by Allen Wyler
“Easy for you, maybe. You’ve had practice. This is my first time.”
She adjusts the napkin in her lap by pulling two corners taut before replacing the linen at a perfect right angle to her thighs. “So tell me, Mr. Toby Taylor, what’s your story?”
He starts playing with his fork, realizes it’s probably not appropriate, and sets it back down. “What do you mean?”
She leans forward, forearms against the table edge. “You never talk about yourself. Tell me something about yourself and your life. What you do for enjoyment, what you read. Anything. Just give me a sketch of the real Toby Taylor.”
What he’d love to tell her is his two passions: computers and artificial intelligence. Tell her about his uncanny ability to figure odds. But these are topics guaranteed to bore her straight out of her skull, and she’ll probably leave and cancel the next few days, no matter how easy the money is. Discuss his gambling? Would she be interested? After all, this is Las Vegas, home of casinos. He’s about to launch in when Howie’s warning blazes across his consciousness. Instead, he opts for, “No, let’s talk about you. That’s a much more interesting conversation. Where you from?” And likes the way that sounded.
He knows there’s more in play now than simply grasping for a topic of conversation. He asked the question for a very specific reason: to find out how carefully she sticks to her story from this morning. Has she already forgotten the details? He realizes she might make up different stories for each guy to mask her real identity, so why even bother to worry about it? Well, for one thing, he’s curious.
She laughs. “Fresno, California.”
Just as expected, different. Then again, why am I being such a dickhead about this? He has no answer to that.
“What made you decide to come to Las Vegas?” he asks. See, you’re making conversation.
A waiter appears with one martini and one margarita on a round, silver serving tray. With exaggerated flourish—probably in hope of increasing the tip—he serves Breeze then Arnold, and when the drinks are exactly the way he wants them, asks, “Would you like to see a menu now or would you prefer to enjoy your drinks for a few minutes?”
Breeze arches her eyebrows at Arnold.
He responds right on cue. “In a minute. We’ll enjoy our drinks first.”
Breeze smiles. See.
“Very good, sir. I’ll keep an eye on you, check back in a few minutes.” He disappears.
Breeze lifts her glass. “Cheers.”
This time he knows enough to clink glasses before touching the chilled martini to his lips. He mimics the way she sips her margarita. Clear chilled liquid flows over his tongue, laying down an almost breath-stealing numbing wake. He smothers the urge to gasp and forces a weak smile, thinks, so this is what a martini tastes like. Another lesson learned. A warm glow of pride warms his chest at tucking one more lesson under his belt. Howie had nailed it, of course: this was absolutely the right thing to do.
Dinner ordered, their first drink almost finished, Arnold is mellowing. In fact, he feels more relaxed than anytime in recent memory. Certainly, he no longer worries about compounding one social faux pas on top of another. He credits this Zen-like tranquility as an equal split between Breeze’s skills at putting him at ease and the martini. She effortlessly entertains him by making conversation so easy, so simple. Is he learning from this experience? Yes, he is. Maybe when he returns to Seattle he’ll be comfortable enough to sit down with Rachael and chat with her. He looks forward to that. Rachael… yeah, this will make the difference. Does she even know he exists?
He takes another tiny sip of elixir. Order another before dinner? Yeah, why not! They’re not driving. He giggles at that. She asks him what he’s laughing about and he tells her.
Ask her if she wants another drink? Whoa, think about what she told you earlier: women like take-charge men. So, what the hell, take charge. Soon as I see the waiter.
Breeze says, “Enough about me. I still haven’t heard one word about you. What do you do for a living?”
A wrong-answer buzzer alerts his brain. There it is again: another inquiry into how he supports himself. Then again, what’s he being so sensitive about?
Well, because you don’t want to slip up and tell her. And the way this martini is making me feel…
He surprises himself by asking, “Why do you want to know?” Whoa, didn’t mean it to sound like that, so harsh and aggressive. He wants to apologize, but stops short of doing so.
She hesitates, as if considering her answer, rubbing her lips back and forth over each other in what seems to be an unguarded moment. “Hmmm, let me see. Several reasons. One, I find you interesting. Why? Well, for starters, the thing that’s so very obvious is you appear to have a great deal of money for a man your age. And that makes me wonder, are you some kind of self-made Wunderkind or does your father pay you an outrageous salary for a nothing position in some big company he owns? Or are you a trust fund brat?”
“Trust fund brat?” Interesting term. “Why would you even think that’s a possibility?”
Smiling, she settles back in the chair. “I’ve run across my share. They all seem to have this air of practiced indifference to money. You definitely have a touch of that.” She reaches across the table to brush his hand. “I didn’t mean to make that sound bad, or anything. An observation, is all.”
He understands why she might come away with that impression. Truth be told, he’s gone out of his way to give her that impression as a way to enhance his Toby image. Buying the suit, her purse, expensive meals… In a perverse way, her observation shores up his self-confidence and pride. If she only knew his real story, she’d see the real man, the thing he’s so proud of accomplishing. But he can’t risk divulging any of that to her. Still, part of him yearns for her approval, doesn’t want her to think of him as a piece of parasitic social driftwood afloat in his family sea of wealth.
“No. Far from it.”
Her eyebrows arch. “Very intriguing. You’re becoming more and more a mystery man with each non-disclosure. Can’t tell you how very sexy and interesting I find that. So, Mr. Toby Taylor, man of mystery, tell me: what’s your big secret?”
Again, he’s tempted to boast, to make her understand his extraordinary accomplishment, to be able to revel in the fruits of his work, but knows there isn’t any upside to that other than giving his ego a boost, and Breeze is accomplishing that anyway. Besides, she probably wouldn’t believe him if he told her. But he’s deeply troubled by the possibility she suspects he’s a trust fund brat.
Why should that bother you? What difference does it make?
Is this how a spy feels? Frustrated and isolated at not being able to discuss his day-to-day work with anyone, or to share accomplishment or problems.
This is not a new thought for him. It’s surfaced again and again in recent months as he finally began to make good money. Ironically, so did the realization that if someone else had accomplished his high level of predictive analysis no one else would know about it either because that person would definitely be extremely circumspect about disclosing the details. So he has every reason to keep the subject to himself. On the other hand, he can’t help but wonder if the extensive security precautions he’s incorporated into his home and computer network are really that necessary? Where is the line between reasonable caution and paranoia? And what’s to say he’s not suffering from a bad case of self-aggrandizement? When you burrow into the depths of your own silo as much as he has, what’s to keep your isolation from magnifying your accomplishments? Well, because Howie is genuinely impressed and he’s a computer genius. Plus there’s the simple fact that he beats the odds more than is statistically reasonable. That fact just can’t be ignored.
He realizes she’s waiting for an answer. He says, “I’m in finance.”
“Finance? That’s not very specific. What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her persistence is becoming irritating. “Make you a deal. You tell me why you became a,” he ca
tches himself from saying whore, “an escort, and I’ll tell you how I earn a living.” There, that should shut her up.
Arnold kept finding it difficult to stay on subject instead of dwelling on Howard’s final seconds of life, replaying his fantasy of how gut-wrenchingly terrifying they must’ve been. He kept replaying the mental movie of walking through the back door, pizza in hand, calling out to him, then Howard’s warning, followed by the gunshot. Over and over, the horrible vignette shoved aside all other thoughts, derailing the story’s flow detail by detail, causing Davidson to again and again prod him onward. Another wave of guilt swept over him, stealing his breath. Two simple facts kept coming back to him: if he hadn’t gone to Vegas, Howard would still be alive. If Howard had gone to the pizzeria instead of him, Howard would still be alive. Howard was now dead, his body probably lying in the King County morgue. Tears welled up along his lower lids, his mind mired in self-loathing. His fault, all of it.
Davidson cleared his throat. “You okay?”
Arnold shook his head and knuckled away the tears. “I’ll never be okay. Not after this.”
Davidson tilted back in his desk chair and yawned, covering his mouth. “That remains to be seen. So far, nothing you describe makes you responsible for Howard’s death. How about a break? Stretch, get something to eat, coffee, stop by the toilet?”
Easy for Davidson to say. Once he’d heard the entire story, he’d change his mind and perhaps even drop him as a client. Now, he didn’t want to finish the story because he wanted Davidson to think well of him, to not hold him responsible, but knew he had to continue, had to tell him every detail, regardless of how incriminating and embarrassing a light it would shine on him. Shit! Too many emotions vied for dominance, making it impossible to think clearly.
Davidson leaned forward, dropping his foot heavily from the partially opened desk drawer to the floor. Clomp. “Tell you what. Go into the men’s room, rinse your face, take a few long deep breaths. Take a short break. Come back in here and finish the story. How’s that sound?”
When Arnold didn’t answer, Davidson pushed out of his chair. “C’mon. I have to visit the little boy’s room anyway.”
Arnold leaned over the porcelain sink, cupping handfuls of cold water over his face, washing away tears and sniffing up the snot dripping from his nose. Fucking Firouz. He straightened up, stared at the face in the mirror and, for the first time since hearing the gunshot, felt a bud of resolve in his mind. Moving closer to the mirror, staring more intently into the bloodshot eyes staring out at him, he saw that resolve; hard, cold, intentional revenge. And knew in that instant something in him had changed forever.
Never in his life had he felt such raw rage building. If Firouz or Karim were to walk into the bathroom now, he’d have the strength to strangle to death both of those bastards with his bare hands. He held up both hands and studied his fingers, flexing and extending them, watching the intricate muscle and tendons stretch and relax under smooth skin. Not especially strong appearing, certainly not the hard muscles of a workman. So, okay, maybe he didn’t have the actual strength to physically strangle either man single-handedly, but there had to be a way to kill those bastards. He thought about how that might feel. He realized that doing so wouldn’t bring Howie back to life, but it would sure go a long way to settling the score.
He bent over, rinsed his face one more time before straightening up for one more intense look into those hard eyes. As of seconds ago, his life now had a well-defined purpose. No matter what it took, no matter whether he had to sacrifice his own life in the process, he would exact revenge for Howard Weinstein. There had to be a way to destroy all the Jahandars and everything they stood for. He nodded to the mirror image, quickly finger-combed his hair, and after a deep, purposeful breath whispered, “I’m going to get you fuckers. Count on it.”
“Can’t you break into it?” Firouz asked.
“Eventually. It’s password protected so I’m running a program to bypass that. It’s using Windows. The Microsoft developers left trap doors for exactly this reason.”
“If that’s true, what good is a password?”
“Stop it, you’re driving me crazy with all your questions. Patience, my friend. You must have patience. Is it not time for you to pray?”
Firouz nodded and motioned for Karim to follow him to the next room, where the prayer rugs were. Allah would help, this he knew as truth.
Back in Davidson’s office Arnold dropped onto the couch, leaned forward, and began popping knuckles. “Where were we?” his mind now only half concentrating on their discussion while the other half grappled with how he might be able to nail those bastards.
Davidson ran the flat of his hand over the desk blotter, as if smoothing it. “Looks like the break was exactly what you needed.”
Arnold wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat now that he had purpose in his life again, preferring instead to bear down on business. “Let’s continue. Where did I leave off? I can’t remember.”
“You had just made a quid pro quo deal with Breeze. You’d tell her what you do for a living if she tells you why she became a prostitute.”
12.
Arnold tells Breeze, “I gamble.”
Her eyebrows rise as her mouth opens slightly. “No way! I don’t believe it.” She appears genuinely shocked. If not shocked, extremely surprised.
What’s that supposed to mean? She trivializing him? Then again, maybe it’d be better to not have her believe him. Regardless, he resents her reaction because it implies… what, exactly? That a nerdy little geek is incapable of something so daring as gambling? That he doesn’t have the balls? That he’s trying to make himself something he isn’t?
“Why not? Because I look like a geeky little nerd? Which therefore begs the question: how the hell is a gambler supposed look? Slicked back hair, shifty eyes, bad dental work, fidgety hands with nicotine stains?”
She’s taken aback by his reaction, her face slowly morphing from serious to suspicious. “Really? You gamble for a living?”
Just let it go, let her believe whatever she wants. Heed Howie’s warning and don’t say a goddamn word about your work or system.
But…
I’ll make her respect me.
The martini isn’t helping his self-control either, the alcohol greasing the skids between brain and mouth, encouraging him to tell her things he knows damn well he shouldn’t. The wiser part of his cortex cautions him to go ahead, let her believe you’re a trust fund brat who doesn’t value his family’s money. You really don’t give a rat’s ass what she thinks.
He ignores his own sound advice and responds with, “Really!” And likes the sound of his tone: assertive, direct, alpha-doggish.
She seems to think about that. “Yeah? Huh! Makes sense, I guess. Guy comes to Vegas and, yeah, who’d suspect? I mean you, right?”
There’s a glint in her eye. What? Respect? He would like to think so, yet he’s not sure.
Breeze sips her drink and apparently considers this new revelation. “Like, what are you into, cards, track, what?”
Howie’s warning continues to reverberate through his mind like a mantra. But he finds the moment irresistible. Never in his life has a beautiful woman shown the slightest interest in his work, much less to ask a question about it. Then again, he reminds himself, how many times have you been with a woman? He reevaluates his position, thinks, would a few words really hurt? After all, he’s hundreds of miles from home. Better still, she doesn’t have a clue to his real identity, so…. Why the hell not? And if it makes him feel good about himself…
“Sports mostly,” he says offhandedly, like, no big deal. “Football in particular.” And there it is: out. Well, sort of. That’s just the gambling part. “I do other things, too—” and cuts himself off before venturing into forbidden territory. Howie’s apparition continues to stand behind her, scowling at him over her shoulder, shaking his head in disgust, mouthing the words: Shut! The! Fuck! Up!
Again she nestles
back into her chair, appraising him with a strange smile.
Yeah, respect. That’s it.
The smile widens. “I don’t believe it. You’re jerking my chain.”
See? Case in point. Why do people judge him just because he’s not One Of The Beautiful People? Why assume that an acne-scared skinny Jew Boy can’t harness the power of artificial intelligence? Why do social retardation and a blasé taste in fashion automatically delegate you to the not-a-player trash heap?
Rhetorical questions, he knows. And this isn’t the first time these thoughts have crossed his mind. Long ago, he decided that women like Breeze—attractive ones, not necessarily escorts—harbor stereotypical images of men who take risks—high-stakes gamblers, for instance—in a special category. They make the unfounded assumption that risk-taking men are more fun to be with and, as a consequence, cut them more slack. The corollary, of course, is that geeky non-risk takers—such as himself—are, by some weird rule of life, conservative dullards. It’s a circular argument that pisses him off because it ignores a person’s intellect. Also, because he’s a Jew, he hates the prejudice created by stereotypes.
He chooses to let her unintended slight pass unchallenged, preferring to shift the conversation back to her. With a dismissive wave, “Whatever. Okay, we made a deal and now it’s your turn. Why did you become an escort?” And immediately realizes how pejorative the words might sound. Apologize? Why? Tit for tat.
She laughs at him. “Why should I tell you?” Then quickly raises a hand. “What I mean is, why should I give you a truthful answer when I figure you just lied to me?”
He just shakes his head and turns away, even more pissed than two seconds ago. Angry at her answer. Angry at being given the short shrift in the looks department. Angry at the way this conversation has ended up. Angry at his anger. He asks himself yet again, why can’t I be happy with the gift of intellect, at being smarter than 90 percent of the population? But he knows the answer all too well: because in this world, physical looks trump intellect 99 percent of the time. For the gazillioneth time in his life he wishes he were handsome instead of smart.