Sin City Daemon

by Rick Newberry

  “Yes, well, I just wanted to point out—”

  “We’ve got several cameras located at strategic positions around the ceremony tonight, Carol,” Hudson said, “and we’ll let the pictures speak for themselves. What a spectacular night for Las Vegas.”

  Views from across the street, adjacent rooftops, and helicopter cams projected on a portable Jumbotron screen set up specifically for this celebration. Peter Hudson’s voice described the scene for viewers at home, “Thousands are on hand for this remarkable event. Nearly every celebrity appearing on The Strip is here tonight for the festivities. Of course, as you may have heard by now, President Walker, who was scheduled to arrive for the ceremony earlier this evening, has been forced to land in Dallas due to mechanical problems with Air Force One; problems which had earlier been foreseen by The Mystic. Quite an incredible story. I’m sure once the repairs are made, the president will want to shake The Mystic’s hand in thanks for the heads up.”

  “Pete,” Carol Melody roared into the mic, “as you know The Mystic does not allow anyone to touch—”

  Her cameraman slipped a finger across his throat and turned off the flood light.

  “The fireworks are now being launched from the rooftop of The Sterling,” Hudson went on, his voice booming from speakers lining the resort’s façade, “an incredible show of light and color in the night sky. As I said, President Walker will probably have a few kind words for The Mystic as a possible tragedy was averted today with quick action by Las Vegas’s very own super-psychic. Let’s watch and enjoy this marvelous spectacle for as long as we can.”

  Thomas Coleman’s bodyguards formed a human wedge and pushed through the spectators, escorting him back to the casino entrance as fireworks exploded overhead. The crowd roared its approval with every burst in the sky. Huge blossoms of color filled the night sky as music blared from outdoor speakers. The downtown congregation erupted into chants of “Mystic…Mystic.”

  Chapter Seven

  Deputy Chief Marco Ramirez examined his notes for tomorrow’s meeting. He wanted to arrive well prepared for the budget talks, and if a few hours in the office on Sunday morning helped so be it. Last year took him by surprise. He wasn’t ready for the onslaught of department in-fighting and petty squabbling, all too new to him then. But he’d been Deputy Chief for two solid years now, and by God he’d be ready for anything this time.

  He concentrated on the monitor in front of him, ignoring the cell phone chirping on his desk. He didn’t have time for anyone right now; he had to focus on the spreadsheet. The chirping stopped then started again a few seconds later. Ramirez winced and scooped up the cell, his eyes still focused on the computer screen. “This isn’t a good time. Give me a call back on Monday and—”

  “Marco?”

  His gaze darted away from the monitor; budget talks, spreadsheets, and numbers all fading into a distant memory. Nothing but the familiar voice on the line mattered. “Dixie? Dixie is it really you?”

  “Marco, I need to see you.”

  He held his breath, clutching the phone in a death grip. He hadn’t spoken to Dixie in almost two years. She’d gone to New York after The Disaster while he stayed behind, going through the motions of trying to fix a broken city. He’d attended so many funerals—too many: Sheriff Gale Hendrickson, FBI Agent Ed Miller, Major Jean Ransom, and all the others taken by a war they knew nothing about.

  To try and move on, he applied for the Deputy Chief position, and buried himself in work. His refusal for an interview with Dixie was the final wedge that drove them apart; at least that’s what helped him accept her silence.

  He kept an even tone. “How are you? How long have you been back in Vegas?”

  “A few months.”

  The words cut at him. A few months?

  “I need your help.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Can you meet us, at Aunt Rose’s house?”

  “Us?”

  “Yes. Aunt Rose, Colonel Dayton, Cutty, myself and…and Adam.”

  Ramirez’ pulse missed a beat. His thoughts flashed back to the night of The Disaster: Daemons and wolfhounds, death and destruction. It was all covered up by the government, but he knew what really happened. “Adam’s here?”

  “He asked about you.”

  “What did you say?”

  “He wants to see you, Marco. He misses you.”

  Ramirez cleared his throat, his mind racing. After two years, there was only one reason for this call. “Dixie, things are different now. I’m Deputy Chief. If something’s going to happen in this city—something like last time—I have a duty, a responsibility, to bring it to the sheriff so we can stop it before it begins. No more wars in this city. Too many lives are at risk. I can’t let anything like that happen again, no matter who’s involved.”

  “That’s why I’m calling you. I want you involved.”

  He eased back in his chair and gazed through the window, south across The Strip, toward the Stratosphere with its amusement park rides in full motion eight hundred feet above the ground. The tourists were finally coming back to Vegas.

  Physical reminders of The Disaster had been removed. Fresh new casinos rose from the rubble of The Las Vegas Disaster; taller hotels with larger neon signs. Amazing adult playgrounds erected: The Phoenix, featuring the world’s only underground water park—come for the sun, stay for the fun; The Lone Mountain Hotel and Casino proclaiming Lucas Knight the greatest magician of our time—performing twice nightly at seven and ten; The Sterling International Resort with its six-hundred-foot obelisk—home of The Mystic. But the emotional scars, enemies made and bonds formed would never be forgotten, no matter what changes a new city skyline promised.

  Ramirez swiveled around, turning his back to the window. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’d rather not explain over the phone.”

  “Why?” He waited, listening to her breathe.

  Her voice broke as she said, “I’ve been in contact with Major Ransom—”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Is this some kind of a joke? You know as well as I do Major Ransom is dead.”

  “Listen to me, please, Marco. I know Major Ransom is dead. I can’t explain how she communicates with me; she just does. There’s a situation and—”

  “A situation?” He felt his face flush. “So help me, Dixie—”

  “Marco, please listen. We need your help. More to the point, Adam needs your help.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yes. It’s hard to explain over the phone. We need to see you.”

  What could he say to that? He understood now why she called: he was one of Clark County’s top cops, and the only one at Metro who would understand what she was talking about. She needed his assistance, his support—the kind of support human codes, regulations, and laws didn’t cover.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Meet me at Aunt Rose’s house. We need to discuss our options. I’ve always trusted you, Marco, and I still do. Nobody knows strategy better than you.”

  “If I recall correctly, Colonel Dayton seemed to understand strategy pretty well. I’m surprised he associates himself with Adam or with you, for that matter.”

  “Colonel Dayton has changed. He loved Major Ransom, and he’s willing to do whatever she says. Besides, Colonel Dayton doesn’t have Metro at his command.”

  At last, she decided to be direct with him. Sure, she wanted his help, but she also wanted the army that came along with that help. His mind raced. He didn’t want anything to do with the supernatural, the paranormal, or whatever else anyone called it—that wouldn’t make it go away.

  Another part of him desperately wanted to see Adam. The union formed between them two years ago was more than just a magical spell—it was a true connection. “When and where.”

  “Tomorrow, about noon at Aunt Rose’s?”

  He hung up, swiveled around, and continued his slow inspection of The Strip. He could see the tops of six or se
ven hotels from his vantage point. He also saw the face of his old friend Sheriff Gale Hendrickson whenever he closed his eyes, an innocent victim of an unearthly war.

  Ramirez would not allow another supernatural battle in Las Vegas—not on his watch.

  ****

  The room at the Wild Joker sucked. Not only was it the smallest motel room Maxwell Sullivan had ever occupied, it smelled old, the sheets were spotted, and the free HBO came in all squiggly. Not to mention an A/C system in name only. “This is bullshit.”

  Max grabbed the room key and flung open the door, throwing his hand over his eyes against the sun’s ungodly glare. “Total bullshit.”

  He decided it wouldn’t be the worst idea to leave the Toyota at the motel and walk the six blocks west to downtown Las Vegas. It wasn’t as if the car held any creature comforts—its air conditioning was as effective as his room’s. “Bullshit.”

  He trudged along, each step taking him closer to the action downtown; action he sorely missed. Empty lots, vacant shops, and an endless parade of street people gave way to the welcome sight of tourists smelling of sunscreen, searching for the same thing he was: stimulation, excitement, and something different. He ached for a cocktail, and hungered for a hooker.

  His mood improved as he stood under the canopy of the Fremont Street Experience. He strolled inside a chilly casino and grinned at the empty bar.

  One bourbon, straight up. After four more tall glasses of the golden liquid, he felt almost normal. What nerve Gorgeous had to put him up at the damned Wild Joker? Sure, she had the right to dictate his moves; after all, she had negotiated for his services, so she essentially owned him. But that didn’t mean he had to suffer at a fleabag motel, did it?

  Now, this place—downtown Vegas—he liked; money changing hands, cigar smoke, and good-looking women. He threw back his head, tossing down another soothing bourbon. The liquor burned his throat, bringing a smile to his face.

  He ordered one more and sauntered through the casino, keeping his eyes open for a nice pair of legs. Even though his vision was blurry, no doubt due to the clouds of cigarette smoke, or maybe the six bourbons, he knew what he craved and she’d be easy to spot. She was here in the crowd somewhere; a blonde, maybe a redhead, willing to sell her soul for a few pieces of gold.

  He trundled to the pool area and leaned against a post, watching the girls in their cheap sunglasses, shimmering lotion, and string bikinis.

  The last swallow of bourbon went down hard; burning his throat and making him cough. He placed the empty glass on an unoccupied blackjack table before easing outside to Fremont Street.

  Fate. A tall blonde in a short blue dress caught his eye at once. The white belt wrapped around her waist accentuated her hips. Her tanned legs glistened in the sun as if freshly waxed. Perfect.

  He picked up his pace and followed her at a close distance. The black pumps on her tiny feet accentuated the muscle tone of her calves. He grinned, remembering the name of those particular shoes back in the day: come-fuck-me-pumps.

  His words came out a bit garbled, “Excuse me, miss.”

  She turned, offering him a gleaming smile.

  “I’m kind of lost. I’m staying somewhere on The Strip, but I don’t remember how to get back there. I’m from out of town. Can you help me?”

  “My pleasure. What hotel is it?”

  Reaching a hand into his pocket, he mumbled, “I’ve got the room card here somewhere.” He brought out a fistful of hundred dollar bills. “Whoops, my mistake. Got lucky at the tables last night.”

  Her smile grew. “Wow, you sure did.”

  Her skin flawless, smooth, and inviting. He put a hand on her soft shoulder. “I’m kind of looking to get lucky again, if you know what I mean.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure thing.” He swayed a little as he counted out five hundred-dollar bills and placed them in her hand. “How about you come with me to my room? In fact, we could both come in my room.”

  “Are you paying to have sex with me?”

  “You catch on real quick. Where you from, darling?”

  The woman slipped her hand into her purse and pulled out a shiny metal object, her smile vanishing. “You’re under arrest for soliciting.”

  “What the fuck? You bitch.” He reached out to her. She stepped aside and he fell forward, face first. Things got real fuzzy after that.

  Vague images crowded his alcohol soaked brain: lifted off the sidewalk by two Metro officers; his hands cuffed; a breathalyzer test in the back of a patrol car; a stinky holding cell; piss dribbling down his legs.

  “Get up, sunshine.” Someone led him out of the cell, escorted him down a gray hallway, and placed him in a small room. His hands cuffed to a metal ring on the table in front of him. Voices shouting from the hallway caught his attention.

  “I want him released at once.”

  “Sorry, sir, but he’s been booked for—”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what he’s in here for, I want him released now. You know who I am, right?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “But nothing, patrolman. I’m Deputy Chief Marco Ramirez and that man’s a CI in an ongoing investigation. We need him on the job now. Do you understand? No time to waste.”

  The door to the small room opened, and Max put faces to the voices. A uniformed officer, face white as an egg, held the door open for a brown-skinned man in a suit.

  The brown-skinned man rushed in. “Take those handcuffs off him. That’s an order, son.”

  “Sir, I don’t know if—”

  “Let me ask you something, you like working here?”

  “At the jail?”

  “On the force.”

  The patrolman took a key from his belt and unlocked the cuffs.

  “I’ll be back later and tell your supervisor you did the right thing. Don’t worry, son, you might even get a bump for this. Now let’s go, Sullivan. Move it.”

  Max stood up and scrunched his eyebrows together. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, and stared at the man in the suit.

  “I said let’s go—now.”

  He lumbered into the hallway and turned right. Ramirez grabbed his elbow, turning him to the left. “Other way.”

  Max whispered, “Who are you again?”

  “Deputy Chief Marco Ramirez.”

  “I don’t recall—”

  “Shut up and move.” Ramirez put his hand on Max’s back, forcing him to pick up the pace. They strode to the elevator foyer and waited.

  “Do I know you?” Max glared into the man’s eyes.

  The elevator arrived and both men stepped into the car. The doors slid shut. He kept his gaze on Ramirez. “What’s going on?”

  Ramirez turned to him. A bright flash illuminated the elevator. Gorgeous stared back at him, her stone-faced grin firmly in place. Max trembled. Another bright flash and the form of Deputy Chief Ramirez reappeared.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Gorgeous said. “I’m risking everything to get you out of this mess, and right after our little talk yesterday. When your father finds out—”

  “I’m so sorry. I just thought—”

  “That’s the trouble, you didn’t think. Listen to me, it’s almost twilight and I have a car waiting for you outside, a vehicle more to your liking—a black Continental. Go back to the motel and do whatever you have to do to sober up, but be quick about it.”

  He felt shivers run down his back. He thought about the pain she could inflict for disobeying her orders to keep a low profile.

  “Not just pain,” Gorgeous said as the elevator bottomed out, “endless pain. I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Now get a move on, you must get to Claremont by sundown.”

  Chapter Eight

  The cool, dark, quiet space cut a sharp contrast to the constant bright lights, endless chatter, and pervasive heat of The Strip outside. Soothing sounds of water trickling down a massive glass wall echoed like soft whispers in the shadows.

  The Mystic sat
motionless, his head erect, eyes closed, and hands clasped in his lap. His breathing came in an unhurried, measured rhythm; he could have been asleep.

  Two United States Secret Service agents hovered over him, their movements anything but calm; their voices far from whispers.

  “How did you know about Air Force One?” an agent asked. “Tell us who you work with.”

  The Mystic remained silent. If anything, his breathing became slower, even more serene.

  “Look, pal,” the other agent said, “this is your last chance to level with us before you find yourself in federal prison. How’d you know about the president’s plane?”

  The Mystic’s eyebrows rose and he smiled at the sound of the door opening. His eyes remained closed as he spoke. “President Walker. Welcome to my home.” A lyrical voice, quiet and childlike.

  “Sir,” an agent said, turning to face the president, “we’re not finished with him.”

  “Relax, boys. I wanna speak to him alone.” President Walker’s voice exuded Southern drawl, minus the charm. “Go on, now, leave us be.”

  The Secret Service agents eyed the president, then each other before being shoed away with a final wave of the president’s hand. “Go on now. I’ll be fine.”

  Walker approached The Mystic and held out his hand. No hand offered in return. “I wanna thank you for the heads up. They tell me a slow leak in the hydraulic system almost did me in.”

  The Mystic cocked his head. “Oh. The warning about your plane. You’re quite welcome.” The Mystic motioned to the chair next to his.

  President Walker undid the button of his tailored coat and sat down in the armchair facing The Mystic. He grimaced. “My men want to know how you knew about a problem with the jet. To be honest, so do I.”

  The Mystic’s lips widened, his eyes glowing. “And I, as well.”

  “What’cha mean?”

  “Visions come to me. I have little control over what I see, its importance, or its overall role in the grand scheme of things.”

  “Come again?”

  The Mystic crossed his legs in his chair, lotus position, and continued, “At the very moment I received the image of your plane crashing, I also received a very striking and clear image of a little girl—six-year-old Wendi Culver of San Jose, California. She dropped her chocolate ice cream cone.”