Casino Infernale

by Simon R. Green

  “No,” I said. “They’re not. You’re always much easier around Shaman, because you still hate Droods. . . .”

  “You are a psychologist’s dream,” said Molly. “Or his worst nightmare . . . Someone’s looking at us.”

  I looked round quickly, and sure enough one particular young man was heading straight in our direction. A happy, smiling sort in a striped jacket, over a Johnny Hallyday T-shirt, with battered blue jeans and cowboy boots. Smart and handsome, and just full of joie de vivre. He wore a black beret, with a cigarette protruding from a corner of his mouth. He couldn’t have looked more like someone trying to look French. As he drew nearer, still smiling determinedly, it seemed to me that he had far too much character for his own good. I was pretty sure I knew him from somewhere. . . .

  He came to a halt before Molly and me, bouncing up and down on his springy soles, nodded to me and winked to Molly. He leaned forward to kiss me on both cheeks, and I stopped him with a hard look. He turned to Molly, and quickly thought better of it.

  “Welcome to Nantes, mes braves,” he said, in a fake French accent that wouldn’t have fooled a deaf person. “Francois Greyson, at votre service.”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” I said, as the penny finally dropped. I finally recognised the face, and the bad acting. “Francois, my arse. You’re Fun Time Frankie.”

  “Well, yes, if you insist,” said Frankie, in a posh English accent that was just as fake in its own way. “Just trying to blend in, old bean. . . .”

  Molly looked at him, and then at me. “Is this a good or a bad thing?”

  “Hard to tell,” I said.

  “Why . . . Fun Time Frankie?” said Molly.

  “Because this disreputable little toad never met a party he didn’t like,” I said. “Been everywhere, had everyone.”

  “That is an awful rumour, only spread by people who know me,” said Frankie.

  “A useful enough tour guide, I suppose,” I said. “Just don’t turn your back on him.”

  “You’re too kind,” said Frankie.

  “No, I’m bloody not,” I said. “You’re really the best local contact the family could provide?”

  Frankie then provided an excellent version of the Gallic Couldn’t give a damn screw you move along shrug. “I’m the only one in the area, just now. The Droods really are being run ragged, trying to keep the lid on things. Even friendly associates such as I are in short supply. Frankly, you’re lucky to have me. I know the area, I know the local underground scene, and I have direct knowledge of Casino Infernale. Which I’m happy to provide. For the just about generous fee your family is currently providing.”

  “Frankie is another of my uncle James’ half-breed offspring,” I explained to Molly. “Dear God, that man did put himself about. Half the up-and-comers in secret organisations and hidden underground bunkers have his eyes.”

  “I am a Grey Bastard and proud of it!” Frankie said cheerfully. He spat the cigarette out the side of his mouth, over the side of the bridge and into the river. “Never did care for Gauloises. . . . Welcome, welcome; what can I do to help?”

  “To start with, you can carry the bags,” I said.

  Molly looked at Frankie in a thoughtful way that made him visibly uncomfortable. “So,” she said, “another Bastard . . . like Hadrian Coll.”

  “Trickster Man?” said Frankie. “Splendid fellow! You know him?”

  “He tried to kill us,” I said.

  “And now he’s dead,” said Molly.

  “Never liked the man,” Frankie said briskly. “Welcome to Nantes! France’s sixth biggest city! Lots of nightlife here, if you know where to look, and some fantastic restaurants. . . . We get a lot of tourists here, particularly when Paris gets a bit crowded. No Crazy Horse, as such, but I’m sure we can find you something a bit tasty, if your tastes run that way.” He winked roguishly at us, took in our expressions, and hurried on. “Nantes was built along the River Loire, at the confluence of the Rivers Evdre and Sevre. . . . Why are you looking at me like that and I really wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Do we look like tourists to you?” I said.

  “Not really, no,” said Frankie. He scuffed his cowboy boots in an awkward sort of way. “I learned all that specially, too. . . . Still! Never mind, eh? Always happy to do work for the exalted Drood family. If the price is right. Come along with me, everything is prepared.”

  “Hold it,” said Molly. “Information first. I want to talk with the Regent of Shadows. I was told he was here, at Casino Infernale.”

  “Well, yes,” said Frankie. “He was here, but he’s already left. Gone back to the Department of the Uncanny, I suppose.”

  “He’s avoiding us,” said Molly.

  “Can’t think why,” I said.

  Molly rounded on me. “This is serious, Eddie! This matters to me!”

  “Of course it does,” I said. “I’m sorry, Molly. But . . . do try to remember I’m Shaman Bond here.”

  Molly sighed, and stepped forward to place both her hands on my chest, her face close to mine. “We’ve both been through a lot, haven’t we? Let’s just get this mission over with, so we can get our lives back. Shaman.”

  I looked at Frankie, who was shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Clearly he could tell that something was wrong, and equally clearly, he didn’t want any part of it. I glared at him, and he stood still.

  I put Molly carefully to one side, so I could give him my best cold dangerous stare. “There’s something you’re not telling us, Frankie.” I had no evidence, but with Fun Time Frankie it was always going to be a pretty safe bet. “I think you should tell us everything. Right now.”

  “I was going to get you settled at the hotel first,” said Frankie, clinging desperately to his winning smile. “Let you have a nice cold drink, take it easy. . . . All right! All right! I’ll tell you everything you want to know—just please let go of my lapels and put me down! Really, you don’t know where this jacket’s been. . . .”

  I put him down. My temper was running on a really short fuse.

  Frankie swallowed hard. “I’m afraid . . . things have already gone horribly wrong. The Regent’s shadow agents, Patrick and Diana, arrived here with the Regent some days ago. Before I was even involved. The Department of the Uncanny was starting its own run on breaking the bank at Casino Infernale. That’s what persuaded the Droods to have another go.”

  “You’d think I would get used to my family keeping things from me, by now,” I said. “Go on, Frankie. And don’t try to clean it up. I want to know everything.”

  “Patrick and Diana bet big at the games, and lost big,” said Frankie. “They didn’t just bet and lose their own souls. They lost yours, too.”

  “What?” I said. “Players are allowed to bet other players’ souls, as well as their own?”

  “Well, yes,” said Frankie. “If they can demonstrate that they and you are directly linked by blood, which apparently you are. . . . Would you care to explain to me how that’s possible?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Fair enough,” said Frankie. “Fortunately, it’s Shaman Bond who’s lost his soul, as far as the Casino is concerned. Not Eddie Drood. You haven’t actually lost your soul, as such. It’s just that the Casino, and therefore the Shadow Bank, now have primary claim on it. It’s up to them to find a way to enforce that claim, though to be fair, that doesn’t seem to have been much of a problem for them, in the past. So basically, you’re still the captain of your soul . . . just not the owner of it. Sorry.”

  “I don’t feel well,” I said.

  “Purely psychosomatic,” said Frankie. “It’ll pass.”

  “How do they collect on a gambled soul, if the owner’s still alive?” said Molly.

  “They have their ways,” said Frankie. “Really horribly unpleasant ways . . .”

  “Where are the shadow agents Patrick
and Diana, right now?” I said, and something in my voice made him hurry to answer me.

  “Incredibly missing,” said Frankie. “They went on the run the moment their losses became clear, so they couldn’t be obliged to make good on their souls.”

  “Are they still here in Nantes?” said Molly.

  “Unknown,” said Frankie. “I rather doubt it. In fact, if I were them, I wouldn’t even still be in France. I would be in another world, in another dimension, hiding out under an assumed species. The Shadow Bank has very far-reaching friends and influence. They never give up on a debt, and have been known to enforce them on succeeding generations, when the original loser escapes them. With interest.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “Screwed and blued before I even start. What else can go wrong?”

  “I have made out a list, if you’re interested,” said Frankie, reaching for an inside pocket. He stopped when he saw my look.

  “You’re so good to me,” I said. “Does anyone at Casino Infernale have any idea who I really am?”

  “Not as far as I know. Your cover alias is still solid.” Frankie looked at Molly. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “I get that a lot,” said Molly. She didn’t sound particularly disappointed.

  “As long as I’m still safely Shaman Bond, we still have some time to work with,” I said, thinking hard.

  “Yes,” said Frankie. “But not a lot.”

  “So, I have to win at the games, and win big, and win fast,” I said. “No pressure there. But what am I supposed to bet with, if I can’t use my own soul?”

  “There is still Molly’s soul,” said Frankie, very carefully.

  “What?” said Molly, extremely dangerously.

  “Yes, I admit it is a somewhat compromised soul, with many claimants already attached,” said Frankie, even more carefully, “but it’s all you’ve got to work with, Shaman. You’re not blood relatives, but you are . . . attached. They’ll accept that, at the Casino. As long as Molly goes along . . .”

  “I am going to turn you into a small squishy thing with your testicles floating on the surface!” said Molly. “And then stamp on you!”

  “Please don’t let her turn me into a small squishy thing,” said Frankie, hiding behind me.

  “Not in public!” I said to Molly.

  “Never get to have any fun any more,” grumbled Molly.

  “Are you sure about this?” I said to Frankie, as he reluctantly appeared again from behind me.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” said Frankie. “Souls are currency at Casino Infernale. And before you ask, no you can’t bet with my soul. It’s already . . . under contract.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me at all,” I said. I looked at Molly. “I can’t do this to you. I can’t risk you losing your soul.”

  “You have to,” said Molly. “It’s the only way to get your soul back. I give you my permission, Shaman.”

  “You’re going to hold this over my head for the rest of our lives, aren’t you?” I said.

  “Bloody right I am,” said Molly.

  We shared a moment.

  “Warms the cockles of my heart, to witness such true love,” said Frankie. “I may cry.”

  “I will stamp on your cockles if you piss me off any further,” said Molly. “Take us to the nearest first-class hotel. I want a shower and a whole bunch of drinks, not necessarily in that order. And I think Shaman could use a little lie-down. . . . Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Weren’t you told?” said Frankie. “Didn’t you get any kind of briefing before they sent you here? Maybe they were afraid to tell you, in case you wouldn’t go. . . . All players at Casino Infernale are required to stay at the Casino hotel. It’s a condition, if you want to play the games. So no one can sneak out on their debts.”

  “Like Patrick and Diana just did?” I said.

  “Yes!” said Frankie. “It’s supposed to be impossible to get past Casino Security! They’re still tearing their hair out trying to figure out how that happened. Anyway, you two already have a room booked at the Casino hotel. As Shaman Bond and Molly Metcalf.”

  “Just how long ago did my family commit themselves to this mission?” I said.

  “I didn’t ask, and they wouldn’t tell me if I did,” said Frankie. “I find it best not to ask the family questions because the answers are always going to upset you. I got you a really nice room! At a really good rate.”

  “For a really nice kickback,” I said.

  “Well, naturally,” said Frankie. “I have a reputation to live down to.”

  “Have you at least arranged for a car to take us there?” I said.

  Frankie winced. “I want it clearly understood that none of what is to follow is in any way my idea. The Regent left a car for you. He had it imported, specially, just for you. Did you by any chance do something to make him really mad at you?”

  “It’s always possible,” I said. “What’s wrong with the car?”

  “Oh, see for yourself,” said Frankie.

  He gathered up as many of our bags as he could, and I took the rest, because Molly doesn’t do things like that. Says it’s bad for her image. Frankie led us off the bridge. He shot a look back at Molly.

  “Did you really . . . ?”

  “Almost certainly,” said Molly.

  “I was afraid of that,” said Frankie.

  Off the bridge and around the corner, parked in a space all by itself because nothing else wanted to be anywhere near it . . . was a 1958 scarlet and white Plymouth Fury.

  “Oh, no . . .” I said.

  “Told you,” said Frankie.

  “Yes!” said the car. “It’s me! Back again, by popular demand! The Scarlet Lady, her own sweet self. I knew you wouldn’t be able to cope without me, so I volunteered to come over and help you out! Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Words fail me,” I said.

  “I heard that!” said the car.

  “Oh, I am so glad you can hear that thing talking,” said Frankie. “I thought it was just me. . . . Is it an Artificial Intelligence?”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” said Molly.

  “I am wise and wonderful and know many things!” said the car happily. “What am I? I’ll never tell!”

  “So,” said Frankie, “you three have a history?”

  “We’ve worked together,” said Molly. “And my nerves may never recover.”

  “You’re just saying that,” said the car.

  “She’s very impressive,” I said. “In her own loud and vulgar and utterly appalling way. She helped us bring down Crow Lee.”

  “The Most Evil Man In The World?” said Frankie. “Well, colour me officially impressed.”

  “Knew you would be!” said the car.

  Frankie and I loaded the baggage into the trunk, and then he hurried forward to pull open the driver’s door. But when he tried to get behind the wheel, the Scarlet Lady flexed the front seat and threw him right back out again.

  “You get in the back, underling, where you belong,” said the car. “I know all about you Grey Bastards.”

  Frankie picked himself up off the curb, recovered as much dignity as he could, and got in the back seat. I settled in behind the wheel, and the car started her engine while Molly was still taking her place beside me as shotgun. We both fastened our seat belts immediately. We’d never been able to forget what it was like, riding with the Scarlet Lady. Much as we’d tried. The car lurched forward and out into the traffic, driving herself, slamming through the gears in swift succession, her engine roaring like a predator let loose among unsuspecting livestock.

  “Just sit back and leave the driving to me,” the Scarlet Lady said cheerfully. “It’s all right, I know the way. I have SPS. Supernatural Positioning Systems. Satellites? We laugh at Satellites!”

 
We roared through the narrow city streets, the Scarlet Lady’s engine revving for all it was worth, while the rest of the traffic hurried to get out of our way. But we hadn’t been driving for long before we realised we were driving down an empty street. All the other vehicles had disappeared down side streets, thrown themselves into back alleys, or hid themselves in cul-de-sacs. Leaving the road entirely to us.

  “Slow down,” I said, and the car reluctantly did so. I looked around me.

  “Where has everyone gone?” said Molly. “Do they know something we don’t?”

  “Almost certainly,” said Frankie. “Word gets around fast when the Casino’s in town.”

  “Incoming!” shouted the car.

  I leaned forward, peering up through the top part of the windscreen, and discovered that the sky overhead was full of prehistoric flying reptiles. Massive creatures with twenty-foot wingspans, grey-green scales, and long, toothless beaks ending in sharp points. Their narrow, vicious heads were balanced by long backwards-pointing bony crests. Their huge wings cupped the air as they glided back and forth above us.

  “What the hell are those ugly-looking things?” said Molly.

  “Hush,” said Frankie, from the back seat. “They might hear you.”

  “They’re Pteranodons!” I said, grinning despite myself. “I used to love dinosaurs when I was a kid. Though strictly speaking, Pteranodons are reptiles, not dinosaurs. . . .”

  I broke off, as I realised there were people riding on the backs of the winged reptiles. Sitting bolt upright in silver saddles, controlling their Pteranodons with glowing silver bridles and reins, were large blonde warrior women in SS Nazi uniforms. All of them perfect Aryan types, with harsh, laughing faces. Even as I watched, they dug silver spurs into the scaly sides of their mounts, and drove them down out of the sky, heading straight for us.

  The warrior women all had heavy-duty machine guns mounted securely at the front of their saddles, and every single one of them opened fire on the Scarlet Lady as they swept past us, hitting us from every side at once. The car threw herself back and forth, while all around us sustained gunfire chewed up the road, blew up lengths of pavement, and blasted great holes in storefronts on either side of the street. Fires blazed up, and black smoke billowed out of gutted buildings. Some of the bullets must have been incendiaries. The flying reptiles punched right through the black smoke, and went banking up and around in a great turn, to come round at us again. Their riders reloaded from bulging panniers, while the Pteranodons screeched back and forth in the air above us, riding the thermals, sweeping round and round in great arcs. The flying reptiles screamed rage and fury as their riders forced them into long machine-gunning power dives again.