Singularity

by Steven James

  Typically, they met here by the bar, but perhaps he’d gone to the blackjack tables to look for her.

  After paying off her tab, she navigated through the crowd toward the escalator.

  Driving down the Strip is easier emotionally on me than walking it because when you do that, you’re faced with the people on the street corners handing out full-color business cards of escorts and strippers.

  The folks hawking the cards have stacks of hundreds of them and snap them with their hands—a sound you get to know all too well when you live here in Vegas—then offer them to you as you pass.

  All along the Strip, you’ll find newspaper boxes with flyers promoting strippers, exotic dancers, and other “entertainers” with the promise that they’ll make it to your hotel room within twenty minutes.

  When you’ve worked in Vegas as long as I have, you can’t help but end up meeting some strippers. One of Charlene’s best friends is an exotic dancer. She doesn’t do full service calls, but according to the ad she takes out in the circulars that are distributed so freely on the Strip, she will “shower in your room or watch you shower! Can’t sleep? Let’s get together! Independent girl, no agency!”

  I once asked Charlene about her friendship with her and some of the other prostitutes we know. Considering Charlene’s faith, her reply both surprised me and didn’t surprise me: “Jesus was a lot more willing to attend a party with prostitutes than to shun them.”

  “But how do you think Jesus feels about those girls?”

  “I think he loves them so much he was willing to die for them. The least I can do is love them enough not to judge them.”

  Full service means just what it says.

  On the cards and flyers, there are photos of the girls without their clothes on, with small boxes, stars, or flowers covering their nipples and carefully positioned between their legs.

  The circulars are split into categories: exotic dancers, massage, college coeds, naughty nurses, Asians . . . and some categories that are best not to mention.

  You can close your eyes and pretend this isn’t our world, but it is. You can look away, but the flyers and business cards are everywhere, and whenever I catch a glimpse of one of those pictures of a young woman who should be at the mall hanging out with her friends or making plans for college, baring her breasts and advertising her services, it’s heartbreaking.

  But it’s all part of Vegas, and you can’t understand our city unless you accept that it’s part of our everyday reality.

  Here, you can become an “exotic entertainer” when you turn eighteen. One of the saddest ads I’ve seen was in a flyer that someone discarded on the sidewalk in front of me recently. It contained the photo of a young girl in pigtails and the words: “Just outta high school! Barely legal! Anxious to meet you!”

  I never had a daughter, so I can only imagine what it would be like to be that girl’s father. Especially if I happened to stumble across that flyer.

  She’s someone’s daughter.

  That’s what I think of whenever the people at the street corners try to hand me another card with a photo of a topless girl—she’s someone’s daughter. In Vegas she isn’t old enough to have a beer or slide a bill into a slot machine, but she is old enough to get a job dancing nude in front of strangers.

  She’s someone’s daughter.

  I love my city, but it’s one of the things I would change if I had the chance.

  So now we leave the Strip and all that it is—the good and the bad—and head for Industrial Boulevard.

  Dr. Jeremy Turnisen did not work for the United States Air Force. If you asked him what he did, he would say that he has a job in research and development.

  Every day except Wednesday, when he takes his day off, he leaves his home on the outskirts of Las Vegas, drives to the airport, boards a small private jet, and is flown to an undisclosed location. At the end of his workday he returns, drives to his home in the suburbs, and either lifts weights in his garage or watches reruns of NCIS on television.

  If you see him, he’ll be dressed as a civilian.

  Research and development.

  That’s what he’d tell you he does for a living.

  And he would be telling you the truth. He does work in research and development.

  His name does not appear on any official USAF personnel rosters. If he were ever to be interrogated, he would only be able to give his name because he has no rank and serial number.

  His specialty is strong AI and autonomous weaponry algorithms.

  After his pioneering work at MIT and twenty-two patents in robotics, the military recruited him.

  Well, not officially.

  Because he doesn’t officially work for them.

  But if things were official, he would have been recognized as one of the world’s experts on unmanned aerial vehicles and would have pioneered the research into the next generation of autonomous drones that could also be controlled, when necessary, by the thoughts of pilots on the ground.

  But since that program didn’t technically exist, none of those things did either.

  Tonight he was scheduled to meet Calista at the Chimera Club. Traffic had slowed him down, but now he pulled into the parking garage, entered the Arête’s lobby, and found his way through the gaming area to the club.

  I’d Like You to Meet Betty

  When CSI was in its heyday, some scenes were filmed downtown with just B-roll of the Strip. There’s one bar in particular that they used in a number of their episodes. It’s a dirty, angry little place that fit in with some of the sleazier, grislier crimes of the series.

  Not a weed in the parking lot.

  No weeds without rain.

  The air in the bar seems to be stained darker than the night air outside. The close-quarters smell of sweat and spilled beer permeates the neon sign–lit room.

  A dance stage with a pole waits at the far end of the bar. Right now there aren’t any women dancing, but I can’t imagine that at a place like this it’ll be a long time between dancers. Most people think exotic dancers get paid to dance, but they don’t—at least not at most places in Vegas. Instead, they pay the owner from the tips they get. Depends on the bar, of course, but I’m guessing that here, the girls don’t go home with a whole lot of cash in their pockets.

  Many of the bars in this part of the city have topless servers. Here, the women serving drinks wear scant bikini tops. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to make Charlene at least somewhat comfortable having them around me.

  “Well?” she says. “Where do you want to start?”

  I study the place, looking for someone who might be Solomon, but don’t see anyone who fits the bill or looks like a pimp or a seedy, underworld drug lord.

  A group of ten bikers is gathered on the south end of the bar. Scattered throughout the place, people sit alone or in small groups, talking in the booths and at the tables.

  “I don’t think he’s here.”

  “Why do you say that?” Xavier asks.

  “From what Nikki told me, I’m guessing he’s not a biker, and if he’s as well connected as she led me to believe, I don’t think he would be sitting by himself or with a date. I’m guessing bodyguards close by, probably a few girls on his arm.”

  “I’ll go ask around.”

  “Um, I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

  “Naw.” He pats his coat pocket. “I’ve got Betty with me.”

  Charlene eyes him. “Betty?”

  He opens his pocket to show her his Taser. “We go way back, Betty and I.”

  “Two weeks,” I remind him.

  “Two weeks.”

  And then, before I can try to convince him to stay with Charlene and me, he leaves for the group of bikers.

  Some of the guys in the nearby booths eye Charlene. For a moment I’m tempted to tell her to wait for me in the car, but I’m not sure I want her sitting out there alone.

  “Stick close to me,” I tell her. And we head to the bar.

 
We find empty stools next to each other, I order two beers, and when the bartender brings them, I tell him I’m looking for someone.

  “You a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Reporter?”

  “No.”

  “Movie producer?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  He studies my face, peers at Charlene and then back to me. “You look familiar.”

  “I have a show, over at the Arête. I’m an illusionist.”

  A look of recognition. “You’re Jevin Banks.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve seen your picture around town.”

  “Billboards.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “Solomon.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know anyone named Solomon.” I’m pretty good at reading people, but he has an air of practiced indifference about him, so I can’t tell whether or not he’s telling me the truth.

  “I was told I could find him here.”

  Xavier seems to have been accepted by the bikers—he’s standing in their midst and they’re all laughing together. I can’t help but wonder how he made friends so quickly.

  A hulking man sitting beside Charlene looks like he’s had too much to drink, and I’m not happy about the way he’s ogling her.

  “Sorry.” The bartender passes a bar towel unnecessarily across the counter. “Can’t help you.”

  I lay a hundred-dollar bill in front of him. “It’s important.”

  He pauses momentarily. “How important?”

  I place another Franklin on the bar. “Pretty important.”

  He accepts the money and nods toward the end of the bar, where a somewhat dumpy-looking fortyish guy with a comb-over is sitting by himself.

  From a corner booth, Fred Anders watched as the bartender directed Banks to a middle-aged guy sitting by himself, then Fred shifted his attention back to Wray, who was talking with some bikers on the other side of the room.

  I look at the man the bartender pointed out. “That’s him?” But my gaze quickly drifts to the gorilla who’s checking out Charlene. His muscle T-shirt looks like it might have been painted across his chiseled chest. He has me by at least fifty pounds. He would not be easy to put down if I needed to, but I figure I could do it.

  Martial arts versus brawn?

  Brawn is going down every time.

  Unless he knows martial arts too.

  That wouldn’t play out so well for me.

  In answer to my question the bartender says, “That’s the guy who can lead you to him. But if I were you, I wouldn’t go. You really don’t want to meet Solomon.”

  Before I can reply, the man who can’t keep his eyes off Charlene licks his lips. “Honey, why don’t you pull your stool a little closer?” A couple of the guys nearby him grin.

  “No thank you,” she tells him, then lowers her voice and turns to me. “Jevin, I think—”

  “What, you too good for me? I won’t bite.” He glances toward his buddies. “Unless you’re into that.” They chuckle and give more of their attention to the interchange.

  “No thank you.” She stands.

  He goes on, “I think I could—”

  But I cut in, “The lady said no.”

  It’s obvious by now that he’s not simply coming on to her but also putting on a show for his buddies, and that means he’ll probably be less willing to accept no for an answer than if he were alone and simply looking for someone to take home. Whenever a guy has an audience he’s much more motivated to want to save face.

  He appraises me coldly. “You might best keep out of this.”

  “I’m having a conversation over here,” I tell him, “and neither my friend nor I are interested in being interrupted by you anymore.”

  “Jevin.” Charlene puts her hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  He leers at her. “I can show you what a real man is—”

  “She made it clear,” I tell him firmly, “that she doesn’t want to chat. A gentleman respects a woman’s wishes.”

  Charlene closes her eyes and shakes her head slightly: Oh, Jevin. Why did you have to go and say that?

  “Are you trying to start something? Boy.”

  “I don’t start fights,” I say. “I end them.”

  By now, all the people on this side of the room have turned their heads and are facing us. I don’t take my eyes off the man who was disrespecting Charlene.

  “Well.” He grins and holds his hands out to the side, inviting me to push him or throw a punch. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Whatever I have to.”

  Two of his friends push back their bar stools and stand. The guy glares at me. “Who exactly do you think you are?”

  “A man who doesn’t like to see people get hurt.”

  “Then stay out of this.”

  I stand up. “But I don’t always get what I want.”

  He follows suit, rising, and then straightening up to his full height. He peers menacingly down at me and cracks his neck.

  Okay, this guy is really big.

  I lower myself to get into a stance for TaeKwonDo. He swings at me and I duck, evade the punch, and get ready to do a knife hand strike to the back of his neck to put him down, but suddenly there’s a slither of electricity and the man jerks and drops, writhing, to the floor.

  Tasered.

  Xavier is standing by my side with Betty in hand.

  The downed man’s friends help him to his feet and gather around him, but the bikers form a tight-knit cluster around Xavier.

  “I think we should go,” Xav tells me. He begins to ease toward the door. I take Charlene’s arm and follow closely behind.

  I hear threats and shouts behind me, and even though I’d been geared up for a fight, I’m glad to get out of there before things explode.

  “Why did you have to Taser him?” I ask Xavier. We’re almost to the exit. “I was about to take him down. I’ve spent three years studying TaeKwonDo.”

  “Yeah.” He holds Betty up. “And I watched a five-minute YouTube video on how to use these suckers. Who’s the king of time management?”

  I hate it when he’s right.

  “Next time, at least let me hit him once.”

  Outside the bar, we’re getting into Charlene’s car when I hear someone yell. “Hey!”

  I spin, expecting a man—or men—from the bar to rush me. But it’s not someone looking for a fight, it’s the man the bartender had told me could take us to Solomon.

  “I hear you’re looking for Solomon.”

  “We are.”

  “How did you hear about him?”

  Charlene answers for me. “A friend of one of his colleagues.”

  I doubt that’ll be enough, and I debate what to tell him to convince him to help us, but surprisingly he accepts what Charlene said and heads toward a blue sedan parked nearby. “Follow me.”

  With the fight erupting in the bar, Fred didn’t have an easy time getting to the door, and by the time he made it outside, Wray and the two people with him were climbing into the Ford Focus.

  Okay, he was running out of time here.

  They took off after a sedan and, trying not to be too conspicuous, he followed after them.

  Calista found Dr. Jeremy Turnisen at one of the blackjack tables.

  Everyone who plays blackjack uses some sort of counting system. If you don’t, you’re just letting the odds get the best of you, and you’re throwing your money away.

  Most systems are based on keeping track of the number of cards that count ten. When the tens are rich in the deck, you want to increase your bet. The dealer has to hit on a soft seventeen, but typically, depending on what cards have been laid, players will want to hold at a sixteen, maybe at a seventeen, almost always at an eighteen.

  Whatever Jeremy had, he was increasing his bet when she approached.

  He was focused on the table and didn’t s
ee her at first, so she eased in beside him, close enough for him to smell her perfume, to feel her presence.

  She brushed a hand ever so slightly against his arm and indicated toward his pile of chips. “It looks like luck is on your side tonight.”

  He put his hand on hers. “It looks like it is.”

  She wanted to get him alone, back to the room, to Derek, who was waiting in the closet with the Dalpotol and the cloth to cover Jeremy’s mouth, but she also didn’t want to press Jeremy too much or make him suspicious.

  Before she could think of what exactly to tell him, he said, “I’m on a streak.”

  She kissed his cheek. “Well then, play for keeps. Remember, tonight, winner takes all.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Down the Rabbit Hole

  We follow the man in the blue car through a winding series of backstreets until we come to a deserted alley on the east side of town.

  As Charlene is parking, she asks Xavier how he connected so quickly with the motorcyclists. “They sure warmed up to you fast.”

  “I’m an expert at winning friends and influencing people.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That, and we share mutual feelings toward the intrusiveness of the federal government.”

  Now that, I believe.

  “And respect for vets.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Charlene turns off the car, and we all step into the cool night.

  A dumpster rests nearby, and the stench of filth and rot fills the alley.

  The man we’d followed shambles toward us and introduces himself simply as Martin. “Solomon doesn’t like it when people waste his time. You better have a good reason to be here.”

  “We do.”

  “And that is? I need something to tell him.”

  I decide it might help us get an audience if I tell Martin the truth. “I’m looking for information that might lead us to a man who murdered my friend. I’m willing to negotiate for the information. I have resources at my disposal.”

  “Resources.”

  “Yes.”

  After spending a moment mulling that over, he indicates toward a rusted door on the other side of the alley. “This way.”