Lane sat down at the five card draw table, unfolded his fat-headed Franklin and received his stake. At the table were the usual casino mix of people who didn’t go to church very often: A nervous college student in a Dartmouth sweatshirt; a grey-haired black man chewing on a mushy, unlit cigar; a woman dripping with bangles who looked like she watched a lot of daytime television; a silent Asian guy in a fishing hat and half moon reading glasses; and a mechanic with 10W30 under his nails and his name, “Ron”, sewn into the badge on his shirt.
After only two hands, Lane knew a lot about the players. He knew the college kid was going to lose, that the daytime tv watcher was sharp, and that the Asian guy was good. And after the dealer reminded “Ron” not to put his cards in his mouth, he was pretty sure he didn’t have to worry about him. Despite this analysis, Lane lost steadily. He was a mathematical player, but he was having trouble keeping a clear head. He usually calculated the expected value of a hand by figuring the pot odds and only playing when the expected value was in his favor. It took Lane three additional hands to discover they were playing with a joker in the deck. The presence of the wild card changed all the usual calculations he did in his head. It was like there were suddenly thirteen inches in a foot. He was folding, losing, even when the odds favored him. Often opium would make you think you had telepathic powers, when really it was just your mind creating a pleasant reality. It was dangerous to mix with gambling when no one else was high on it.
Lane was soon on his second one hundred dollar buy-in. And the silent, stone-faced Asian man in the fishing hat took most of it when his full house took Lane’s queen high club flush.
Lane got out his last hundred. He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand to lose to this collection of amateurs and pissant professionals. Lane folded the next six hands in a row. Then crushed the college boy with three jacks and caught soap woman bluffing on the very next hand. He was up over $400. And then the showdown happened.
Lane looked at the cards in his hand: three three’s, a jack, and a king. Thirty cards had been dealt. He had five of them. Leaving (if you counted the joker) 2 cards in 48 that would give him four of a kind. Four of a kind was a bullet-proof hand. The pot currently contained thirty dollars in ante. The silent Asian man opened with $20.
The Dartmouth guy, a rank amateur, raised.
The dealer waited. “Ron” seemed to be counting the symbols on his cards.
“Your move, Ron.” The dealer said.
“My name’s not Ron. I borrowed this shirt.”
Bangles sipped her Rob Roy. “Don’t get so upset, Ronald.”
The mechanic looked at her like she was from Mars. And then quickly made up his mind. “I’m in, I’m in.”
The grey-haired black man sucked his soggy cigar like a pacifier. “Gentlemen, I fold.”
Holding three of a kind, with three other people in the pot, there was no need for Lane to figure the expected value.
Without looking at his cards, Stone Face called the thirty dollars.
Lane drew two cards, everyone would know now that he had three of a kind, but it was worth it to get the two chances to quad the three three’s. Ron took three. Dartmouth three. Silent fishing hat took one card.
Lane felt the fourth three sink into his hand. It was like the whole solar system had become perfectly aligned. This feeling was why you played poker. With his four of a kind, Lane had a 1 in 4165 chances hand. Stone Face pushed another $20 in. Dartmouth, who may have been drunk, foolishly stayed in and the mechanic folded. Lane, raised $20, and Stone Face re-raised fifty. Lane realized his opponent must have hit a straight or flush. Or better yet, drew a full house from two pair. He raised him back, and then went all in to call on the third and final raise.
The black man’s wet cigar twirled as he watched the cards.
Lane looked up and saw Khieu was watching, a look of deep concern on his face. Lane wanted to reassure him with a wink or something, but that would betray his hand. Khieu shook his head, one curt movement. Lane ignored him. You should never try to communicate with a friend when he’s in a hand.
Stone Face laid down four deuces.
Lane was impressed, he realized that the man had held four of a kind all along and had taken one card as a ruse.
There was a palpable jolt as Lane put his cards on the felt. Khieu covered his eyes. Lane’s lips were parched. He allowed himself a dry smile.
Ron who was not Ron belched. “What bullshit.”
Stone Face merely squinted, as if a waiter had gotten his order wrong.
The black man nodded his head, “God laughs, God laughs.”
And Lane realized that the odds of two players having four of a kind in the same hand were 1 in 17,347,225 - without the joker, which was still lurking in the deck.
11000 WILSHIRE BLVD. – 11:00 P.M.
“There are people celebrating in huts and caves and tents all over the world.”
Bob Zimmerman said as he sat in the chair behind Catherine’s desk. He was the Deputy Director of the Federal Emergency Response and Strategy Team, or FERST. They were funded by the National Security budget and their orders and appointments came from the executive branch. Zimmerman looked young for his job, a baby-smooth face above a gray suit and maroon tie with a double-Windsor knot and an overall aura of lubricated ambition.
Catherine did not welcome the meeting. She was consumed with distractions. Agents from other offices were arriving hourly. They were immediately dispatched to interview suspects and leads. The databases were cranking out lists. She had no idea where Lane was, which was infuriating. The only number they had was for his hotel.
Catherine cleared her throat. “Our expert from the Special Forces is advising that we close the beaches.”
“Concede sovereign territory? No way. We are not making the U.S. smaller, goddammit.” Zimmerman glanced at the files on her computer’s desktop.
“I don’t want to concede any more casualties.”
“You’ve already been staking out the beaches at night. There are undercover cops surfing on the taxpayer’s dime from here to San Diego during the day. Helicopters. Every lifeguard on alert – doubled patrols. Carnivore set on all you can eat. I hope they try the beach again.”
Catherine looked down at the blood on her shoe.
“I still think it’s a wise precaution until we can make absolutely sure there aren’t more mines waiting out there.”
Zimmerman said, “Look, right now the public believes the only targets are cops and presidents. And I have no reason not to believe that as well. Moreover, the beaches are a critical economic asset. It would be wrong to impact that if it wasn’t necessary. And if civilians do become targets, it automatically works against their cause, whatever that might be. We’re not going to overreact. The beaches stay open.”
Catherine’s cell phone buzzed in her hand. She took the call. Nodded and closed the phone. “That was one of the agents working on the library’s surveillance tapes. They have some blow-ups…possible suspects. They just e-mailed them.”
“Outstanding.” His quick smile was a second late.
He tapped her keyboard. “How do I log onto this thing?”
As she leaned over behind him to maneuver the mouse she was sure she could feel him sniffing her. Catherine sighed. She would definitely not be thinking about this man in the Jacuzzi.
“And you know, I wouldn’t invest too much capital in the opinion of the landmine guy.” He said into her left ear.
“Is that right?”
“Check his dossier. A bit of a head case. He’s been out in the wilderness for awhile. “
Catherine opened the encrypted e-mail attachment sent from the library. Black and white thumbnails of surveillance screen-captures filled the display. “Then why is he here?”
“The Army probably just filled-in a line on a form. Whoever put together the scenario plan probably asked for a landmine expert and some computer spit out his name. Who knows how the Pentagon makes decisions. If I were you, I�
��d make sure my ass is well-covered with him.”
Catherine could see Zimmerman’s face reflected in her Compaq monitor. She was quite familiar with his type, actually a combination of two types: A quant the B-school grads called them. A religious believer of numbers. Combined with a reflexively aggressive lawyer’s face - a foundation of infinitely smug cynicism covered with the thinnest layer of humanity and skin. He reminded her of a story she once heard in an organized crime class. In one of the early matches between a human chess master and a computer there were no time limits set. After just three moves the logic server had refused to make another, realizing that if it didn’t move its opponent would eventually die. The computer had no sense of its own mortality, no passion for the game and it had no where else to go. It would have sat there until someone unplugged it.
Zimmerman squinted at the little photos on her screen.
“Let’s blow these babies up.”
ANAHEIM, CA - MIDNIGHT
Ever since Napolion Lockhart had started working at Fontana Grease Services he couldn’t eat fast food. In fact he was nearly a vegetarian. His job entailed sucking the fat out some of the foulest grease traps in all of Southern California. He and a partner drove a two ton diesel vacuum truck and alternated between two duties: sticking the hose in the trap and operating the controls at the truck.
It was night work. Understandably, the restaurants preferred to have their traps serviced after closing. A shift was nine to five in the morning. Ballbusting work. The truck, the hoses, everything covered in rancid grease. It ate into the vibram soles of Napolion’s boots making them slick as monkey shit. And they invariably had to park the truck in the back next to the stanky dumpsters. Both jobs were bad. You had to deal with obese rats outside and clicking cockroaches inside. Napolion had seen every size, shape, species and phylum of roach.
Napolion looked at his position at Fontana Grease as temporary, biding his time until his friends in the city of Inglewood could get him a ride on a garbage truck – which was eighteen fifty an hour, plus salvage privileges. And people threw out some nice shit in Baldwin Hills.
And he had plans. The first item was to move out of his one-bedroom behind the barbeque place. Then upgrade his car. Upgrade his computer. Buy a big screen television, get the whole NFL package from Direct TV and Tivo.
He knew his present job was stupid. Stupid how far apart the account restaurants were, stupid how every night they had to hump the truck all the way back to Fontana on the 10. But what made it truly unbearable was the presence of his co-worker - an irritating trailer-birthed-Okie-klan-cracker named Trevor Jenkins. Trevor fancied himself to be some kind of hard ex-con motherfucker. Constantly telling bullshit stories about being in the joint. Or else bragging about what he was going to do to who. But after a week of being in the truck with the man, Napolion knew the truth. And the truth was Trevor Jenkins was a pink-necked petty-thief who lived with his mama.
Trevor was constantly stealing things from the restaurants they serviced. Stupid things that weren’t worth the risk of getting caught - pork chops, light beer, orange soda, a box of straws. And he always had something to say about the Mexicans who worked in the kitchens. Napolion knew those fuckers worked hard. Most of them sent half their minimum wage back home, lived without cars and phones. Rode their mountain bikes home every night without lights.
Napolion sighed and looked at the night’s clipboarded schedule:
Burger King #2694.
Tommy Burger #3.
Pete’s Blue Chip burger (french fry machine)
Fatburger number twenty two.
Taco Bell 3419.
Koo Koo Roo #29.
Carl’s Junior Norco, (Carl’s Junior didn’t have numbers.)
Trevor was behind the wheel. His green FGS uniform speckled with dark specks of grease, like camouflage. He blabbed on.
“I ain’t kidding. You can kill somebody with toenail clippings. When I was in Men’s Central a guy made a shiv out of his nails. Melted them altogether with stolen sugar and toothpaste resin. The blade was hard as a bone. Scary-ass weapon. Took him like three months.”
Napolion was barely listening. It was just more bullshit. This guy was minimum security all the way.
11000 WILSHIRE BOULEVARD - 11:30 P.M.
Catherine looked at the vibrantly printed box in front of her. It contained an authentic Nokia cellphone, normal in every regard except for two additional functions: a GPS transponder and a microphone that was always on - recording and transmitting conversations from as far away as ten feet and audio levels as low as thirty-five decibels.
The form that authorized using the phone as a covert surveillance tool to monitor Major Joel Lane, U.S. Army, OF-3, sat on her desk beside the box. Alan had just typed and printed it out and all it needed now was her signature. Because Lane was a government employee under her supervision, the covert monitoring was allowed under the 1986 Federal Wire Tap law and did not require a judge’s okay.
Catherine opened the box and removed the phone from its plastic wrapping, releasing the smell of fresh electronics. She thumbed open the back and inserted the heavy-duty lithium-tanzanite battery. The device was now operational and would record even if the user turned the power off. She checked the screen – the battery bar showed full. The signal strong.
Because they were using the NSA’s ECHELON system (and their Intelsat satellite access and bandwidth) all transmissions and intercepts would be automatically classified. The recordings would be files on a server in Yakima, Washington, accessed to the desktop by the latest Rosetta encryption software. The microphone and GPS location information were real-time. And if Catherine thought it was necessary, they could also ask for near-time transcription service. This was a nice idea, but in Catherine’s experience a waste of time, particularly if there was foreign language translation involved. Transcriptions of translations left a lot of gaps, particularly when dealing with criminals who favored colloquial expressions and profanity. And it was difficult to find people skilled in both languages and accurate typing. Her mother once told her that the NSA had recruited many of its translators from the ranks of night-shift bank draft encoders -- basically hard-working, background-checked immigrants who spoke English as a second language and could input ten-key in their sleep. But simultaneously translating and typing in English, under extreme time pressure, was a challenge few humans could master. And anyone who could master it would be foolish to work for the NSA when being a contracted bi-lingual court-reporter paid twice as much.
Catherine had used such a phone in the past to crack an Armenian mafia family in Glendale. She had one of her agents get his haircut in a barber shop on Brand Boulevard that was used as an after-hours meeting place. After “accidentally” leaving his phone behind in the chair, it had sat on the counter gathering evidence for a few days before one of the younger members stole it. He then took it to more meetings and family gatherings providing the FBI with a treasure trove of intelligence. But the transcripts of the Armenian translations had been almost unreadable and they’d had to have them re-translated and re-typed internally before they could act on any of the information.
The second part of the form detailed who was to be given access to the active tap. As per standard office procedure, this meant Catherine and (with her permission) Alan. After sending the electronic order to Virginia, it would take about an hour to activate, perhaps less if she coded it as a FERST request.
Catherine felt slightly guilty about snooping, but she also wanted to know what Lane was doing. It had been a bad day and she needed his expertise. And after looking at his dossier, on-line, she had to agree that Zimmerman was correct about his record being troubling. But then she knew that it was never easy in war zones and that what he was doing now in Cambodia was certainly risky and noble. She also knew that part of what she was doing was based on institutional resentment. An agent in the FBI is technically never off-duty. They must, at all times, be armed and on call. Down-time is for retirement. The lo
ng-standing rule was that an agent must never be more than thirty minutes from a phone. Now that cellphone coverage was nearly universal this wasn’t such a burden, but in the old days every agent had to have a whole schedule of can-be-reached numbers. And recently she had seen a memo reminding everyone that cell phones were frequently jammed now at hospitals and theaters and that it remained the agent’s responsibility to leave such a venue and check his messages every thirty minutes.
Catherine picked up her pen. By thinking about Major Lane she couldn’t help being reminded of the time she had gone through the locker of a boy she had a crush on in high school. His lock had accidentally been left unlatched and she and Mindy couldn’t resist the opportunity to look at his stuff. She could still remember what she found -- and how little it revealed about him: a stick of Old Spice deodorant, a bottle of Excedrin, a number three pencil with the eraser chewed-off and a pair of fingerless driving gloves. She didn’t like him any less after that, but it didn’t matter because he seemed to have absolutely no interest in her.
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