The World Walker Series Box Set

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  “Seb,” gasped Jack, his voice weaker. He coughed and bloody pink bubbles formed at the corner of his mouth. “I’m serious. I think I’m dying. Get help.”

  Seb looked into Jack Carnavon’s eyes.

  “Please, Seb,” whispered Jack, “please.”

  Seb wasn’t sure what he believed about the soul, but as he watched Jack’s eyes, he could see something shrinking, as if the life-force was preparing to depart. He knew that Jack’s survival was in his hands. If he didn’t call Stevie and get some help within the next thirty seconds, Jack was going to die.

  He waited ten minutes. Just to be sure.

  19

  Las Vegas

  Present day

  Walt’s house was set back from the road. After getting out of the car, Seb just stood and looked at it, wondering what was prompting such a strong feeling of deja vu. After a few seconds, it came to him.

  “The Taj Mahal?” he said, smiling.

  Walt walked up to the door of the pink stucco palace and glanced back at Seb before opening the door.

  “This neighborhood, you stand out from the crowd if you don’t stand out from the crowd,” he said and walked in.

  “No locks?” said Seb.

  “No need,” said Walt. “Anyone gets closer than fifteen feet, they’re gonna wish they hadn’t.”

  Steve walked up to Seb’s shoulder, carrying their luggage. He nodded at the open door. Seb shrugged and followed Walt inside.

  Walt showed Seb to a guest bedroom bigger than any suite in any hotel he had ever seen. The bed might have slept six people comfortably. The ensuite bathroom had a shower stall with nozzles pointing from every direction. There were three sinks in a row. Seb had seen plenty of places with two, but three seemed a little odd.

  “It’s because of love. And sex,” said Walt, gesturing toward the sinks. He was standing in the doorway, smiling. He had two glasses of cognac cradled in one hand and an unlit Cuban cigar in the other.

  “You smoke?” he said. “It’s the good stuff.”

  Seb shook his head but took the cognac and stuck his nose into the narrow aperture of the balloon-shaped glass. Rich, heady, smooth. Expensive.

  “You should consider taking it up,” said Walt.

  “The consensus is it’s bad for you,” said Seb.

  “Bad for everyone else, maybe. Not us,” said Walt. “You said you were shot?”

  Seb nodded and shuddered, remembering the sensation of tearing flesh, heat and searing pain.

  “That’s normally pretty bad health-wise,” said Walt. “How are you holding up?”

  Seb smiled and took a sip of cognac. Exquisite. He shrugged, trying to appear casual. On one level, he felt far from it. Everything seemed slightly surreal, his life seemingly wrenched out of his control by unseen hands. No one could deal effectively with the curveball that had been thrown his way. And yet here he was, a large glass of $1000 cognac in his hand, standing in a room with a genuine magician who seemed to think Seb was more powerful still - and he hadn’t even told him about the alien yet. His breathing was deep, relaxed, his pulse unhurried. He felt a little like a passenger in his own body, as if the shock and panic he should be feeling was being handled by another layer of his brain.

  “So you won’t have any trouble with nicotine, then,” said Walt, lighting the huge cigar by sucking on it repeatedly. He had no lighter, but that didn’t seem to prevent a flame appearing. Seb thought back to the moment he had half-wrecked the car. It must take a hell of a lot of practice to be able to manipulate carbon dioxide, water vapor, oxygen and nitrogen so precisely you can produce an ignition point tiny enough to light a cigar. Seb suspected Walt was showing off. He also suspected if he tried it himself, he would burn the house to the ground.

  “No downside to smoking if your body is unaffected by nicotine,” said Walt, letting a cloud of smoke drift between his lips. The smoke took on the proportions of the classic nuclear mushroom cloud before vanishing. “No danger of alcohol poisoning, either. You can get drunk if you like, but getting instantly sober without a hangover is occasionally useful. You ever fancied trying drugs?”

  Seb just raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot you were a musician,” said Walt. “Well, none of them have a downside for you now.” He took another puff on the cigar, clearly enjoying it. Seb knew little about cigars, but imagined this one was probably hand rolled by Cuban virgins.

  “Not that there’s much point,” said Walt. “In taking drugs, I mean. You wanna get high? Just do it. Why hallucinate when you can have the real thing?”

  “You still haven’t explained the sinks,” said Seb.

  “Yeah. Well, it’s a sex thing,” said Walt. “Seems to come with the territory. You use Manna, you generally have a high libido. Well, apart from the religious nut-jobs in the Order. Although they’re probably all flicking the bean or spanking the monkey when they think no one is looking. They don’t fool me with all their holy saintly shit. You get yourself a high libido, you’re gonna need regular sex. And when you can look like anyone in the world, you won’t struggle to get some action. When you can pleasure multiple partners without breaking a sweat…well, why wouldn’t you? And when the girls turn up and see the size of the beds, the showers built for groups and the amount of sinks? Well, they adjust their expectations accordingly.”

  Seb said nothing.

  “If you’re thinking of judging me, consider this,” said Walt. I’ve been sexually active for eighty-three years. Normally, there’s a natural arc in the sex-drive of the human male. We’re supposed to experience a decrease in libido from our late twenties throughout the rest of our lives. Not me and you, though. For a long time, mine got stronger year on year. So I found ways of satisfying it. Don’t think there’s much I haven’t tried. Believe me, I know how to enjoy myself. And hey, my tastes are pretty vanilla compared to some. Most of the girls wanna come back for more.”

  He swirled the remains of his cognac around his glass then knocked it back, his enjoyment obvious.

  “Some of them are interesting enough for me to let them. Not many, though.”

  “That explains the sex,” said Seb. “But you said ‘love’ first. Love and sex.”

  Walt sighed and sat down on the edge of the giant bed. Just for a moment he looked older.

  “Yeah, well, nothing in life is perfect,” he said. “No one gets a blank check. Love—romantic love—is a human conceit. Animals seem to be able to do without it for the most part. This weird attachment to someone else that can change everything…what good does it do?”

  Seb leaned back against the sinks. “Plenty of books, poems and songs tackle that question,” he said. “You got the answer?”

  Walt laughed briefly. “No, sir, I don’t. And that’s a pain even Manna can’t handle. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I should comfortably live for another thirty or forty years at least.”

  Seb wondered what a lifespan like that would feel like. Then he remembered Seb2 saying he couldn’t die. Couldn’t? Ever? Or just by violent means?

  “But it’s not all peachy,” said Walt. “Look, I don’t know you, you don’t know me. For now, let me just say this. I was in love once. It lasted a long time. She got cancer and died. I got to watch.”

  Seb suddenly thought of Mee. He didn’t know if it had ever been love, but the thought of losing her for ever? His imagination skirted around the thought, then scurried away. He turned his attention back to Walt.

  “I’m sorry,” said Seb.

  “Yeah,” said Walt. “Me too, son. Me too. It wasn’t pretty.” He stood up and smiled again. “On the plus side, there’s all that amazing sex to help compensate. And love won’t seem so important once you get the kind of perspective you’re gonna get.”

  And that’s the first out-and-out lie you’ve told me.

  “Dinner’s at seven,” said Walt. “Then we’ll go have some fun on the Strip.”

  The first casino wasn’t on the Strip itself, but a block away
. No windows or clocks same as the bigger joints. Still full of flashing lights, gawping tourists, and octogenarians feeding quarters into slots with all the enthusiasm of a prison canteen cook serving up portions of mashed potato. It was just that some of the gloss seemed to be missing - the carpets were frayed, the wallpaper faded. The croupiers were slightly older than in the big name casinos. They looked tired and bored.

  Walt excused himself and went to the bathroom. Seb watched the human tide drift by, some washing up against a blackjack or roulette table and staying long enough to lose a few bucks before moving on to the next shiny, exciting prospect. Vegas was a twenty-four-hour industry and inside a casino it was always just after midnight: late enough to convince the customers they were real players, early enough they could still hope their luck might change and this could be a night to remember. Of course, ninety-nine percent of them woke up with a slight feeling of self-disgust, hit the breakfast buffet at around noon, then headed straight back to the tables where—as luck would have it—it was just after midnight and, hey, this could be their night.

  Seb sipped at a coffee. The roulette wheel was almost directly below the balcony where he was sitting. He watched the faces of those setting their chips on a theoretical long shot. At some level, they must all know the house has to win so that it can keep paying the rent, the salaries and the cost of the free drinks they keep plying us with, so why are they here? Gambling had never appealed much to Seb. He could take it or leave it. But he knew folk who’d lost more than money pursuing the turn of a card or the spin of a wheel. Seeing a couple of relationships gone sour and hearing about a bass player he knew losing his house was all the convincing Seb needed to keep clear.

  He was just wondering why Walt was taking so long when a large middle-aged woman in a shapeless blouse and old gray sweatpants sat down unasked at his table. She was carrying two canvas bags—one bulging and heavy, the other empty.

  “I got a foolproof roulette system,” she said, leaning forward and tugging the material of her pants out of the crack of her generous ass. Seb got ready to leave but she put a pudgy hand on his arm and fixed her watery blue eyes on him over her bifocal glasses.

  “I’m here with with every penny I saved for the last five years. Gonna win myself a shot at a new life,” she said. “I just need to be careful. Need to stick to my system.”

  She paused to order a pina colada from the waitress.

  “That’s why they have a table maximum,” she said. “To stop people like me winning every time.”

  “People like you?” said Seb.

  “The intelligent ones,” she said, patting his arm. “The ones who’ve worked it out.”

  Seb sighed and looked over her shoulder. No sign of Walt.

  “I’m Mary,” she said.

  “Seb.” The waitress came over with a large pina colada, in a wide brimmed glass containing two straws, a tiny multi-colored umbrella and some bad-smelling thick, off-white liquid.

  “So what’s your system?”

  “Well,” said Mary, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “I come here during the week 'cause they lower the minimum bet to one dollar. So I put one dollar on red. No real reason, I just prefer red, red’s more of a feminine color than black. Don’t want you thinking I’m one of them racialists.”

  Seb said nothing, just took a sip of coffee.

  “If I win, the one dollar chip goes in this bag,” she said, holding up the empty bag to show Seb.

  “And if you lose?” he said.

  “Well, hold your horses, that’s the clever bit,” she said, chuckling. She was sweating and her glasses had slipped down her nose. She pushed them back up.

  “If I lose, I’m one dollar down, right?” Seb saw no reason to disagree.

  “So I put two dollars on red. If it wins, I’m one dollar in profit. I’ve staked a dollar, then two dollars and I’ve won four dollars. So the one dollar profit goes in here,” she said, once again holding up the empty bag. She waited, expectantly. Still no sign of Walt, so Seb sighed and gave in.

  “And if you lose with your two dollar bet?” he said. Mary laughed—an explosive noise pitched somewhere between an excited horse and a rutting pig. The force of her hilarity seemed to physically rock her backward on her chair and she clung onto the table for support, her glasses almost slipping off her face entirely before she caught them nimbly and dabbed at her watering eyes with a napkin.

  “Oh,” she gasped, wheezing, “oh, you’re gonna just love this part. If I lose with my two dollars, it’s not a problem. It’s not a problem at all. I’m ready to bet again, see? And this time, guess how much I’m gonna bet? Go ahead, guess!”

  “Four dollars?” he asked, figuring she would already be three dollars out of pocket, so would need to bet more than three dollars to make a profit. She stopped laughing as abruptly as if he had flicked a switch. Her lips quivered and the pudgy hand grabbed his arm.

  “How did you know that?” she said. “Are you working a system, too? Or are you undercover casino security?” She was sweating and looked left and right quickly before checking over her shoulder.

  “Relax,” said Seb. “It was just a lucky guess.” She slowly released her grip on his arm and patted it a few times while staring intently at him as if gauging his honesty. After a few seconds, she reached a decision and smiled tentatively.

  “Well, ok, then,” she said. “But you can’t blame me for being careful. Casinos hate people like me, you know. Folk who have a system. We have to remain, you know, anomalous.”

  Seb didn’t correct her.

  “And if you keep losing?” he said. Mary leaned back in her chair and smiled at him like he was a particularly slow five-year old.

  “Well,” she said, “this is the clever bit. I just keep betting enough to make my one dollar profit. If the four dollar bet misses, I’m seven dollars in the hole. So I need to bet eight dollars next time. If that misses, I bet sixteen dollars next time. Then thirty-two. And so on. Of course, red will hit eventually and I’ll win. As long as I don’t hit the table maximum.”

  “What’s the maximum?” said Seb.

  “Here? $1000,” she said. “But my maximum has to be…hold on a second.” She reached into the top of the bulging bag and brought out a red plastic wallet.

  “Favorite color!” she said, waving it in front of Seb. She opened it and picked out a faded piece of paper, soft with age. Unfolding it, she smoothed it out on the table and Seb saw it contained a sequence of numbers. She consulted the list carefully, breathing loudly through her mouth as her finger traced the numbers.

  “Five hundred and twelve dollars,” she said finally. “That would be my tenth bet. And you know what the odds would be for that ball landing on black again after landing on it nine times in a row?”

  “Fifty-fifty,” said Seb. Not entirely accurately, as he knew the ‘0’ and ’00’ made the odds even worse.

  “Don’t talk crazy,” she huffed. “The odds must be enormous. I can’t lose. Really I can’t.”

  Seb wondered whether he should try to point out the huge mathematical error she was making, but she had the bearing of a true believer and he knew his skepticism would be dismissed. He decided to give it one shot.

  “It won’t work,” he stated simply. Mary glared at him.

  “Hush,” she said and muttered to herself, shaking her head as she folded up her precious paper and put it back in her bag. Seb looked inside and saw it was full of one dollar chips.

  “Well, you just watch and you’ll see,” she said, standing up and grabbing both bags. She walked away, puffing, still shaking her head as she reached the stairs leading to the casino floor. Seb called after her.

  “How much is your profit if the ball lands on red when you’ve bet five hundred and twelve dollars?” he said. She turned and glared at him before answering.

  “One dollar,” she said, finally, then held the empty bag up. “And it goes straight in here.” She walked downstairs toward the roulette table, then sto
pped and looked up at Seb, sitting at his table on the balcony. He raised his coffee cup and smiled.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  She paused for a second, then turned away from the table and headed for the cashier’s cage. Hefting her chip-filled bag onto the counter, she had a brief exchange with the bored middle-aged guy who counted her chips. He handed her something, she took it and marched quickly away, past the table she had been approaching and over to a smarter looking table, where the wheel looked like it had been fashioned from real wood rather than plastic and the seats were padded and more comfortable than the first table. The croupier was in her twenties and looked like she hadn’t slept properly in the last forty-eight hours. This was obviously the high rollers’ table. Mary waved up at him, then pointed at a sign on the table he couldn’t quite read.

  “$10,000 maximum,” she called and laughed again, her whole frame shaking as she wheezed. She eased herself into the nearest chair and said something to the croupier, who smiled automatically and spun the wheel before expertly flicking the ball briskly in the opposite direct along its track.

  “Place your bets, please,” she said, automatically. Mary was her only customer. She triumphantly slapped down one chip on red, then smiled up at Seb. He hadn’t been in the casino long, but this was the first chip he’d seen in that color. As the ball still shot around the outer track, he stopped the waitress by holding up his hand.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “how much are the purple chips worth?”

  “They’re $5,000, sir,” she said, smiling at him. She held his gaze just a fraction of a second long enough to make it clear that her interest in him might not be strictly professional. “Can I get you a refill?”