by Rohan Gavin
Darkus felt an ache from craning his neck, and looked back down, hardly believing what he’d just witnessed. His catastrophiser drummed insistently in the back of his head. Something was wrong here. Very wrong. The words Vegas and trap echoed around his cranium, bouncing through the corridors of his deductive mind. Going to the thirteenth floor alone would be suicide. He would have to report back to Tilly and Uncle Bill and work out a plan of action, but first he wanted to complete his reconnaissance of the hotel, while Chloe was safely out of play in her room.
He continued past the twenty-five receptionists, under a cluster of palm trees, past more haunted-looking sphinxes sitting on their beast-like haunches, overseeing the proceedings. The stone walls were etched with hieroglyphs, underlit for maximum effect. Knowing something of ancient Egyptian script, Darkus recognised no genuine logic or sense to any of the inscriptions.
He moved through the bustle of holiday makers, many in shorts with cameras slung round their necks, then passed into the casino area, flanked by several dense rows of digital slot machines, blaring with noise and colour. The word jackpot flashed from every direction. Men and women of all ages and descriptions were sitting on high-back stools, hunched over the machines, punching the illuminated buttons, prompting a cacophony of chirping and burping noises as the screens flickered with revolving symbols, before – very occasionally – spewing coins into the plastic cups of the waiting gamblers. The cherries, lemons, oranges, bells and number signs on the displays were their own sort of hieroglyphs: symbols of greed rather than hope. The gamblers watched intently, waiting for the right combination of signs to appear. It was a game of chance, not skill. As a detective, Darkus could not fathom relying on luck alone: there was no honour to it; no competitive spirit; just a blind belief in murky fate. Many of the gamblers’ faces were desperate, obsessed, their jaws slack, their eyes vacant.
Being under-age, Darkus knew that he wasn’t permitted to do anything more than walk through the gaming area. He wasn’t even allowed to pause. He could explain that he was lost, looking for his parents, or seeking refreshments, but if he lingered near any of the machines, he would be escorted out by members of the ever-present security staff, who were dressed in black, standing at vantage points around the room. Noting the casino guards watching him, Darkus walked further into the bowels of the pyramid, where the slot machines receded to reveal a luxurious cocoon-like space in the centre of the building. This inner sanctum contained semi-circular blackjack tables covered in green felt, with dealers in crisp white shirts and waistcoats dispensing cards, and players arranging them into feathered spreads, alongside stacks of disc-shaped gaming ‘chips’. The chips doubled for currency and would be exchanged for hard cash at the end of the game – whatever time of day or night. Vegas never slept. In fact, it was rumoured the hotels pumped pure oxygen into the rooms to keep guests awake and alert: able to gamble more and consume more. Food and drink was on hand twenty-four hours a day. The shopping mall provided retail therapy when needed. The casinos were dimly lit and designed like labyrinths, their red walls curving smoothly into infinity, so it was near impossible to find an exit without stumbling into another game. There were no windows, no clocks. Even the frenzied, garish pattern of the carpet was designed to disorient. It was a perfectly sealed, vacuum-packed world with everything a visitor could wish for – and no obvious way out.
The inner sanctum was for the serious players, known as ‘whales’ or ‘high rollers’; often well dressed, well groomed, able to win or lose hundreds of thousands, or even millions, with the throw of a dice or a winning hand. The casinos gave them hotel suites free of charge, knowing how much they would blow at the gambling tables. The games were conducted using a series of cryptic phrases.
‘Care for another one?’ the dealer asked.
‘Hit me.’
The dealer dealt a card.
The player turned it over. ‘Three of a kind.’ He laid out three Kings: clubs, hearts and diamonds.
Another dealer shuffled his cards, causing them to virtually float from one hand to the other. ‘Who’s feeling lucky? Remember: what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’
Nearby, a roulette wheel spun, the red and black numbers whirling in the opposite direction to the roulette ball, until the ball sunk into a pocket and went for a ride, deciding the gamblers’ fate. Elsewhere, Darkus watched a pair of dice tumble across a basin-shaped craps table, coming to rest on two sixes, known as ‘boxcars’. A whoop went up from the winning player, who was dressed in a dark suit, a Spanish gaucho hat pulled low over his face and a ponytail draping down his back: a high roller, for sure.
Darkus did a double take. This player was familiar to him: that hat, shading a goatee beard. He looked again, not believing his eyes: it was Mr Presto … Chloe’s partner in crime; part-time illusionist, full-time Combination agent. Darkus’s heart beat in his throat as he looked away and kept walking, for fear of being recognised. The catastrophiser whirled and clicked like a roulette wheel, alternating between red and black. So the Combination was here – in force. And Darkus and his father (not to mention Tilly and the Billochs) were in a world of high stakes trouble. Darkus sneaked a final glance at Presto as the villain collected his winnings – no doubt won through deception with a set of loaded dice, weighted perfectly to land exactly as he wanted them to.
Darkus searched for a way out of this house of games. He had to get back to Tilly and Uncle Bill before they happened upon the Combination themselves. He tried to retrace his steps, but found the scenery repeating itself: a maze of identical gambling tables; identical rows of slot machines. If he wasn’t careful he could easily find himself face to face with Presto again. Darkus stopped in his tracks and tried a different approach: he licked his finger and held it high above his head, screening out the cool gusts from the air conditioners and instead detecting a slight variation in air pressure, which had to be coming from the open-plan lobby area. He followed his instinct and quickly found himself back at the reception desk. He was heading for the lifts, when an even more familiar voice boomed through the forecourt.
‘This is phen-o-menal! Let’s paar-taaay!’
Darkus spun, seeing a long, stretch Hummer limo pulling into pole position as one of its passengers rocked and swayed with the top half of his body protruding from the sunroof. Despite it being dark outside, the passenger was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and wrap-around sunglasses. Darkus rubbed his eyes.
Incredibly, it was his stepfather: Clive.
CHAPTER 19
ALL ROADS CONVERGE
Darkus momentarily forgot the whole investigation as he watched Clive gyrate out of the the top of the Hummer limo, until another passenger forcibly pulled him back into the cabin, in an attempt to calm him down.
‘Hey, Jax, watch the footwear! They’re box fresh,’ he bellowed through the opening.
A team of headdress-wearing bellboys descended on the limo and opened the rear doors to usher out Clive in Adidas long shorts and brilliant white trainers – followed by Darkus’s mum, Jackie, in a tasteful khaki ensemble.
Darkus stood rooted to the spot.
‘I l-oove it already!’ declared Clive, peering through his shades.
‘Isn’t it a bit …’ Jackie looked for the word. ‘Flashy?’ She glanced around, bewildered, as their bags were carted into the lobby.
‘I’ll tell you what it is, dear. It’s free!’ Clive yanked Jackie’s hand, leading her towards reception, until he came to a stuttering halt, raising his sunglasses in disbelief. ‘Wait a mo-ment. Do my beer goggles deceive me?’
‘Er, hello, Mum. Clive,’ Darkus announced, standing before them in the foyer.
‘Doc!’ His mother ran and grabbed him in a warm embrace. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
Darkus returned the hug before pulling away, checking his peripheral vision for suspects, all too aware of the circumstances of his presence and the need to keep his mother as far away from those circumstances as possible. ‘I’m here with
Dad and Tilly. What are you doing here?’
‘I left about a dozen messages on your phone. I thought you must have switched it off. It was a last-minute thing. Clive’s producers flew him out here … plus one.’ She gestured meekly to herself. ‘To say thanks for being such a hit in the ratings.’
‘That’s right,’ replied Clive, sticking his nose in the air. ‘And the last thing I expected was your ugly mug to greet me.’ He glowered at Darkus, with no attempt to disguise his irritation. ‘This was meant to be an exclusive, exotic getaway for your mother and I. First class, five-star, hot towels and chocs on the pillow. All expenses paid. A getaway from the likes of you and my reprobate daughter.’
‘Clive!’ Jackie snapped.
Clive frowned for a second, then shrugged off any trace of guilt, enjoying his newfound good fortune. ‘Well, it’s the truth, Jax. Deal with it. If you’re not able to enjoy the fruits of my new career, that’s your loss.’
‘We’ll discuss this later,’ she replied, disgusted. ‘Are you all OK?’ she questioned Darkus. ‘Is Bogna here somewhere?’
‘I’ll tell you everything when I have a solution to the facts,’ Darkus assured her. ‘First … Clive, I must ask you one urgent question.’
Clive kept cranking his head left and right to admire the majesty of the pyramid and the bevy of females strolling past in Cleopatra robes. ‘Across the line …’ He murmured his Wheel Spin catchphrase to himself, until –
Darkus swiftly prodded him in his solar plexus: the soft collection of nerves in the centre of the upper abdomen.
‘Ouch!’ yapped Clive, perhaps remembering that Darkus had used this tactic on him once before – that time in a life or death situation. ‘Yessss …?’ Clive hissed, rubbing his painful mid-section and looking down at his stepson.
‘What’s the name of the production company that paid for this “all expenses paid” getaway?’ demanded Darkus.
‘Clorr. Clorr Entertainment. Duh! They hired me for the show. They pay the bills. They run the whole gig.’ Clive returned his attention to the plush surroundings. ‘We’ve entered the Winner’s Circle now, Jax. Come on, babes, I’m a lover not a fighter. Let’s play nice and check out the suite. I bet it’s spec-tacular!’
Darkus felt his catastrophiser flick through the gears as he processed this latest revelation. So a pattern was forming – and it was not an encouraging one. The Combination’s web had expanded dramatically, orchestrating Clive’s newfound success, weaving itself even deeper into Darkus’s life and threatening to ensnare everyone around him.
‘Clive, let me look into your eyes,’ Darkus demanded.
‘What is this? My annual check-up?’ he complained. ‘What d’you want me to do next? Cough?’
‘Just do as he says,’ Jackie ordered her husband.
‘OK, dear.’ Clive knelt as if he was meeting royalty, then Darkus used a thumb and forefinger to pry open his stepfather’s eyelids, in order to examine the pupils. They were completely normal: neither fixed nor dilated like they had been on the Knightleys’ first case, when Clive had been under the influence of the Combination’s murderous handbook, The Code. Clive was as obnoxious as ever, but he posed no apparent threat.
Jackie turned remorsefully to Darkus, who nodded. ‘He seems fine, but I think it’s best for both of you if you check in to your room and stay there until I contact you. Don’t answer the door. To anyone.’
Clive huffed, but something in Darkus’s eyes told Jackie he was serious.
‘OK, Doc. We’ll do that.’
‘Thanks, Mum. If you need us, we’ll be in the Presidential Suite.’
‘The what?!’ Clive roared.
Darkus watched from a discreet vantage point behind a sphinx, as his mother and stepfather checked in at reception. Clive gesticulated wildly, clearly trying to upgrade their room to as close to Presidential as possible, before giving up, his arms dropping to his sides like a Neanderthal as he trudged after Jackie and the bags. They entered the lift, pressed a button and ascended to what Darkus calculated was the twenty-first floor. They exited the glass pod and walked to a room halfway along the corridor.
Darkus made a mental note and continued staking out the hotel lobby where, after a long ten minutes, Mr Presto marched out of the casino in the company of several fawning hotel employees. Darkus shrank behind the mock-ancient stone façade and watched as Presto opened his arms to greet a small delegation of men and women in business suits. The figures looked familiar to Darkus. Plundering his encyclopaedic knowledge once more, his eyebrows inadvertently raised as he picked out a former British cabinet minister, a female media baron, a disgraced Swiss bank boss and a prominent American crime figure, among several others that he couldn’t immediately place. In other words, a dragon’s den of VIPs.
Glad-handing each in turn, Presto guided the group into a lift, stabbed a button and they ascended the incline. Through the glass, Darkus watched Presto and the delegation admire the view, then the pod slowed, reaching the notorious thirteenth floor – the same one that Chloe, or ‘Pam Clorr’ had exited on. The group stepped out. Darkus narrowed his eyes to see which direction they were going. But he saw no further evidence of them at all. Just like Chloe, they had completely vanished.
Something strange indeed was afoot on the thirteenth floor.
Darkus crossed to the opposite lift, swiped his Presidential key card and ascended to the penthouse level, stepping out into a luxurious, carpeted corridor, leading to a pair of grand double doors. He swiped his card again and entered the Presidential Suite.
Tilly was sitting at a walnut desk staring at her phone, which was plugged into a charger in the wall. She had evidently showered because her hair had changed colour again: from blonde to an auburn red. She caught Darkus staring at it.
‘It’s my natural colour,’ she admitted.
Uncle Bill was roaming back and forth by the imposing floor-to-ceiling windows, which leaned inwards towards the apex of the pyramid. Outside, the Vegas skyline strobed and twinkled with a multiverse of lights, but in the distance a storm system was amassing, sending ominous clouds scudding over the hills. Summer storms were uncommon, but the desert was a law unto itself. Darkus caught sight of a jagged vein of chain lightning. Half a minute later a rumble of thunder arrived over the hotel. The same thing happened again, and Darkus counted a twenty-five-second interval between the lightning and the thunder, indicating that the storm was approximately five miles away and heading in their direction.
Dougal was playing nurse in the master bedroom where Knightley Senior was stretched out, unconscious. The Scotsman distracted himself by watching a huge flat screen TV showing the countdown to a boxing match broadcast live from a nearby hotel.
Darkus called a meeting and explained quickly and concisely what he’d witnessed in the lobby and on the casino floor.
‘Dad? Here?’ Tilly protested. ‘That is so embarrassing.’
‘And Chloy?’ Bill butchered her name. ‘That mad besom,’ he added, though neither of his junior colleagues knew what he meant.
‘And Presto,’ said Darkus. ‘And possibly others.’
‘What’s going on, Doc?’ Tilly asked, genuinely puzzled.
‘I don’t know. But the answer lies on the thirteenth floor.’
‘Then we best have a swatch,’ said Bill, rolling up the sleeves of his leisure suit. ‘Dougal, ye keep an eye on Alan.’
‘Aye, Monty,’ his brother answered, using his birth name.
‘We must approach with extreme caution,’ Darkus advised. ‘If Chloe has adopted the name Pam Clorr, it’s a fair assumption that Bogna is being held either in Room 1301, or close by. If we are discovered, we risk compromising the operation and putting Bogna’s life at risk.’
Bill swallowed hard, his Bramley-sized Adam’s apple rising into the fleshy folds of his chin then lowering again. ‘Tha’ poor sweet hen.’
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ demanded Tilly, unplugging her phone.
‘What about your
file?’ Darkus pointed at the timer, which showed twenty-two minutes: the digits steadily evaporating.
‘A watched pot never boils,’ she replied. ‘Bogna needs us. If she’s in this building, let’s find her.’
Meanwhile, on the twenty-first floor, Jackie was systematically unpacking her bags, her face betraying a sickly cocktail of unease, torment and sorrow. On the other side of the suite, Clive had switched on the in-room stereo and was strutting up and down in his hotel bathrobe, snapping his fingers and doing little wiggles that Jackie suspected were dance moves. Clive swung his arms around, then appeared to point at his reflection in the windowpane and waggle a finger at it. She watched him, awash with pity.
‘Do you think there’ll be somewhere nice to have dinner with Darkus and Tilly?’ she ventured. ‘Maybe somewhere with triangular sandwiches? We are in a pyramid, after all.’
‘Seriously?’ Clive implored. ‘You want to bring along those two freaks on our big night out? Sorry … no deal.’
Jackie stopped unpacking and stood still a moment. ‘Clive, I think we should have a chat.’
‘Sure, babes. When we get home,’ Clive answered, ducking the question.
‘No, I think sooner than that.’
‘Do we have to spoil the holiday with one of your “big chats”?’ He incorporated finger quotes into his dance moves, before glancing over his shoulder and catching sight of the frown etched on her face. His mouth dropped vacantly as he tried to find a compromise. ‘Tomorrow morning at the full buffet breakfast?’ he countered.
Jackie sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the flashing neon beyond the window and the storm clouds gathering in the distance.
‘Hold that thought, I’ve gotta use the john.’ Clive stalked over to the bathroom. ‘That’s American for loo, by the way,’ he explained cheerily.
‘I know, Clive,’ she answered.
Clive entered the marbled bathroom and examined his nest of salt-and-pepper hair in the mirror. Despite the dye, the careful feathering and the expertise of his Winner’s Circle hair and make-up team (‘the glam squad’ as he called them), the hair situation was not improving.