Soldier Boy

by Glen Carter

  Stoffer grimaced. No damn need to hear where his man had been foraging.

  Ryan caught it. “Sorry.”

  “Continue,” Stoffer said, checking his watch again.

  “But here’s the thing. The fingerprints.” Ryan held up a sheet full of smudges. “Three times scanned, all three times the same hit.”

  “And?”

  “Our boy is not who he says he is. In fact, the name that came up . . .” Ryan shook his head as if to dislodge something. “The man whose fingerprints were put into three different databases has been dead for twenty-five years.”

  * * * * *

  Stoffer sat back while Ryan spread papers on the desk in front of them. The man was jabbering on, tying the ends for something impossible.

  “That can’t be right,” Stoffer said simply. “Fingerprints don’t lie.”

  “That’s correct, sir. They don’t. You know the odds of two people having the same fingerprints?”

  “Astound me.”

  “One in about sixty-four billion.”

  “Then someone got it wrong.”

  Ryan held up fingers. “Three different databases.”

  Stoffer held up a palm. “So, what you’re telling me is a vagrant you’ve positively identified as Samuel Bolt has the same fingerprints as another man who died twenty-five years ago.”

  “Yes, I am. Using the unassailable records of these United States of America.”

  Stoffer shook his head. “Do I need to cancel my next meeting?”

  “That would be prudent.”

  Stoffer picked up his phone and spoke a few words. Then he got up and walked to a window. Traffic moved in ribbons along the broad avenue below. The sidewalks were alive with people enjoying the warmth of a waning Washington summer. “Tell me about this man,” he said without turning. “The other man.” A few moments passed in silence, making Stoffer wonder if Ryan had left.

  Ryan cleared his throat. “This is about to get really screwed up,” he said. “You’d better sit.”

  18

  The casino bar was full of drunks wearing ridiculous fez hats with long gold tassels that flicked back and forth like the tails on circus horses. They backslapped each other as if trying to dislodge food. Their voices boomed like cannons.

  Bolt sat quietly, a glass of water at his fingertips, staring nervously across the vast gaming floor. He swirled what remained of his ice, not really knowing what he was waiting for. To be swarmed by security? His face slammed onto the bar while they slapped on the cuffs and hustled him to some back room? We know what you are, freak. It was a foolish thought. After all, what crime was he committing? For once, the house didn’t have the advantage. He did, and what an amazing little parlour trick it was. Hearing the machines, with their tiny electronic voices, nothing but gibberish until one and only one spikes with pealing clarity. For him, that was the signal a slot was about to spill its load. What Bolt couldn’t figure out was whether he was reading the jackpots or triggering them.

  The bartender replaced his glass with another.

  “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  None of it seemed strange or unusual. It was simply the way he was. He didn’t much care about the labels. Clairvoyance, telekinesis, whatever fit was okay with him. He took pockets of cash and got to play Robin Hood, which was gold-plated karma. Problem was, in Vegas, winners like him were flagged and eventually dealt with. If you weren’t careful, which Bolt was in spades.

  A guy took the stool next to Bolt’s. He ordered, and a minute later a drink was placed on a napkin on the bar in front of him. The guy circled the rim of the glass with a finger, not saying anything. Not looking like he wanted to.

  Bolt stared straight ahead at a handful of the conventioneers who were hanging on, maybe too drunk to leave. They were a band of brothers, and on some level Bolt admired them. Even with the stupid hats.

  “Here’s to what could have been.”

  It caught Bolt off guard. The guy next to him had his glass raised. A quarter-smile. Bolt lifted his glass, too. “Not your lucky day?” he asked.

  “Pig fuck.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “You don’t know how bad.”

  Bolt didn’t like where this was headed. He shut his mouth, hoping the man would do the same. Instead, the guy downed half his drink, slammed the glass down, and swivelled a quarter-turn on his stool. He offered a hand. “Gunnery Sergeant Nathan Badowski, 1st Battalion, 2nd Marine Regiment.”

  “Good to meet you, Sergeant.”

  “Oorah! 2nd Marine Expeditionary Brigade. Fuckin’ Iraq.”

  Bolt took the measure of him. A crewcut sat atop thick, bony brows and deep-set green eyes. He had a crooked grin that looked more like a facial injury than something he was born with. His posture would forever brand him a soldier. Badowski threw back what was left in his glass and held it up to the bartender.

  A moment later, a fresh drink was parked in front of him. Bolt was offered a refill on his ice water, which he accepted.

  “Smart man,” said Badowski.

  Bolt nodded.

  A stunning waitress walked up. She collected a tray of drinks from the bar. Badowski watched her saunter away, slurred, “Women like her kill your ‘situational awareness.’”

  Bolt suspected Sergeant Badowski was nursing some serious wounds. “Bad cards?” he asked.

  “Not to begin with.” Badowski grunted. “The aces and jacks had my back, then my luck ran out.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Not as sorry as I’m gonna be when my fiancée finds out. I blew the whole wad. Our wedding money included.” Badowski swept a large hand across his face. “I am one screwed Marine.”

  Bolt searched for something to say, feeling genuinely sorry for the guy. “Blackjack and booze. A mug’s game.”

  “Yup. I got brave trying to keep the streak goin’. When I started to lose, I kept playing to try and get my money back. A little darling just like her kept me in bourbon, and before I knew it, five large, gone.”

  “Ouch,” Bolt said.

  “Yeah, ouch.” Badowski brought the glass up and took a mouthful. “My bride-to-be is at Hoover Dam with her sister and parents. Everyone’s here for the wedding. No wedding when she finds out I got drunk and lost the money. Fuck me. Stupid jarhead. I got ambushed.” Badowski knocked his glass against his knee. Glass striking metal. “That makes twice.”

  Bolt glanced down. At the prosthetic foot below the hem of Badowski’s neatly pressed pants.

  Badowski motioned for another refill. He was all in now. “IED. I was the lucky one. We lost two.”

  Bolt saw the pain that would never retreat from the face of a Marine who’d seen his friends die.

  “That’s the hardest part,” Badowski said. Eyelids at half-mast. “You sign up knowing you might never come home. It’s a lot tougher when your buddies don’t.”

  Bolt reached out to touch the soldier’s sleeve. “Sorry, Sergeant.”

  Badowski gave him a crooked salute. “Gotta go, sleep this off.” He signed his room tab and pushed away from the bar. A minute later, he boarded an elevator and disappeared.

  Gunnery Sergeant Nathan Badowski was a man who was willing to sacrifice everything, for his country and for his buddies. Bolt had met few who could say the same. Badowski had survived an IED, but now he’d been crippled on home soil, and in his honour-driven world, the consequence was losing the love of a good woman, which was much shittier than leaving a leg in Iraq.

  Bolt took a swallow. Fresh cubes bobbed against lips. Icy water washed down his throat. He glanced around the casino floor. The muscle kept eyes on the crowded tables, like sides of beef with legs. To the pit bosses, everyone was a cheater. The guys in the ceiling, at the other end of all those cameras, were wa
tching everyone. They were the ones that creeped Bolt out, made him feel like a fish at the end of a hook. A moment later, one of the fez hats caught his eye and stumbled his way. Time to move, Bolt decided. Show this place you don’t screw with a good Marine.

  * * * * *

  He made his way across the floor to an alcove where there was a good mix of slot machines. They whirred and spun and sang their sweet jingles. He spent a few minutes as a spectator, until he reached a point along the line and stopped. Like always, the mechanical gibberish faded, replaced by a clear little voice, speaking only to him. Bolt would have reached out to touch the slot, except for the lug sitting there. He had a goatee, and silver skulls dangled from his ears. Tattoos ran the length of his arms, and his T-shirt bore the emblem of a legendary ride. From the empties at his biker boots, it was clear he was heavily invested. He pulled a fat wallet from his jeans, and in went a hundred-dollar bill.

  “Come on, bitch,” Mister Goatee grunted.

  Bolt took a step back. In a moment the bitch would become a beautiful gushing bride. Problem was, another groom was at the altar. Bolt considered what to do, since time was running out and at any second the machine would spill its riches. The oxygen-saturated air wasn’t to blame for the pink in his cheeks. It was the torrent of blood squeezing through millions of hair-like vessels in his brain. The cerebral tissue where his senses were firing. He breathed deeply. Sucked back what remained of his ice water, and then he did the only thing he could.

  Bolt left the building.

  * * * * *

  It was a whole lot of risk. But Bolt needed the guy away from the machine lickety-split. In a moment he found what he was looking for. There were half a dozen in a dedicated parking area tucked away at the side of the casino. Three Japanese, three were American. Two of the Americans were too puny, one was big and full of chrome. The legend. Bolt walked over to take a closer look. The bike had after-market everything, foot pegs, mirrors, and a custom paint job. No surprise. Bikes were just starter kits, and the guy who owned this ride loved his skull.

  Bolt took a quick glance around. Satisfied he was not being watched. With all his strength, he hefted the bike to its tipping point. He was gone before the beast struck pavement.

  Back inside, he quick-stepped across the casino floor. Mister Goatee was still feeding his slot. Bolt took a place directly behind the biker and leaned forward, whispering in Mister Goatee’s bejangled ear.

  The guy turned, murderous. “Who the fuck . . .”

  Bolt shrugged.

  The guy snatched his helmet and was gone.

  Bolt sat on the stool, fished a handful of bills from his jeans, and slid one into the slot. He pulled the arm, certain the machine was ready to sing. On the first spin, the fruit stopped, clack, clack, clack. He hit it again. Same ending. It felt to Bolt like foreplay. Spend a little first, and then we’ll see what happens. He fed the machine again. Was he wrong about his chosen? Not a chance. He pulled the bitch hard.

  It always felt the same. Like that point when you’re landing in an airplane, when the pilot has pulled all power and the big jet is sinking silently on a cushion of air to the runway. Ground effect. It was a bit unnerving, because even though it was doubtlessly clear what would happen next, there was always that tiny voice that screamed: Brace. Brace. It was kind of how Bolt felt about life. Never knowing if the runway would be there.

  The slot machine spun. In a few seconds a large, golden Megabucks symbol dropped into place. Clack. But still no runway. A second Megabucks emblem positioned for payout. Clack. Punch the throttle for a go around. Then, with a heavy clack, the third Megabucks symbol dropped.

  In his mind, the runway threshold zipped beneath silver wings, and he closed his eyes upon that bleak, white-knuckled silence.

  The machine locked up.

  Touchdown.

  * * * * *

  Everyone was hooting and whooping. Bolt stood there, needing them to shut up and to go away. Instead, they pushed closer, reaching out to touch him like he was a bloody rock star.

  Shit.

  A guy with a ponytail and Hawaiian shirt was suddenly in his face. “Way to go, man.” He was pushed away by a doll in a tight black dress. Her tongue swept across moistened lips. “My name’s Savanna.” Next, a pair of yellow suspenders stepped up, with matching shoes. His face a smudge of black eyes and grimace. “Bastard,” he hissed without a reason in the world. Bolt backed up as two guys in suits suddenly cut through the crowd. Coming at him. He searched for an exit, but a second later, without a word, the suits closed in on each side of him. A moment after that, another suit shouldered through. A short man with thick black glasses and a large round head. He forced a smile and extended a hand, which Bolt shook tentatively. He introduced himself, but it was useless with all the noise. The man leaned in. “You need to come with me.”

  The muscle pressed in tight. Ruining his getaway.

  They ushered him across the floor and through a door marked employees only. Mister Short led them into a suite of offices at the end of a long hallway. A secretary sat at a large glass desk piled high with manila files. She was on the phone but smiled at him as they swept by. Inside one of the offices, Mister Short motioned for Bolt to sit, which he did, in an armchair that felt like a throne. Mister Short nodded, and the muscle wordlessly retreated.

  With the two thugs gone, Bolt wondered what would happen next. Maybe the cops, maybe not. After all, he was just a guy who got lucky, which happened every day. He looked around. The walls had rows of pictures of smiling people holding giant cheques. He sat back, crossed his legs, and tried to look as righteous as he could.

  Mister Short gathered papers on his desk, having said fewer words than he had fingers. He was waiting for something. It wasn’t likely he was going to be arrested or beaten, so Bolt was momentarily okay with the way things were going.

  The secretary floated into the office and handed Mister Short a sheet of paper. “It’s all good,” she said with a seductive smile and then floated out.

  Mister Short came from behind the desk. “Congratulations, Mister . . .”

  “Samuel is good.”

  “Well, Samuel.” Mister Short checked the paper. “The winning machine has been inspected. Tech and IT report everything is in order. How would you like your money?”

  Money? Just a minute ago, he was expecting a bag of fists. “Cash?” Bolt said, like the bandit he was.

  Mister Short chuckled.

  “In hundreds, if that’s okay.”

  Another chortle. “There are procedures,” said Mister Short, staring above his glasses. “We’ll need a social security number, and of course there’s withholding tax, but even after that . . .” Mister Short punched a few numbers on his calculator. It was one of the old ones. With a pull arm, like a slot. “Roughly one point six million dollars. That’s a lot of hundreds,” he said. “Maybe we’d better cut you a cheque.”

  * * * * *

  Most would have sung and danced, hugged and cried. Maybe even dropped to the floor. But Bolt sat there blankly, repeating the number in his head. He had been so absorbed with Mister Goatee, he had no idea of the machine’s payout. Now he’d taken a Vegas casino for more than two million dollars. So much for staying below the radar.

  Fifteen minutes were spent signing papers, and then Bolt was told he’d have ninety days to decide what he wanted done with his winnings, minus of course Uncle Sam’s generous cut. A gaggle of casino bosses arrived with one of those giant cheques in the outside office. A photographer was summoned. Bolt politely declined the funny cheque and a group photograph, which brought awkward looks all around. But it was his right to remain anonymous, so everyone shook his hand, and then a guy with a strongbox was escorted in. A sizable portion of his winnings was counted, which Bolt divided into two neat piles. A wad for each pocket.

  “I’ll be in t
ouch for the rest.” With that, he headed for the door. “Oorah,” he said, and bugged out.

  On the casino floor, Bolt kept his head down. He weaved through the crowd to a concierge kiosk, where he asked for a large envelope, some paper, and a pen. Then he found a restroom. He locked himself in a stall and wrote a handful of words on the paper. Two minutes later, after completing the rest of his business, he walked back to the kiosk. A guy in a hotel uniform looked at him smartly and waited. Bolt handed him the envelope and made him say the room number he’d written on it. He tipped the guy a hundred bucks, and then he walked away.

  Half a minute later, Bolt reached the casino’s grand entrance. Glass and mirrors ran several storeys to the top of a giant gold dome. A magnificent chandelier was hung with sparkling crystal and starry lights. Bolt stepped onto a sidewalk lined with exotic automobiles and headed for the Strip. He had needed cash, yes, but the money in his casino account was way over the top. It was time to disappear before the folks inside scanned the video of his little trick with the biker.

  He broke into a trot, until a hundred feet along, a lanky figure deked from the shadows, blocking his path. Bolt’s heart sank. Mister Goatee did a quick step to close the distance between them. Murderous eyes and stinking of liquor. “I know what you did, motherfucker,” Goatee snapped.

  Bolt glanced about. No security to be seen. “Take it easy,” he said tensely.

  Mister Goatee’s fists came up. His chest expanded. He was bigger than Bolt realized. Even drunk, he’d be a handful. Bolt needed a sensible exit strategy. He turned, crouched for a dash, and went headfirst into a cushion of belly fat.

  The guy in the yellow suspenders went down, cursing Bolt for the second time that night and latching onto his leg. Bolt elbowed the guy in the face and managed to pull himself up.

  Suspenders lumbered up, too. Wheezing and puffing, with a good hold on Bolt. “You got screwed, biker man.”

  “Fuck outta here,” Mister Goatee growled.

  Bolt tried to break free, but Suspenders had some real muscle beneath all that fat.