“When hell freezes over,” Lera affectionately puts in.
“Dave? You’ve got a matching resume.”
“Except for the richer than God part. Oh, and Debbie kinda frowns on little black books of any size.”
They all laugh.
“But I can’t complain.”
“So?”
“Unless something really exceptional happens, I doubt you’ll ever see our current lineup appear again. Harry’s really going the extra mile with his hands and all. Christie’s taken a couple of shots at retiring already and this time around I think she might actually hit the target. Billy’s on, might be on the verge a phenomenal solo career if…Mick’s got plenty of options.” He pauses. “The Lord willing, and my best friend agreeing, I’d also like to keep writing. And just kick back.”
“Andy? What would you choose as your epitaph?”
“I ain’t (beep) dead yet!”
They all laugh.
“He kept score and broke better than even.”
“Dave?”
“He eventually became richer than God.”
They all laugh.
“Andy? Who wins?”
“Too close to call.”
“Dave?”
“Agree.”
“Thanks guys. See you at Prism.”
“Jip?” Leraasks.
“Yeah?”
“Do us all a favor and donate that shirt to the Salvation Army.”
***
At the anchor desk, Scanlan looked across to Spotswood. “Jip, I’m sure our audience enjoyed that interview as much as I did.”
“As I’m sure they’ll enjoy yours with Laura Loveland and Pamela Watts of Pandora’s Obsession scheduled to air after round one of the one hundred million dollar winner-take-all World Standoff! Tournament and prior to the Linda Bowen-Angelique Caulfield concert.”
“Coming up, Phil Schuster and Richie Levenfeld introduce us to the Final Four, followed by the first match in the one hundred million dollar winner take all World Standoff Tournament. And after that, Jip and I will be back with you for my interview and the inaugural concert here at the Oasis Theater. Stay tuned, here on Fox.”
***
Chip stepped into Security Control. Reynolds set aside his trans then said “Please give me some kind of good news, would’ya?”
“I can give you some unusual twist news from The Gun Store.”
“I’ll bite.”
“No sign of Cassandra yet. Her package remains there. However, about 25 minutes ago a woman came in and bought the matching Lady Smith and a box of .38 specials.” He paused. “Used a French passport for identification and paid in cash.”
Reynolds sighed. “Please don’t…would I be correct in assuming the purchaser was reasonably attractive?”
“No. Pete described her as absolutely finger licking good gorgeous.”
He sighed again, then picked up his cane and began tapping the handle in his palm. “Photo? Or do I need one.”
Chip held the screen of his trans toward him. “Just for the record.”
“Wendy, huh?”
“Yup. Entered the facility at Portal Six seven minutes ago, flashed her pass and went straight up.”
“Nobody bothered to…”
“She did a step-around and seeing she had her St. Honore card...”
“I must’a told that jerk off a dozen times that letting his whores walk around the property without any…ah, fuck it.” He thought a moment. “What would you guess would be the odds of one of the Auroras purchasing that certain firearm and it not somehow being connected to Ms. Chase?”
“A lot less than even.”
“As is the probability that little Cassie might just be on the property, or soon to arrive.” He paused. “Get with Mary and have her run RecPro on every face that’s walked in since noon.”
***
“Good afternoon and welcome to our coverage of the one hundred million dollar winner take all World Standoff! Tournament. I’m Phil Schuster and I’ll be with you over the next 52 hours or so as we watch, analyze and comment upon what will no doubt be the four most exciting rounds of Standoff! ever witnessed. Joining me is Richie Levenfeld, and I couldn’t ask for a better analyst or nicer guy to cover the games with me.”
“Thanks, Phil. Great to be here.”
“So let’s cut right to the chase.”
“We’ve prepared a primer for our worldwide audience to introduce the four phenomenal players who’ll be competing in tonight’s first round, followed by two more tomorrow, and of course the all-important final match on New Year’s Day. Although we left hours of video on the cutting room floor to winnow this piece down to a manageable size, I think it’ll provide enough of an overview to familiarize our viewers with the backgrounds of the players. But fair warning…this is not all sweetness and light. We were shooting for a well-rounded portrait of each of them, so some blemishes will become apparent. Phil?”
“Following some messages from our sponsors, we’ll be back with Before They Became The Four. Stay tuned.”
And after those commercials, the documentary began.
A blond man, chiseled good looks, piercing eyes, strong chin, nice tan, sharp clothes.
“Nicholas Kerensky. Age 38. Five-feet-eleven. One hundred seventy-five pounds. Born Nyandoma, Russia. Occupation unclear.”
He grew up in a backwater town, only beginning to show his stuff when he was in the Russian version of junior high. He was a mathematics whiz and was able to master most of what he tried. He could have been a great chess champion, but was more taken with hands-on entertainment, so pursued a career in the circus.
“The Russians have a different view of circuses than we do. Aside from high military officers, scientists and government officials, the circus people are once again top celebrities. Like our movie stars.”
His practiced talents and native abilities eventually led him to the Moscow Circus School, the Oxford of clowns, the Cambridge of elephant riders. His rise through the ranks of the faculty was meteoric, finally becoming second-in-command at the tender age of 31. Aside from being an excellent administrator and shrewd tactician, he was also an accomplished juggler, aerialist and animal tamer, easily handling a cage of 12 cats, his deftness at calming them legendary.
“About a year after he got the assistant director position, a personal proclivity got him in trouble.”
Kerensky wanted to keep his hands-on talents sharp. One of his favorite diversions was assisting in the instruction of novice female acrobats, the equivalent of sending a supermodel to teach a group of young men how to be actors or Angie Caulfield to lecture a group of young men how to sing. Some would simply pass out when Kerensky addressed them; others drove themselves to exhaustion to perfect a small variation of their routine he suggested.
And then there was Lisa.
She entered the school at age 13 and blossomed into a very accomplished tightrope walker and acrobat by the time she reached 15. She fell for Kerensky, as did all her schoolmates, but unfortunately for Kerensky, he also fell for her. Supposedly she became pregnant by him. Supposedly he told her to take care of it.
“And supposedly she did. Walked into a small cage containing three panthers. Didn’t have a prayer.”
A little girl in a silver bikini who could balance herself on a shimmering silver dance ball, work herself across a stage and twirl nine hula hoops in different directions, her life a vapor because of Kerensky. He was never the same. He remained at the MCS two more years but they were months spent in exile. Despite his receipt of the prestigious Distinguished Artist of Russia award and a television documentary about him, the magic was gone. He began to drink heavily, began to act out, began to press his luck.
He publicly and repeatedly criticized the government, demanding more freedom, whenever given a forum, for his friends in professional sports. On a lark, he challenged the Russian and then-World chess champion to a short match, promising to expose the weakness of the system and promptly level
ed Zimmerwald three games straight. The government and the School grew tired of his antics and offered to help him relocate, which he did to the United States three years before.
“So what’s he do now?”
“Essentially, he’s a party boy and professional escort. He hangs out, goes to parties. He’s famous for being famous. I mean, he’s a good looking man, he’s romantic, used to have his act together. Suppose he’s an interesting dinner guest for people with nothing better to do than have dinners.”
“But what’s he do? Sit there? Probably can’t carry on a conversation.”
“In five languages. Fluently.”
He did cognac commercials for awhile. There’s was a condo development down in Miami that comped him an apartment in return for him living there three months during the winter, sitting around the pool and charming the old ladies. He spent the rest of his time in New York City and Paris, even getting back into the ring for some promos for an insurance company in California. Life can be dangerous, that sort of thing. Two tranquilized lions.
The two things he loved most in life were gambling and looking good. In the period after his arrival, there were at least six known instances of him spending small amounts of time and great amounts of money at both of the Arc-en-Ciel casinos in France, two gambling palaces owned by St. Honore International SA. And on two occasions, he was a guest at Chateau du Vicissitude - the Castle of Change - to stop the work of Mother Nature.
A tall, thin balding man with a pleasant expression.
“Ceriac Boo Lascaux. Age: 34. Height: 6’3”. Weight: 180 pounds. Born: Lafayette, Louisiana. Occupation: keeper of a gaming house and landlord. His nickname comes from his expertise at card game peculiar to Cajuns called Booray.”
His father, Alphonse Lascaux, was a Cajun. His grandfather, Alphonse Lascaux, was also a Cajun. The grandfather was killed in World War II, much as his son died in Afganistan, leaving his wife Clotile and their son to fend for themselves. Clotile was a Creole, from Harahan, a suburb of New Orleans. Soon after Alphonse died, she moved into the city with Boo, opened an herb and tea shop and ran a bookie operation on the side down in the Quarter. He dropped out of school after his first year of college, went through a series of odd jobs, nothing seeming to hold much fascination for him. He started to gamble and soon it was all he did. Two days before his 22nd birthday, Clotile drowned in Lake Ponchatrain.
Clotile left the store and her other meager possessions to her only child. Meager until Lascaux commenced an inventory of her desk and discovered a deed, dated many years before, conveying from a long-gone benefactor 42 acres of land outside Abbyville, Louisiana, to his grandfather. Before the conveyance and prior to his discovery of the deed, Texaco had made an interesting find: the Tuscaloosa Trend, one of the richest oil fields on the North American continent. The conglomerate was happy to take the mineral rights off his hands for $4,250,000 plus annual royalties based on production.
Boo overreacted and lost half his stake during a four day stay at Caesar’s Palace. The only thing he brought back with him was a waitress he met, another Louisiana native named Michelle. He spent most of the rest of the money on seven shotgun houses near Tulane University and an exquisite townhouse with a garden in the Quarter.
“And he and Michelle lived happily ever-after?”
“Depends on how you look at it. They never got married, if that’s what you mean.”
“ Five years before, Michelle and Boo had a baby but she evidently refused to marry him when he offered. She moved out for a year and got a job supervising tours of the Riverwalk. They reunited and the three of them now lived in the townhouse. She studied opera at Loyola, took private lessons, took her Master’s and was working on a Doctorate, on and off, through LSU.
“A cute woman with jet black hair, light eyes and a pale complexion.
“Sarah Easton. Thirty-three years old. Five-feet-three, 105 pounds. Born: Oneonta, New York. Occupation: venture capitalist.
“Her father owned a men’s clothing store while her mother was a housewife involved in civic affairs. In high school she excelled on the balance beam and floor exercises but ended her flirtation with gymnastics when she fell from the horse, breaking her left leg in four places, leaving her with a slight limp.
“Easton shifted her efforts to her studies. Went to Colombia to major in Business with a specialty in Finance. Got a national ranking playing bridge in her senior year then Graduated Magna cum Laude, 17th in her class. Took a year off and worked for Paul& McHenry. Decided she wanted more so took an MBA at Wharton. Got loads of offers from the big guys but seized a position with a small venture capital outfit, Shuttleworth Lee Capital Ventures Ltd. Her first year out of the box, she almost put together a half billion dollar deal for the start-up of LifeCare Sixty.”
“Almost?”
“Had a small nervous breakdown before the transaction closed. The boss had to finish it for her. She was hospitalized for three weeks.
“Five years later she was a senior VP at Shuttleworth but never had lightning strike again. During that time she was married for two years, no children, to one of the principals of LifeCare Sixty, a man 20 years older that dumped her for a still younger woman, an interior designer who worked on LifeCare’s home office, landing her in the hospital another two weeks.
“Then she had another catastrophe two years ago.”
“Ninety million down the drain, literally, when Deep Sea III went belly-up looking for the Spanish treasure ship Cervantes. They thought they were onto something when the money spigot went dry. Before she could put together reinforcements, another crew came in and took the claim. So far they’d pulled about nine hundred million out of the Caribbean including gold, silver and emeralds. That put her on ice for another month.
“Hell of a Standoff! player, though.”
An Asian man, graying around the temples, a weary, wise expression on his face.
“Ronnie Young Chang. Age: 55. 5’7”, 150 pounds. Born: San Francisco, California. Occupation: owner of an import-export business.”
He was the oldest son of Ronnie Young Chang who was the oldest son of Ronnie Young Chang who was the oldest son of Ronnie Young Chang, who came over from Korea with nothing but a dream. He started the Slingshot Trading Company that still carried the logo The entire operation was started by a refugee named Chang. Unremarkable childhood, unremarkable high school career. Went to Berkley for two years, majored in nothing. Married his childhood squeeze and went into the family business. Four children, all daughters. Had a vasectomy and had the oldest one change her name to Ronnie. No interests except the business, his family and exotic tropical fish.
“Lost a total of 19 contracts in the over five hundred rounds he played to reach the Final Four.”
***
“Think you can hold down the fort?” Spotswood asked as he stood and stretched. “I’m gonna pop up to Master Control to say hi to Geno.”
“Try to keep it short,” Scanlan replied, gesturing to the stadium. “Looks like the fortunate ticketholders are arriving.”
Spotswood stepped to the glass wall. They were pouring in from all 48 of the entrances. “Yup. I’d better keep it short.”
***
“Richie, they’re about to make their way into the game room, and folks, watch this entrance. As we mentioned earlier in the show, Prism, the sponsor of this event, has come up with a piece of technology which will provide the contestants a high measure of privacy while they engage in this extraordinary match that according to a note I received just a moment ago, is being watched by an incredible 2.9 billion people around the world. Can you imagine that, Richie?”
“Thank God we don’t have to pick up the bar tab, Phil.”
“What you see on your screen may seem like we’ve lost our picture, but what you’re really looking at is an electronic wall, an optical illusion created by Geno Polata, an engineer commissioned by Prism to design the playing room in which today, tomorrow and New Year’s Day afternoon, you are going to wi
tness one of them pick up a nice, neat, 50 million dollars.”
“Not to mention an additional 50 million to their favorite charity. How’d you like to pick up the tax bill on that, Phil?”
“Not me, Richie. I’ve got two kids in college. But this illusion you see, named The Wall of Sleep by its creator, will block out any visual distractions from the audience, the 800 lucky spectators in the seats surrounding the game room. The crowd will be able to watch them directly or on the screens mounted around playing arena and the players will still be able to hear the applause. Additionally, there’s another area behind it, a set of four rooms, also blocked by this Wall of Sleep, where the players will be able to retreat at the ten minute break they’ll get between the sixth and seventh contracts, areas which only the officials will be able to monitor.”
“Any minute now, Phil.”
“The remote controlled cameras we have in there will be able to cover the whole event with a minimum of distraction. We have 14 in the game room itself, in that inner sanctum, along with another six to cover the audience. But once they get to the table, they’ll be cut off from everyone else in the world, all two point nine billion of them, until this first round is completed. They each have the beverage of their choice and a chair and table and a pad and pencil in those private rooms, not a piece of metal anywhere. Not one.”
“Phil, I’m just happy they got that arrowhead thing straightened out. Don’t forget that.”
“Yes, and I suppose I spoke out of turn. There will be some metal in there, those three pieces of jewelry which really caused a commotion earlier.”
“I have to hand it to Boo Lascaux. What a terrific psychological coup. I would not want to sit down at a poker table with him.”
“Richie, I have to disagree with you. When I spoke to Lascaux earlier in the day, I didn’t get the impression that the arrowheads were a ploy. I think he was sincere, is sincere, about carrying with him something that belonged to his mother. Nobody criticized Astronaut Murawski for taking that, sneaking that music box aboard with her on the recent Moon mission. If she can do that with all those billions on the line, I think Boo Lascaux deserves his variation from the rules.”
Weekend at Prism Page 11