With No Time For Change, he’d moved on to yet another incarnation, Philanthropic Radical, reinforcing his standing as a genuine man of the people. Almost anybody under 60 conducted the great majority of their financial transactions with their transphones, credit/debit cards or cloud-based flip accounts and hadn’t much use for paper currency and even less for coins. No Time presented a masterpiece of simplicity to dump the three smallest metal denominals along with making a charitable contribution and picking up some lottery tickets to boot. All one need do was send at least $10 worth (as many times as the donor chose) to the non-profit notimeforchange.org, which had been promoted via a $35 million publicity blitz. Once documented, the sender would be entered into the drawings set to be held during the WST weekend promising ten $5M prizes and a grand one of $25M.
Again, Walbee’s latest brainchild, with the help of his impeccable marketing savvy, had succeeded beyond the wildest estimates. The most recent Federal Reserve tally revealed more than 23% of the running average of 25 billion coins in circulation had been removed from the marketplace, not to mention a suspected even larger amount contributed from mason jars, car seats and dresser drawers. When Pinkiefinger’s Pinkie Wallet operation jumped into the fray and the UPS started offering free shipping, the Administration started rattling some sabers in an attempt to turn off the spigot, presenting Walbee with a priceless opportunity to enhance his outsider status. After taking to the airwaves to criticize the “business-as-usual, do-nothing Feds who haven’t realized that every coin costs more to produce than it’s worth, and besides that, nobody wants your anachronistic metal portraits of three men who actually cared about picking their fights with enemies of this great country instead of ignoring the vox populi,” the President herself was forced to stand down, even announcing all three of her children would be allowed to break into their piggybanks.
Spotswood glanced out the portal, shocked to see an F-36Bcruising a few thousand feet away.
“Holy crap! There’s a fighter jet flying beside us!”
“Two actually,” Walbee said nonchalantly.
“This is nuts.”
“No. This is prudent.”He paused. “And not our idea, I might add.”
“Well, then what the hell is it…two did you say?”
Walbee stood, moved across the aisle, raised the curtain of the opposite window and peered out. Returning, he resumed his seat. “Yup. Two.”
Maybe this is a bigger deal than I thought it was. “Could you please tell me why we’ve got this…escort?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Sure.”
“Good. So can I.”
They both laughed, then Walbee leaned in. “We were contacted by Homeland Security in early November, said the chatter they were monitoring was ramping up, that the tourney and associated activities was becoming…probably already had become the most target rich environment for terror attacks they’d ever seen. What’s not to hate? We’ve got a package containing so many evils, so much of what the United States excels in and what our primary enemies hold in holy contempt. Wealth, beauty, celebrity, rock and roll, spectacle. Entertainment with a capital E.” He thought a moment. “Bull’s-eyes.”
Spotswood looked to the aircraft again, coasting as smoothly as a canoe on a placid lake. “Are they after anyone… do they… HSA, do they know?”
“I’d rather not burden you with the list.”
Burden me?
“If it helps,” Walbee continued, “you’re not one of the primaries.”
Primaries?”Meaning?”
“They’re looking to take out some whales. Me, Franklin, the Final Four.” He sighed. “Andy, Laura, any of the other acts who’ll be performing in part three of The Concert. Especially the females.”
The Concert was expected to last over four hours—not counting commercial breaks. The Battle of the Bands between CCBBA and Obsession would consist of seven songs by each group. The middle set would have them return for another eight or nine, a potpourri of numbers performed individually or with a mixture of members from both. Part Three would bring out a genuine cavalcade of stars, currently guesstimated at 17, backed by shifting lineups drawn from the 14 Alliance and PO musicians and vocalists, with each of the Friends joining in after their single solo if the mood struck them. Then, a final encore song bringing everybody back on the stage, the title of that song a secret guarded more closely than formula for Coke.
“The encore is, of course, our biggest concern, both as to the musicians and the audience. When I hear the final notes and see no damage has been done, I will be a very, very happy man.”
They didn’t speak for the next few minutes, then continued after Wings delivered fresh cups of espresso.
“I guess that explains all of the security today. I would never have guessed you’d have people guarding me like that.”
Walbee chuckled. “Oh, you’ve had a security detail a bit longer. Back to when we first got the word, heard about the chatter.”
“Huh?”
“Since early November, we’ve had at least two sets of eyes watching after you.”
“Huh?”
“You just didn’t know about them, which we thought best.”
“People have been spying on me?”
“Not spying. Monitoring your welfare.” He paused. “There’ve only been a couple of iffy situations, I’m told, but those were dispatched without difficulty.”
Now I know this is bigger than I thought it was.
“Which brings me to something…something that we ran across. Probably nothing, but would you mind?”
“I don’t follow.”
Walbee looked about then continued. “Cassandra’s her name? Been spending a lot of time with her lately?”
Spotswood froze, holding his breath until he finally had to let it go. “What about her?”
“Very attractive young lady.”
Spotswood cleared his throat. “I know.” He hesitated. “What about her?”
“Are you familiar with a piece of British history…early 60’s…known as the Profumo Affair?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah.”
He waited for Walbee to continue, but he didn’t. Time seemed to be slowing with each passing second. The F-35B appeared to have stopped in midair, no longer flying—just suspended in the sky by invisible strings.
Don’t ask. Leave it alone. If there was a problem, he would have already said so.
“John Profumo,” he finally said, “was the War Secretary in the government, at the height of the Cold War. Took up with, mind you he’s married at the time, took up with a very attractive young lady named Christine Keeler. They have a brief fling. No harm done, eh?”
“I’ll guess maybe there was?”
“Turns out Ms. Keeler was concurrently the mistress of a Soviet spy. When all this became public, it eventually led to the fall of the party in power…trashed the whole government.”
Spotswood didn’t have a clue where this was leading as the passage of time continued to decrease. “What do you want to know, Ben?”
“Nothing,” he replied, placing a hand on Spotswood’s knee again.
“Could you tell me, at least, what you do know?”
The man laughed as if he’d delivered a great punch line. “Jip! We weren’t, they didn’t have cameras or mics in her flat, nor yours! That’s your business, not ours.” He smiled. “It’s just that when they saw you were spending so much time with her, they got curious about who she was. Just doing their job.”
“And?”
“She had connections to someone of more interest to us as far as some issues go.”
“Security issues? Who?”
Walbee shook his head. “Again, need to know, and you don’t.” He paused. “Probably harmless.”
“If it helps, I broke…I stopped seeing her a few days ago.”
He laughed again. “That’s what Profumo said!”
The intercom clicked on. “Gentlemen, we’ve got so
me weather ahead that we’re going to try outrunning but probably a good idea to make use of the harnesses. And Davy? Please secure the cabin.”
Just as she passed toward the galley, a single jolt shook the craft as if it was a bowling pin at the head of a perfect strike.
“Fasten your seatbelt, Jip,” Walbee warned with a grin. “As Bette Davis said, it’s going to be a bumpy night.”
Chapter Two
As the jet approached McCarren Airport15 minutes after sunrise, Walbee instructed the pilot to take a flyby so they could get a bird’s-eye view of the property. Located on the southern end of Las Vegas Boulevard, a mile distant from the closest neighboring mega-resort, its semi-isolation was planned and didn’t detract an iota from the fact that Prism was now the big dog in town.
The main pyramid-shaped building was similar to the Luxor, but three stories higher. And while the Luxor had its famous Sky Beam, Potcheck had gone one better, installing a fantastical display of his own design that literally had to be seen to be believed. Instead of a simple static light pointing upward, the Sky Prism appeared to be a pair of beams miles each in length at a combined power of close to 190 billion candelas that were seemingly entering then exiting the top of the structure at 45 degree angles, inbound white and outbound in a rainbow display of the six bidding colors of the Standoff! board. Beside it was a smaller pyramid, holding the 19,000 seat Oasis Theater along with numerous shops and restaurants. Off to one side was an empty square surrounded by temporary bleachers said to be the site of one of the big surprises promised to be revealed the next day.
At just a shade over 6,000 rooms, Prism wasn’t the largest resort in the world, but easily one of the most luxurious. The standard rooms on the lower 16 floors each offered an open space plan featuring a spacious sleeping area, an even larger sitting area and master baths with oversized showers, tubs, triple sinks and dressing/makeup tables with seating for two. Refreshments could be prepared in a triangular offset area containing a wet bar, refrigerator/freezer, microwave and toaster ovens along with a generous assortment of flatware, glassware and utensils. Four video screens, a full stereo system, lighting easily manipulated into hundreds of combinations, a pair of docking stations, three ceiling fans, two hard-wired telephones and an electronic masking wall designed to block both sound and light in a dozen variable severities between the sleeping and sitting spaces completed the layout.
Beginning on the 17th floor were the two bedroom suites, followed by the increasingly lavish three bedroom versions, then the fours, and eventually culminating with the pair of duplicate five bedroom penthouses.
An avid golfer, swimmer and tennis player, Potcheck spared little expense when it came to outdoor amenities. Five pools ranging from a 15 acre monster surrounding a pair of islands down to a pair of competition lappers were scattered on two sides of the resort. Beyond them were 24 courts divided equally among hard, clay and grass, one apiece with seating for three thousand including retractable roofs, mist machines and passively cooled seats and surfaces. Adjoining those were the first tee and fairway of an 8:10 scale replica of Augusta National including over 150,000 artificial and natural trees, shrubs and plants. But his favorite touch, bordering the other two sides of the property, was the72 hole miniature golf course featuring a number of cleverly-designed trick plays along with retractable, overhead sunscreens and computer-controlled mist machines guaranteeing a pleasant day’s outing in the severest of Nevada midsummer, midday scorchers.
After unpacking and taking a stroll through his 27th floor three bagger, and calling down to Room Service for one of the dozen breakfast sandwiches on the menu and a large pot of Kenya AA, he connected his laptop to one of the docks and queued three of his favorites albums: Extra Innings by The Alliance, Second Chance by The Alliance with Christie Cramer and Switchblade by Christie Cramer, Billy Blair & The Alliance. The first was his inspiration for what thus far had been the greatest single accomplishment of his life. The second, and therefore the third, would never have been recorded, would not exist were it not for him. He’d altered pop music history with nothing more than a hunch and a 2,000 word freelance essay he’d sold to Rolling Stone Magazine for $2800. What would the world be like today if he hadn’t accidentally created the biggest draw in show business?
The first time he saw Christie was two and a half years before on a cold, dry night when he drove to Memphis Midwest to meet his friend Sandy Coldmeadow for a couple drinks and catch up on the comings and goings of their lives; add another body to the amateur night audience.
Coldmeadow had phoned two nights earlier and requested his presence to help another friend of hers break into the business. Sandy had fronted for a popular local band, Conniption, for a couple years but gave it up to devote her voice to jingle singing, a profession with a lot less wear and tear than the club circuit and a much better proposition financially. But if she was going to sit on the sidelines, she wanted someone out there she could live her old life through vicariously, and the chosen surrogate was Christie Cramer.
Christie wasn’t a singer. She was a junior college History teacher; Masters plus half a Ph.D. Her and Sandy lived in the same apartment building in the near West Side of the City and over the past few years had become quite close. He remembered Sandy mentioning Christie in previous conversations, but had yet to meet her.
Sandy knew a great voice when she heard one and was not going to give up on her project until Christie gave it a shot. Sandy was tired of the ‘I’ve got papers to grade and I have to go visit my mother “excuses the ingénue gave for a year. Finally, the night had arrived—a crowd of maybe 250 her first audience.
He’d arrived as the first of the five amateur night acts took the stage, spying Sandy and her protégé seated at a small table at the rear of the showroom. All he got was a nervous hello and timid shake of the hand before Christie excused herself “to go put on some lipstick and puke.” Break a leg, the two fans wished her.
The first act wasn’t half bad, the second a little worse. The third, a four piece outfit called Not Mensa, kicked out a three number set of rockish country that got everyone’s attention and more applause than Coldmeadow thought was in order.
“Just wait, Jonathan,” she’d cautioned. “Christie could open the gates of heaven with her chops.” The house band took the stage, but Christie was nowhere to be seen; Coldmeadow hurried to the dressing room to coax her out. The musicians seemed jittery and bored, never having rehearsed with her, eager to return to their table and their women. After a moment, the debutante finally walked out and picked the microphone from the stand, turning to the drummer, saying something.
She looked no more than 25, her thin, five-and-a-half foot frame topped with an incredibly luxurious pile of auburn hair. Her green eyes sparkled, as did the red, sequined top she wore, the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Trim hips, legs wrapped in a pair of starched black jeans as she rocked uneasily atop her high red pumps.
“The shoes were my idea,” Sandy said as she sat down and shook her head. “Make her look a little larger than life. I hope she doesn’t fall over.”
The lights dimmed and a solitary spotlight picked up Christie’s beautiful, frightened face. The band went into the intro of her only number, an upbeat version of the Presley classic I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You.
As soon as the first seven words left her lips, there wasn’t a single person - not the truck driver at the end of the bar, not the couple necking in one of the booths, not the hardened barfly standing near the doorway - who didn’t shift their undivided attention to the center of the platform. The voice was so strong, so resonant; the gestures so natural, so sure that he’d thought for a beat he was the victim of an elaborate hoax concocted by his friend.
By the time Christie got to the river flowing, the audience was entranced.
But the tour de force arrived when she blasted into the final verse. Instead of keeping with the key of the rest of the number, the singer and the band modulated up a fifth. She r
epeated the title of the song three times at the conclusion, each time adding new layers of depth to the statement. When the last chord sounded, it was as if spring had come to an end. The ovation lasted close to a minute, the band itself joining in. Christie stood smiling and listing, bathed in this sudden display of group affection, twin tears draining from her eyes as she motioned to the crowd to please let up a bit on the obviously intense pleasure she was receiving from them.
The fifth act didn’t even bother to come out. The owner of the place didn’t even poll the crowd for its vote. He gave Christie five hundred dollar bills and asked if there was anything at all he could do for her. She graciously declined and after receiving the congratulations and compliments from a dozen patrons, along with her first request for an autograph, Spotswood, Cramer and Coldmeadow retreated to a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts and stayed up drinking coffee and chatting until 4:00 in the morning.
As they finally headed back to their cars, Spotswood asked her what label she wanted to sign with.
“I’m a History teacher,” she smiled, motioning back in the direction of Memphis Midwest. “None of tonight is real. I’m just trying to get Sandy off my case.” She then stepped forward and kissed him softly on the cheek, wrapping her arms gently around his neck, adding: “Thank you for coming, Jonathan.” He wanted to tell her how special she was, but couldn’t get the right words in line before she was in Coldmeadow’s Mustang.
So instead he wrote the article and sold it to RS, a rambling piece about amateur nights and music and reluctance and spark. It was disguised as an objective report, but his true motive was to keep this teacher from returning to her students. At the very end, in his final paragraph, he tossed out a suggestion he never would have guessed in a score of lifetimes would lead to anything more than the end of the essay.
“An isolated performance such as hers, in an out-of-the-way venue like Memphis Midwest, brings to mind a hundred What-if’s, a thousand might-have-beens. If window-shopping is allowed, I’ll take Nieman-Marcus over Target any day. And for a match made in heaven, I’ll take Christie Cramer and The Alliance.”
Weekend at Prism Page 3