by C. F. Waller
“Shall we go now?” I shout, before dashing around the back of the car and herding her up the stairs.
Once inside, she pulls the door shut and cranks down the long handle to seal it. As she stands leaning on the first row of seats, I notice her ragged appearance. Wearing slacks and a blouse as I witnessed the day before, she has added a short waisted jacket, which is tattered and torn. Her slacks are ripped over her right thigh and some blood is visible on her skin underneath. I try and go to her, but the plane jerks forward, throwing me back. She sits pressed on the arm of one of the chairs and glances back at me. One of her eyes is swelling badly and her cheek is cut and bleeding.
“Are you alright?” I shout over the engines as the plane moves down the runway. “You look like hell.”
“That’s not what a girl likes to hear,” she groans, ending in a cough that sprays a small amount of blood on the back of the seat.
“Who’s your friend?” I nod at the door.
“I didn’t get his name,” she tells me loudly, slipping back two rows and dropping down across the aisle from me. “He’s using an older Persian dialect.”
I shrug, having no idea what that is.
“It’s close to Farsi,” she explains seeing I’m lost. “You’d know it as Arabic, but he’s using a very old version and thus I can’t make out everything he said.”
“All I heard was cussing, so you would know better than me,” I admit. “He turned up when?”
“Been trying to kill me since yesterday.”
“Any idea why?” I inquire.
She smiles, but just coughs into a clenched fist.
“Maybe he’s pissed we have been hunting them,” I suggest.
“No, that’s not it,” she coughs as the plane angles up sharply, leaving us grabbing the seatbacks. “That’s not who we’ve been hunting.”
“How so?” I shrug, my ears popping.
“I don’t know if I believed any of this before yesterday, but I’m coming around now,” she explains, leaning across the aisle and grabbing me with a bruised hand. “The gal I caught two days ago, Beatrix something, told me she wasn’t immortal, just old. She went on and on about being as fragile and easy to kill as you or me.”
“What I just witnessed wasn’t easy to kill.”
“No, that’s what I am trying to tell you,” she coughs into her clenched fist again. “The guy you just ran over with a car isn’t what we have been chasing. If I had to guess, I’d say he is what Beatrix was warning us about.”
“Alright,” I reply, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, having not spoken to Beatrix yet. “So, we are hunting one set of lesser immortals and their very hard-to-kill older brothers are hunting us?”
“Maybe, she sighs, the plane leveling out. “Or maybe the hard-to-kill types are hunting everyone.”
“Fantastic,” I shrug. “We should get you cleaned up.”
To this she waves me off, then drops her empty gun on the seat next to her. Cringing in discomfort she pulls a second gun from behind her waist and drops it on top of the first. Both appear to be out of rounds, the second still locked in the open position. After this, she winds up pressing both hands on her thigh, pooling up blood between her fingers.
“Are you shot?” I blurt out.
“It happens. Bastard just kept getting up.”
“You need a doctor.”
“Decker will get it,” she grunts, exhaling loudly. “Let him get the autopilot on.”
“Wait,” I mumble as the effects of the recent events dawn on me. “We can’t just fly into an airport after all that shooting. The police will be waiting for us to land.”
“No, they won’t,” Decker startles me from behind. “We don’t have a flight plan or a GPS beacon. Help me get her to the back. There’s a couch in the crew area.”
“You can’t land at McCarran like that?” I grumble as we carry her to the rear. “No beacon or papers.”
“Plenty of places to land between here and there,” he exhales as we set her down. “Have you ever been on a private plane?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Go up front and keep an eye out,” he shrugs, helping her out of her jacket. “Listen for the radio and tell me if anyone calls us. Whatever you do, don’t touch anything or answer any radio calls.”
“You might need my help,” I assert, but see Rahnee pushing her pants down to get at her thigh.
“Go,” Decker says quietly as he moves his body to cover her position. “I’ll call when I get her settled.”
Nodding, I start up the aisle. For some reason I wonder if Decker and Rahnee are a thing. It was only a day ago she was offering me a ride back to the hotel. An offer I had taken to be for more than just transportation. This is a very self-obsessed thought and I push it out of my mind. Once in the cockpit, I have a seat and watch the clouds fly by. I try to focus on our dilemma, but wind up peeking back down the length of the plane to see what Decker is up to. Catching myself I laugh.
“People are trying to kill you and you’re fighting over the girl,” I snort. “What has become of your dignity Dunn?”
Chapter Eight
Arron Wessker
Men in striped shirts pilot gondolas down the pretend canals. As I lean on the railing overlooking one such faux waterway, I can see the billboard for the Mirage towering over Las Vegas Boulevard across the street. Next to it sits Treasure Island and my usual Blackjack table. I day dream about ordering a rum and coke from Tiffany, but am drawn back to my present situation by loud tourists. Three middle aged women are howling and waving their hands as several others float by in a gondola.
Behind me, Bill sits at a table chatting with a waitress who has set her tray down and is seated in what was my chair. Most noticeable are her are long fingernails painted in a loud green color. They are encrusted with tiny fake rhinestones and she taps them on the table as she listens to Bill. A manager or security lackey came by and told her to get back to work, but Bill passed the man some money and the lazy girl has been sitting there shooting the breeze for the past thirty minutes.
“Why is it I cannot go across the street and play cards?” I call back to Bill.
He puts up a finger and lets the red-haired waitress finish her thought, then widens his eyes at me to indicate I may proceed.
“I’m going across the street to play, alright?” I whine. “This is boring me to tears.”
“Were you planning on asking Tiffany out tonight?” he inquires. “I was just thinking of asking Esmerelda here to dinner. Possibly we could double?”
“I just want to have a drink and play cards,” I moan. “No offense Esmerelda.”
“None taken,” she insists, the tapping of her nails pausing. “Where we going Bill?”
“So, he’s calling himself Bill now is he,” A brash female voice rings out as she approaches from the right. “I think Bill is going to be far too busy to entertain this evening.”
Turning, I see an odd-looking woman with brown curls piled high on her round head. Large brown eyes and small, but perky red lips glow against the backdrop of her pale skin. She looks odd given it’s almost 90 degrees out and she is wearing a full length brown dress with long sleeves. It’s buttoned right up to her neck ending in a white lace collar. The sleeves end with the cuffs of a white dress shirt poking out. What seems to be white tights and black wedge shoes are visible under her dress that ends mid-calf. I am hot just looking at her and she doesn’t appear to be sweating.
“Oh really?” the waitress blurts out, spinning around as she chews a wad of gum big enough to choke most people. “Says who?”
Bill just grins as the mystery woman comes over to the table. She looms over Esmerelda and puts her hands on her ample hips. For her part, Esmerelda doesn’t seem intimidated, looking her rival up and down as she pops her gum.
“Bee, I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t turn up,” Bill sighs.
“Understandable, but I was pressed into it,” she explains, glaring at Esmerelda. �
�Young woman you are dismissed.”
“I’m what?” Esmeralda balks.
“Expendable, unnecessary, redundant, extraneous, superfluous, dispensable, irrelevant, optional and nonessential,” Bee recites. “Did I forget any?”
“Additional, avoidable and unrequired,” Bill adds, stifling a laugh. “But I think you covered the important ones.”
“Excuse me?” Esmerelda utters in confusion.
“Did you require anything else?” Bee demands, still looking down at the poor waitress.
“What gives?” she utters, stepping behind Bills chair. “I stumble in to an English class or something?”
“You should probably let us have a word,” Bill groans.
“Good idea,” Bee scowls at Esmerelda. “Use small ones so she will understand you.”
Esmerelda waits for Bill to come to her verbal aid, but he simply shrugs. She leaves in a huff, bumping into Bee as she goes and leaving her waitress tray on the table. Bill rises and he and Bee share an uncomfortable looking hug. He kisses her on the cheek as if they are brother and sister. Once this ritual is complete, she turns to me with a look of disappointment.
“Tell me this one is just standing here and you have not involved him,” she groans.
“Arron is my driver,” Bill explains, eyes down like a shamed child. “An unfortunate necessity.”
“About as necessary as the redheaded arm candy,” she scoffs. “Does he know he’s doomed now?”
“I wasn’t aware I was doomed,” he snaps back. “What did I miss?”
“Yes, sorry,” she mutters, stepping back and readjusting a small red purse on a thin string. “All doomed I’m afraid. Doomed, doomed, doomed.”
“They found you?” Bill gasps.
“They did,” she nods. “Things got a bit messy.”
“Wait,” he stammers. “And you called me?”
“Thought a warning was in order,” she insists and pauses. “You’re welcome.”
“But now I am compromised you loon,” he shouts and then lowers his voice as people notice. “Now I’m vulnerable.”
“Technically you’re not,” she insists. “But you might as well be. Let’s just try and make the best of it, shall we.”
“Beatrix,” he groans, but then covers his face with his hands. “We can’t talk here.”
“I’m famished, but this looks like French food,” she complains, gazing about the tables. “I recall it with more of a Bedouin theme?”
The waitress returns to gather her tray and before she can escape, Bill taps her wrist.
“Esmerelda, when did you say they built this hotel?”
“Opened in ninety-nine,” she replies, popping her gum and glaring at Bee.
“And before that it was?” Bee asks.
“The Sands,” she replies miffed, wrinkling her nose up, before walking away slowly.
“Oh yes, the Sands,” Bee mumbles. “Nice place, less crowded than this mess. Who designed this place? The canals are all wrong.”
“It’s more of a theme park than a recreation,” Bill offers.
“It’s laughable,” she snorts. “Venice is nothing like this. Look at the ridiculous pinstriped outfits on the gondoliers.”
“My recollection is that the actual city smelled significantly worse,” Bill points out. “There was a dead fish scent all about town.”
“True,” Bee winces. “Even the bread tasted like fish tails and bait.”
“Might I suggest we go somewhere quieter and have a meal,” Bill offers, changing the subject. “Give us a chance to catch up and see how much trouble we’re in now.”
“I thought we covered this,” Bee mumbles, glancing about. “Doomed.”
“I’m Arron,” I interject, stepping forward and putting out my hand to her. “Recent acquaintance of Bills actually.”
“Calling himself Bill, right,” she smirks, not shaking my hand. “His name’s Dorian. Since he doomed you, you might as well know the man’s name.”
“About that,” I stutter and pause, glancing at Bill, who is apparently Dorian. “Can I get a little clarity on the meaning of doomed? Is it like doomed to re-take the fourth grade or doomed to walk with a limp?”
“More akin to eternal darkness,” Dorian declares. “But it could be worse.”
“How’s that?” I groan.
“You now have no excuse not to ask Tiffany to dinner.”
“Doomed thing aside?” I shrug.
“I’ll assume the word driver implies you have a car,” Bee interrupts. “I really would like to get a bite to eat.”
We go to the retrieve the Volvo from the valet stand and get off the strip. The three of us go to a restaurant I have never dined at. The building is all earth tones, some dark, some lighter. There is no valet, but we catch a break and get a spot near the door. The parking spaces are strip mall style, and we snag one near the entrance.
Raku is mostly a sushi place, but it offers private dining areas which is what we need. At first we have trouble getting seated, but Dorian hands over a nice bribe and we get a wonderful table in a small room off to one side of the public area. I have never before witnessed the use of bribes to such an advantage. Dorian simply tosses money at people to get them to do as he asks. I suppose that’s how I wound up here. Doomed, but well paid.
Bee and Dorian have a heated conversation over her decision to expose him to whatever has caused the doomed word to apply to us. I mostly listen until I become confused and with some trepidation, enter the conversation.
“So, you knew to look for us here because the two of you have been to Vegas before?” I butt in.
“Yes, for a convention of sorts back in 1948,” she replies. “In truth, it was a meeting to discuss our attendance at the event, not the gathering itself. It was understood if we needed to break silence that we would come here and wait one week.”
“That little party never got off the ground,” Dorian sighs. “At this rate we won’t live to see another.”
“A shame for sure,” Bee agrees. “I was so looking forward to seeing Walter.”
“You and that old coot,” he complains. “Debt paid I say.”
“Forgive me, but you’re not old enough for that to be true,” I argue, sipping sake Bee ordered and grimacing. “Want to try the math again?”
“He doesn’t know, but,” Bee ponders aloud and then turns to Dorian. “They will assume he does and kill him anyway.”
“I didn’t explain yet. He probably won’t believe me until they show up,” he groans, waving her off with a hand.
“Way too late by that time,” she snickers and then covers her mouth with her napkin.
“If you tell him, he’ll think you’re a mad woman.”
“You do realize I am sitting right here?” I break in.
“You tell him,” Dorian orders, pointing a fork at her before wiping his hands. “You’re better at this sort of thing than I am.”
“Fine,” she shrugs, turning back to me. “Which one of us do you think is older?”
With this, I take a hard look at both of them. My first impression is that she’s older, but looking harder at her, that may be incorrect. Her clothing gives her a dated appearance, but there are no wrinkles or grey hair. Her skin is perfect, lips full and round. Minor crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes, but nothing that indicates advanced age. As for Dorian, I’m hard pressed to find any symptom of age on him. At first glance he looks late twenties, but his demeanor is of a much older man. Very calm and reserved, too calm for a young man.
“You’re older,” I nod at Bee. “No offense.”
“None taken. You are correct,” she pauses to look at Dorian. “How much older than the Mad Hatter would you guess?”
“I don’t know.” I say feeling pressed into guessing a woman’s age. “Four or five years.”
“Oh, were that only true,” she croons. “How old do you think I am?”
This is beginning to feel like games to me. The glancing back and forth between
them makes me feel like a bug under glass. Dorian seems to be enjoying it, especially the comparison to the Alice in Wonderland character.
“How about you stop screwing with me and get to your point,” I insist, but they wait for an answer. “Fine, thirty-five?”
“He got some of the numbers right,” Dorian chuckles. “Shall we give him half credit?”
Pondering other combinations, I try and reconcile that Bee might be fifty-three as that’s the only other way to organize a three and a five. If that’s the case, then she has aged very well. I start to speak and then hold my words in my mouth as her face seems to soften.
“Listen closely Arron,” she begins. “You did say your name is Arron correct?”
I nod.
“Wait,” she utters, suddenly turning to Dorian. “Arron?”
He nods, but says nothing. A moment of silence passes, ending in a frustrated grunt from Bee.
“Why on Earth?” she whispers.
“Water under the bridge,” he shrugs. “Tell the lad your tale.”
Another long pause occurs as they take turns looking at me.
“Okay, Arron, I was born in the year of our lord twelve hundred and thirty-five,” she explains. “My mother died in child birth, my father a mere nine years later.”
“Right, I forgot you’re a poor orphan,” Dorian chides her. “A virtual Oliver Twist.”
Bee frowns at Dorian and then flicks her fingers under her chin in his direction. To this, he makes a short bowing gesture with his head and turns his attention back to me. They wait, but I cannot understand why they are telling me this story. What angle are they working?
“He doesn’t believe you,” Dorian pretends to whisper, a hand next to his face. “It’s your radiant skin. You just can’t pull off eight hundred.”
“Seven sixty-nine,” she fires back. “But I agree. My skin is amazing.”