by Jonas Saul
They locked eyes for several seconds before she shrugged and raised her hands, palms open in a what’s up gesture.
He didn’t move. Only kept staring.
So she started toward him.
“Two simple tasks,” she whispered to herself, shaking her head. “That’s all I’m supposed to perform. Vivian, is this your doing?”
The man broke eye contact, brushed his wavy hair out of his face, and then spun on his heels and jumped on the escalator going up.
Sarah broke into a run. He was halfway up by the time she hit the bottom and started her ascent.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” she said as she edged past people.
She caught a quick glimpse of the scarred man turning left at the top toward the Bellagio. Ten seconds later, she turned left and looked along the cement walkway above the strip.
He stood by the doors to the Bellagio, holding one open. They stared at each while she collected her breath.
Then he said something, but it was drowned out. She moved forward a few steps.
“What?” she called.
Passing strangers looked at her.
“Don’t send the text,” the man shouted.
The text? How the fuck does he know about that?
She started walking. “Who are you?” she asked. “Come talk to me.”
More people stared, others turned to look at her. Mostly, everyone just kept walking, minding their own business. A vagrant down on his luck sat in a corner, his hand out. She grabbed a handful of change from her pocket as she passed him and dropped it his upturned dirty baseball cap.
The scarred man at the door moved backwards into the building.
“Hey, wait,” she yelled and started running again.
He disappeared inside, the door shutting. There was enough light inside the building for her to see him through the glass doors as he ran in about twenty feet and turned right where he disappeared behind a wall.
She hit the doors and jumped past two women that a man had opened the door for. They protested how rude she was as she raced to the corner and turned right.
The man with the scar was gone. Another door led out onto yet another walkway.
This is getting old fast.
She went to those doors, stepped outside, but the man had disappeared. The walkway to Caesars Palace had at least a dozen people on it, but he was gone.
That long overcoat he was wearing is too heavy for Vegas weather.
“Sarah?”
It wasn’t immediately obvious who had spoken her name as she looked at the people walking by her.
“Sarah?” the voice called louder.
It was coming from the edge of the walkway. She moved over cautiously and peered over the edge, her hand near her weapon. On the street below, the man with the scar stared up at her.
“I didn’t catch your name,” she shouted down. “How do you know mine?”
“Don’t send the text,” he shouted back.
“What’s it to you?” she called down.
From where she stood, it looked like he was crying. He rubbed both eyes and twisted his fingers over them a couple of times.
“Just, please, don’t,” he said.
Mystery Man walked away.
Behind her, a small stairwell led down to the sidewalk. Should she give chase?
She decided it wasn’t worth it. Unless he was willing to come up and explain to her why she was not supposed to send the text, then she would do it. There was no one on Earth who would stop her from doing what Vivian asked her to do unless that person had a very good reason. One they could prove to her was a good reason. Vivian had done right by her for over five years. Sarah wasn’t going to deny her sister now because a stranger told her to.
It bothered her that someone she had never seen before could know about the text. It was one thing to know she was in town, recognize her face. But it was quite another to know what she was supposed to do. That had always been private between Vivian and her. It was virtually impossible that anyone else would know.
Unless Vivian could talk to more than just me. Or there was someone else like me, which is more likely.
She headed through the Bellagio, used the walkway to cross back to Bally’s area and descended the escalator to the street. Vegas was big, the lights bright. She didn’t want to get too far from her bike and end up lost.
It was interesting, though. She had memorized the phone number she was supposed to text. Why couldn’t she just use her own phone to text it? That was the thing with Vivian. It was implied that Sarah would follow the message to the letter and do her best never to deviate.
So she had to locate a random man and get him to text the message.
She headed along the strip, passing Bally’s and then the Paris Hotel, waiting for the right face, the right guy to use.
On her right, near the edge of the street, she passed men and women holding out little cards for people to grab. As far as she could tell, it was advertising for prostitution. They’d slap the cards in their palm to make a noise and then jam the cards out in front of people.
It started to piss her off. Every time she passed one of them, their hands thrust out fast, almost making her slap them or knock the person’s hand away.
Discarded pamphlets and garbage littered the edge of the street. People walked by, drunk, boisterous, partying. Others drank in the street. She passed two girls who couldn’t be a day over eighteen, sipping from a straw that was inside the top of a blue balloon with Paris Hotel and Casino printed on it.
She needed a drink. Red wine and a bath. No more delays. It was time to find a random guy, send the text and then find a hotel.
A man walking alone came toward her. She slowed and sized him up. There was something about him that seemed furtive, like he was on full alert. He checked behind him, but then kept coming toward her.
She stopped by a fenced-off construction area and waited for him to get closer. The area she picked sat between two streetlights and it was down a little from a main casino’s front doors. This was one of the darker areas on the strip which would work perfectly.
When the man was a few feet away, Sarah checked to see if the scarred man was back or not, and then stepped in front of her random guy.
“Hey,” she said.
He stopped fast and even stepped back a foot.
“What?” he asked.
He tried to look strong, tough, but Sarah saw fear in his eyes.
What the fuck? How come I’m always the last to know what’s going on?
“I’ve got a problem,” Sarah said.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
Now he was playing the tough-guy act. It was so easy to see through.
“I need to use your cell phone.”
“What? No way.”
“Look, I have to send a text to someone. It’s important. I know this is random and it seems crazy to you, but can you cut a girl a break? I just need to send a text, then I’m gone.”
“Use your own phone,” he said and started to walk around her.
She grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He almost lost his balance and had to take a couple of steps to right himself.
“Hey, what the fuck?” he shouted.
People looked at them, probably assuming they were just another couple who had lost too much money at the tables and were arguing about it.
“Send the text for me, please,” she said with a smile. She dipped her head low and let her hair fall off her shoulders and into her face.
He didn’t fall for the female persuasion techniques. Instead, he backed away until he bumped into the fence, looking even more afraid.
“Are you with Maxwell Ramsey?” he asked.
“Who’s that?” Sarah asked.
“Maxwell Ramsey? You never heard of him?”
She shook her head. “New in town.” She waited a heartbeat. “The text?” This was taking too long.
“Fuck you,” he said and pushed off the fence.
As he
moved past her, she grabbed his arm and shoved him hard. He teetered back and bounced onto the fence again. Then she moved in close.
“You’re not playing nice,” she said. “I’ve picked you as my random guy. That means you’re going to send the text. There’s no other option now. It’s a simple fucking text. What’s the big deal? Do a random act of kindness, here.”
People moved by behind them, oblivious to the scuffle. They probably thought the young couple were getting frisky before heading up to their room.
“Hey, get off me,” he protested.
He tried to force her off, but she rooted her feet in and angled her hundred-twenty-five pound frame into him, holding him against the fence.
She leaned in close to his face. “Are you going to help me or do I have to force you? I would rather this go easy, but I can do hard. Your choice.”
“Fuck you,” he said and pushed away from the fence again.
She whipped out her weapon as she brought her center of gravity low and came up into his gut with her shoulder. He doubled over and fell back into the fence.
Keeping the gun concealed, which she never imagined she would need for this task, she brought it up and under his chin, protecting it from prying eyes with her own body.
“Holy shit,” he said, swallowed hard, then breathed in and out fast. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’ll send the text. Just don’t shoot me.”
“Keep your voice down. Whisper.”
He nodded vigorously.
“Now, I’m going to put the gun away. You’re going to play nice now, right?”
He nodded so hard, his hair flew around like he was on a roller coaster.
She slipped the weapon back in her pants.
“Now, pull your phone out, slow and easy.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and eased out a cell phone.
“Set up a text to this number.” She gave him the number from memory. He did as he was told.
“What do you want me to say?” he asked.
“Type in, ‘don’t do it—keep the money.’”
He did.
“Now hit send.”
They watched as the message was sent and then the phone showed the word delivered below it.
“Perfect. Delete the number from your messages.”
She watched as he did that and then moved back.
“That’s it?” he asked, breathing easier now.
“That’s it. Wasn’t so bad, now was it?”
“You’re fucking crazy. Loco bitch.”
He stepped away from the fence.
“Hey, watch your mouth or I’ll wash it out with a little metal.”
She didn’t feel right having to deal with her random stranger this way. She had asked politely. If he had just given her a free text with his phone, he would’ve received a smile and even a sexy thank you. Instead he wanted to be a dick and even forced her to pull her weapon out.
What is wrong with people today? Is it the genetically modified food we’re all eating nowadays?
This wasn’t her style. But once she’d chosen him as her random guy, she had to stick to it. He had to be the one. It had to be his phone. That’s the way it was with Vivian’s messages. Any deviation and people could get hurt. Even killed.
She deviated before and paid the price. One of the first kidnappings she tried to avert walked right by her because she didn’t recognize the symbol on the girl’s jacket. When she finally got it, the girl was already on the other side of the street with her kidnappers less than a minute away. All Sarah could do was steal their getaway car. But she didn’t even get to do that. One of the kidnappers recognized her from a previous intervention and she ended up getting kidnapped herself. People were killed. She almost died. It got messy.
She would never deviate again. When Vivian said she had to pick a random man and get him to use his cell phone to text the message to that number, that’s exactly what she did and screw the consequences. She would never see that guy again. He can go on for the rest of his life and wonder who that strange girl with the gun was who made him send a text that night in Vegas.
Maybe he’ll be nicer to girls after this. And who the hell is Maxwell Ramsey?
The guy walked away from her backwards, only looking over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t fall over anything or bang into people. Thirty feet away, he pivoted and looked back over his shoulder again before he hailed a cab.
Sarah let out a deep breath. It was done. The text had been sent. Now, for the hotel, the bathtub and then stop a torture session.
Wonderful.
She headed back toward her bike. How was she supposed to stop a torture session, anyway? What was a torture session? Like going for a massage? Was it going to be a sexual thing that has gotten out of hand?
Even at this late hour, the streets of Vegas were still quite busy. She jostled past more people on the way back to her bike.
A block from her bike, she saw the man with the facial scar again.
She stopped and stared. The doors to the Flamingo Casino were wide open, the sounds of the slot machines resonating onto the sidewalk. People cheered, a bell sounded somewhere.
The scarred man stood rock still, glaring at her. He was crying.
Standing the way he was in the middle of the casino floor, not moving, tears running down his cheeks, really bothered her.
Was he upset that she had sent the text? What did she do that Vivian didn’t have under control? And how did this guy know anything about her?
Vegas was all wrong. An eerie feeling crept up her back that she had set in motion events that would cost her dearly.
And the man with the scar not only knew what was going on, he was troubled deeply by the weight of that knowledge.
Someone bumped into her, knocking her off balance.
“I’m so sorry,” a man said. His wife smiled and reached out to Sarah.
“Excuse us,” the woman said.
The couple kept walking along the sidewalk, the alcohol they had consumed working on each step they took.
Sarah looked back in the casino.
The man with the scar was gone.
Chapter 6
Jake Collins stood in front of the New York, New York Casino and Hotel, staring up at the roller coaster as it raced by overhead, riders screaming. After it passed, he entered through the double set of doors and took in the casino floor as he patted the inside breast pocket that held his wallet. He panicked for a second and then patted the other breast pocket and felt the envelope that was thick with ten thousand dollars in hundreds.
He felt safe in the casino with that much money. Security was everywhere and there were gamblers with more on them than that sitting at the tables with their currency piled in chips for the world to see. No one would take a second look at him.
Just meet the girl, give her the cash and get the hell out.
If he bumped into his brother by accident while sitting with a twenty-something blonde, he’d have a lot of explaining to do.
Correction, a pregnant twenty-something blonde. Yeah, too much explaining.
He meandered through the slot machines, passed the bar on his right, heading for the escalators that would take him up to the bar where they were to meet.
His phone sounded. He pulled it out and saw he had a text from a number he didn’t recognize. He opened the text.
Don’t do it—keep the money.
He looked around as if he were being watched. Then he searched the phone number on his phone to see who it was that had texted him. The number didn’t connect to any of his contacts.
Who could know what I’m doing here?
He had kept it a secret, even from Lana, which was twisting his insides. He had never cheated on his wife except this one time and to this day, he can’t remember a single moment of it. He remembered being at the party, drinking too much and shooting his mouth off. But waking up in bed with the woman, partially dressed, had scared the shit out of him.
He spent the first
month back in Phoenix feeling like a lump of shit. If it had happened, he felt better knowing that he had no intent. He could live with that. It wasn’t an excuse, just reality. He never once intended to sleep with other women. If propositioned when sober, no matter who it was, what she looked like, or what state of undress the woman was in, he would always turn her down.