The Runaway Prophet

by Michele Chynoweth

  Since he had nowhere else to go and he was feeling too intoxicated to resist, he sat down at a roulette table where the buy-in was twenty dollars.

  It must have been his lucky night, because ten spins later, he was suddenly three thousand dollars richer.

  He had hit half of the time exactly on the number he played, whether it was his age, his father’s date of birth, or a number that just felt lucky.

  The other half he hit on black or red, odd or even, and once he hit on double zeroes, the biggest of the payouts. The more he won, the more risks Rory took, and the more chips he played.

  Carlos sauntered up to the roulette table, took one glance at the large stacks of chips in front of Rory, and whistled.

  “Shut up, Carlos, before you get me kicked out,” Rory whispered.

  “I just can’t believe it, man.” Carlos motioned for John Dade, who was playing Black Jack and losing miserably, to come over to the table to watch.

  Soon some of the other men in their group who had run out of money congregated, and a small crowd formed around the roulette table where Rory was playing.

  “Whoa, guys, this is too much for me. I’m going to take my winnings and go before they lock me up somewhere,” Rory said under this breath, recalling his gambling experience on the Voyager cruise, even though he now knew that wasn’t the reason he’d been escorted out of the ship’s casino. Still, he remembered that fear all too well.

  He stood up, collected his chips, tipped a few to the croupier, and went to the nearest window to cash in. When he turned around, his colleagues were facing him, staring at him.

  “What? Are you mad at me for winning?” His words sounded a little slurred in his own ears.

  “No, we’re thinking we should keep you going,” Carlos said in all seriousness.

  “What do you mean? I’m exhausted. It’s midnight already. I have to pack and catch a flight home tomorrow. I’m going back to my apartment.”

  “You can’t do that, you’re winning!” Carlos grabbed Rory by the shirtsleeve.

  The group, led by Carlos, decided to venture forth from the Hard Rock to bigger and better casinos and wound up in the high stakes lounge of the Mirage.

  By now Rory was feeling the effects of the cocktails and beers he had downed and, with little sense of direction or purpose, followed along. Besides, he smiled to himself, I’m winning.

  As they walked past the hourly volcano show in front of the Mirage, with its fiery projectiles blasting out of the lake, Rory also felt philosophical in his drunken state. This place is truly like a crazy hell on earth, he thought. Of course, a lot of people who voluntarily come here year after year to give in to all of their carnal pleasures without being caught probably think it’s more like heaven, like the animals at a zoo all left out of the cages at the same time, free to run wild. Maybe it’s just a microcosm of earth magnified so it only appears larger than life … but really just human beings and their egos at their most grandiose selves.

  Then he was pulled along by the sleeve again into an elevator and up to the High Limit Lounge.

  There were Black Jack, Baccarat, and poker games among the high-stakes tables set up in quieter, plusher private rooms in the lounge, with buy-ins ranging from one hundred to five hundred dollars, and then there were the private tables with limits set at undisclosed higher rates agreed upon between those playing.

  Feeling like he had nothing to lose, Rory played stud poker into the early hours of the morning, his Condo associates cheering him on, refueling him with coffee drinks and cocktails. He did know that game—his scouting buddies had taught him how to play on a camping trip once.

  He played with five other players for hours, winning nearly all of the hands. It was as if Rory had the Midas touch … he couldn’t lose. Vegas had taken its toll on Rory the last time he was here. Now it’s payback time, he thought, the desire for retaliation and redemption firing him on. May as well leave this city with a bang.

  All but Carlos and John eventually left to go back to their homes and wives and children. Rory had always been the only out-of-towner on the OND team, with no one or nothing to return to every day but his empty apartment.

  He told his two Condo friends to go back home at some point, but they protectively insisted on staying.

  Finally, four of the six players had called it quits, leaving Rory and one other gentleman named Max sitting at the poker table together. It was 4:00 a.m.

  The dealer asked Max and Rory if they wished to keep playing.

  Max, short for Maximilian, Rory learned, was of Russian descent, a medium but strongly built blonde about his own age with ice blue eyes and a nose that looked like it had been broken at least once in the past.

  “Since the pot has already been divided and the house has received the ante, can we bet among ourselves this time?” Max politely asked the tuxedoed, baby-faced, but quite adept young man who had served as their dealer for the night.

  Max had only a few chips in front of him compared to the stacks in front of Rory, who had been winning all night. Rory could only guess how much money lay in front of him. Sixty, maybe even seventy-five thousand dollars.

  Now is the time to walk away. It was probably the one coherent thought Rory had had all night, but he remained seated, realizing this man might very well break his kneecaps if he dared to leave now with all of his money.

  “Since it’s so late, or I guess so early as the case may be, and as you have mentioned you have a long day ahead of you, I propose we play one last hand, winner take all,” Max suggested. “Would that be all right with the house?” He looked at the dealer, who nodded, then at Rory for his consent.

  Rory looked at Max suspiciously. What does he have left to bet?

  As if Rory had uttered the question aloud, Max said, “I know I don’t have enough chips to bet, but I did just purchase a new Maserati not too long ago. Here ….” Max fished the remote key that had the Maserati emblem carved on it out of his pocket. “We can wait and have a nice drink or two while one of your friends takes this key and checks it out. It’s parked in the hotel’s valet parking lot.” He held out the key to John, who took it and agreed to go find the car and report back.

  Max and Carlos ordered top-shelf drinks from a waitress nearby and sipped them, waiting for John’s return. Rory ordered a Coke.

  Fifteen minutes later, John walked back into the private poker room. He nodded at Rory then grinned. “It’s amazing—black, beautiful and brand new. I’d say go for it, bud.” John handed the key to the dealer then turned toward the young waitress. “Hey, darlin’, can you catch me up to these guys and get me a double Scotch?”

  Oh my God, Rory said to himself, half in fear, half in prayer, now feeling totally sober. I shouldn’t even still be here. I should have capsized on a cruise ship, sunk in that submarine, wound up in some jail ….

  “Okay, one last game, winner take all.”

  Max toasted him with his double vodka, and Rory obliged then gulped down his Coke, knowing he needed to stay straight and keep his wits about him.

  He took a deep breath and looked at his first two cards, an ace of spades and a deuce of clubs, the highest and lowest cards in the deck.

  Since there was no betting, the dealer merely had to turn over three cards, but he did so slowly, allowing the players to relish the moment.

  Three of diamonds.

  Five of diamonds.

  His heart doing somersaults, Rory glanced into Max’s steel blue eyes and saw the corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly. He has a possible flush.

  The dealer, with agonizing precision, dealt the last card.

  Four of hearts.

  Rory tried to contain his joy, but his heart dropped when he saw Max smile. He was confused for a second. I’ve had way too much to drink, he thought dizzily, and then watched as the Russian triumphantly turned over his cards.

  He had a pair of fives and a pair of fours.

  A mixture of exhilaration and terror seized Rory, and he alm
ost felt like he was going to vomit. Max looked expectantly at him, his eyes gleaming.

  Rory silently turned over his cards, revealing a straight.

  Carlos and John, who had been sitting by nervously drinking another two rounds served up by the pretty waitress, jumped up to see the revealed hands and let out a loud holler of delight.

  “Yee ha!” John bellowed.

  “Dios mio!” Carlos cried.

  Rory didn’t know how to react. He was too scared to show any emotion at all so he merely watched Max, whose face turned from pink to deep scarlet. Without saying a word, the blonde, muscular Russian stood up from his chair, handed the dealer a hundred dollar bill, firmly shook Rory’s hand, and turned and walked briskly out of the room.

  The dealer handed Rory the car key. “Congratulations, Mr. Justice.”

  Rory blinked in shock. “Thank you.”

  The hotel concierge had sent a valet to fetch the sleek sports car and drive it to the hotel’s main entrance where Rory waited with Carlos and John.

  Rory had decided that he would drive the car to his apartment, pack up his few belongings, and instead of getting a flight back to Ohio, head east on I-15 and keep on driving, connecting to I-70 in Utah, which would lead him straight back to Columbus.

  After a month and a half, it was high time for him to head out and leave it all behind—the strip clubs, the bars, the booze, the glitz, the gambling, the overindulgence.

  He had read somewhere that Las Vegas held more than ten Guinness world records including tallest observation tower, tallest chocolate fountain, biggest birthday cake, biggest gold nugget, biggest bronze statue and biggest casino winnings.

  Rory recalled thinking how ridiculous it all was. He had seen beneath the surface of Sin City to the crime, the sex, the drugs, the depravity, the beggars, the bookies, the gangs, and the gambling addicts.

  He also had seen a few good souls who lived here, and who were helping others fight the uphill battle of reforming the people and transforming the city into more than a place with too much of everything—into a place where people could live and work in safety. He would never forget John, Carlos, Rodney Steele, Mark Glover—and Susan.

  As he stood waiting for his prize to be delivered, Rory forced the ache of already missing them from his heart, mentally placing the last brick into the wall of superiority and condemnation that he had rebuilt around it, blocking out everything else.

  He reminded himself that the FBI and the Las Vegas Police Department had used him. Susan had hurt him. And his father had humiliated him, sending him here to supposedly “save” Las Vegas, only to have some type of miraculous act of God occur that required no help on his part. He felt like he had simply been a pawn in some type of cosmic game. Like the fountains and volcanoes, it all seemed like an illusion now.

  John and Carlos started whistling and clapping their approval as the car pulled up to the entrance, breaking his reverie. A few passersby joined in the cheering.

  When the valet hopped out of the driver’s seat and handed the key to Rory, saying, “Here is your car, sir,” Rory beamed, shaking his head, still in disbelief.

  I really don’t need any of them anymore, he decided now, feeling smugly triumphant, taking the keys from the valet driver. I have seventy-five thousand dollars in my pocket and the fastest, most beautiful car to take me anywhere I want to go. I’ve got everything I need.

  “You are one lucky son-of-a-gun,” John said. “I’m sure gonna miss you.”

  He shook John’s hand, let Carlos give him a hug, and slid into the driver’s seat. “Thanks guys, see ya later,” he said to both men. And then he waved and drove away. So long, Las Vegas.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rory sang along to the words of “Sweet Caroline” blaring from his car stereo. He was driving ninety miles an hour on the open road, which had a posted speed limit of seventy-five, and yet it only felt like he was driving forty-five in this new miracle machine.

  He had noticed with trepidation and delight that the Maserati could go up to two hundred and eighty-five miles an hour.

  Rory watched as the sun rose above the distant mountains on the horizon of the brown Mojave Desert floor that stretched endlessly on either side of the two-lane highway. The vast sky changed before his eyes, a red slit of a sun growing into a blood-orange fireball that sent magenta ribbons of light blazing through pink whispers of clouds. It was like a virtual painting, an indigo and scarlet canvas fading to shades of purple, and then to various hues of coral and blue.

  He loved this car. He had even named her. Caroline, of course, after an old girlfriend. He had always loved the Neil Diamond song, and here it played from the XM station on the radio. He turned up the volume until the sound burst from the car’s new Bose stereo. His favorite song had never sounded so good. Come to think of it, I love this car more than I did the girl. He smiled to himself.

  He sighed with contentment, soaking in the rising sun and absentmindedly stroking his hand along the seat next to him, feeling the car’s rich, tan leather interior. He drove with the convertible top down, feeling the warming desert breeze whip through his hair. Thankfully, he had remembered to pack sunglasses to protect his eyes.

  For the first time in a long time, perhaps in his entire life, Rory felt happy and free.

  He also still felt a little intoxicated. He figured it was probably a combination of all of the alcohol in his system, the satisfaction of leaving Las Vegas and all of its trials and tribulations, and the heady feeling of driving so fast in such a powerful vehicle.

  Rory was travelling according to his plan, east on I-15, and had gone about sixty miles. To the best of his knowledge, he figured he would probably see signs for the Arizona state line fairly soon, as I-15 wound briefly through a corner of Arizona before entering the state of Utah.

  According to his calculations, he would reach Utah in about an hour, and hoped to get breakfast at the first town he saw. He was getting hungry.

  He glanced down to change the channel, and during the few seconds it took to look at the names of the songs and artists that flashed on the screen as he flipped through the stations, he didn’t see the sharp, softball-sized rock in the road.

  Rory suddenly heard the loud pop of the right front tire blowing out, and the Maserati veered sharply to the left. And there, just off the road, was a small, scraggly Joshua tree, which the car hit before careening to a stop in the desert sand about ten feet from the shoulder of the highway.

  Fortunately, he wasn’t hurt except for a bump and bruise on his left temple where his head hit the windshield when the car lurched to the left and hit the tree. Getting out of the car to assess the damage, Rory saw that the tire was completely flattened down to the rim, and the whole left side of the car was bashed in. He was so angry and bereft that his brand new Caroline was damaged that he felt tears sting his eyes.

  Rory tried to start the Maserati again. The key turned in the ignition, but the car didn’t start. The blow to the front end must have done some internal damage to the engine. Rory was now upset and infuriated.

  He looked around. There was literally nothing and no one in sight, just miles and miles of desert with an occasional Joshua tree dotting the landscape, nothing else but the road and the sun and some reddish-brown mountains in the distance.

  He got back in the car and reached for his cell phone on the passenger seat.

  Great, he said to himself sarcastically. I only have five percent of my battery left.

  He thought perhaps he should call 911, but before he did, he realized he should first find the vehicle registration. He opened the glove compartment and searched through a small stack of papers.

  There was no registration card. He looked again. Nothing.

  Rory then decided that calling the cops was probably a very bad idea. First, he had no registration card for this brand spanking new Maserati. The officer will definitely think I stole it, he thought. I mean, look at me, I’d think I stole it if I were a police officer.
Rory looked in the rearview mirror and grimaced at his bloodshot eyes and scruffy face with its beard stubble. He hadn’t had time to shave or shower.

  Most of all, he thought, it was a bad idea because he might still have alcohol in his system.

  Rory had a long enough moment of clarity to realize he was feeling a hangover coming on, taking form as a headache, nausea, and heartburn.

  Suddenly his mouth also felt parched, and Rory panicked. In his drunken state, he hadn’t thought to bring anything to eat or drink, not even a bottle of water. He had figured he’d stop at the first town.

  The sun was now crawling into the sky, its rays growing hotter as it ascended. Rory didn’t know it, but today’s weather forecast for this part of Nevada called for temperatures in the upper nineties, and a windstorm was headed his way from the south. And there was absolutely no shade or shelter in sight.

  Rory tried the key in the ignition again to at least put up the convertible top and ward off the already hot sun. But again, nothing happened.

  This was plain bad luck. Rory got out of the car to try to put up the top manually, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Now Rory started cursing God.

  How could He let this happen to me? Rory thought, near tears again as he climbed back into the passenger seat and slumped down onto the warm leather in frustration, already sweating from the effort he had made. What are You trying to tell me, God?

  Now his head was pounding.

  Just as Rory was thinking of whom he could possibly call for help, his cell phone rang. He looked at his phone and couldn’t believe the name that appeared, one of the last he ever would have expected.

  It was Rick, his son.

  Rory stared at the phone for a few seconds before answering, almost missing the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad, it’s me, Rick. How are you?”

  Rory fought to keep from barking out a sardonic laugh. How am I? I’m just peachy keen Ricky my boy. I’m stuck out in the middle of this god-forsaken desert, my brand new Maserati, the only thing I have left in my life, is ruined, I feel awful, my head is pounding, I’m dying of thirst, and it feels like I’m roasting in an oven. But other than that, I’m just dandy.