisles never straight, never leading directly to anyplace else but another aisle.
No one looking up, noticing his meandering. His own eye picking out a drugstore surgical mask now and then on someone who still couldn’t, or wouldn’t, believe Las Vegas was free of the Sickness. But the odd thing was, no one stared at either the mask or the wearer. It was much too common; just another article of clothing.
So far the city had been lucky; no one predicted that would last forever.
He moved on, searching.
He never played the dollar or larger slots; that would bring too much attention to himself, and it would make him too nervous.
He never played the nickel slots because he’d be here all week and never get what he needed.
He looked for a row which few, if any, people used, sat on a padded stool, and examined the machine.
It made no difference what theme it had, how many ways it offered to take his quarters and multiply them into dollars; he never looked at the running total of jackpots hanging above in blinding lights, winking at him, suggesting that if, just this once, he varied the routine, he could win tens of thousands, not just a paltry few hundred, or a sports car or an RV or an automobile that looked twice as big as his house.
“Hi,” he said. He didn’t care that he spoke aloud. People did it all the time, even to the video games. “How you doing tonight?”
He leaned forward and patted the side of the machine, ran a palm down the cool smooth metal, and leaned back.
Damn; no good.
Not this one.
Sometimes it took him more than a dozen machines; sometimes it took him only two or three; sometimes there wasn’t one that wanted to talk back and he’d head for another casino, begin the ritual again.
Tonight, as if aware he was on the brink of something he didn’t understand, he couldn’t find a thing. Another hour wasted, his fingers snapping unconsciously, his tongue licking at his lips until he stopped it by clenching his teeth. Finally he gave himself one more shot, and if it was wrong, he’d move up the Strip. It happened once in a while. It was near to ten-thirty before he found the one he wanted.
He said, “Hi, how you doing?” He patted its side, he used his palm, and it was right.
No vibrations, no imagined voice, no tingling, no sparks.
He only knew it was right.
He pushed his sleeves, shirt and jacket, up as far as he could to expose his forearms, set the cup in the gap between his machine and the one on his right, took a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket, placed it in the deep plastic ashtray beside the cup, and smiled.
Time, gentlemen; start your engines.
He put in the first quarter, never more than one or two at a time, and pulled the handle. He hated the buttons. Pressing a button was too much like working a remote control. One-arm bandits demanded the arms were used, otherwise what was the point?
The cylinders rolled, beeps and chimes, and two quarters landed in the tray at his knees.
He grinned.
A hand brushed over his shoulder in greeting.
“Evening, Mr. Falkirk.”
He didn’t have to turn around. “Hey, Dodger. What’re you up to?”
Dodger O’Cleary sat on the stool to Trey’s left. He was an ordinary man who couldn’t have looked more Irish if he tried. Tight wavy red hair sifted through with white and sand, a drinking man’s nose, dark green eyes, fair freckled skin that had begun to sag into jowls, yet with a chin so sharp and square Trey figured it could probably cut through steel.
“Just hanging around, Mr. Falkirk, just hanging around.” He nodded at Trey’s machine. “You feeling lucky, huh?”
Trey scooped out the fifty cents with his right hand and showed it, and the palm, to him. “Gonna buy my mansion in Kentucky, Dodger.”
They laughed easily, not quite friends, not true adversaries either.
After all these years, Trey was well aware that the casinos knew who he was, by sight if not by name. Every so often they would send a man or woman like Dodger to have a polite chat, pass the time of day, comment on the state of the world, maybe make an offer of a free lunch or cheap dinner, and at the same time make doubl
e-damn sure he wasn’t using some kind of special spooky electronic equipment. Dodger was easier than most. He didn’t much care, not really, even though it was his job. He genuinely liked Trey, and they frequently met in one of the hotel bars for a drink after the night’s playing was over.
On the other hand, Trey wasn’t stupid. He also knew Dodger would make short work of him if he ever discovered how Trey did it.
Chariot - [Millennium Quartet 03] Page 6