Weekend at Prism

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  “Any thoughts on why he’d do it in the first place?” Walbee asked.

  “Only one.” He paused. “He enjoys controlling things, events, people.”He paused again. “Winning.”

  And winning in this case could come with a substantial monetary payoff. Though none of his sources could confirm specific wagers nor on which player money had been bet, massive amounts of cash were pouring out of the coffers of St. Honore Industries, S.A. and being spent or about to be on something that had yet to be detected. Despite the fact that three of the four matches had already been completed, bookmakers across the planet were adjusting the new odds and would continue accepting gambles until the final round began.

  Potcheck stood and began to pace. “Early on, you told us that the most logical way a scheme such as this could be accomplished would be via one of the players being in on it. This new information you’ve gathered… do you believe that’s still the case?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “Continue,” Walbee said.

  St. Honore had always insisted that the precautions instituted to prevent even the remotest likelihood of signals being provided to a player regarding the status of the other’s hands at any given time during the Tournament made the Final Four doubtful confederates in any cheating.

  “Trouble is,” Bernardini said, “is that he dwelt on that aspect religiously and with much too much insistence. Which is why I elected to devote my time to discerning how one of them could do just that.”

  After consulting with various experts in fields ranging from magic and illusion to subliminal transfers to complexity theorists to well-known cheats and conmen, he’d initially ventured that knowledge of the tiles of other players was key to a successful scam. However, that knowledge would necessarily consist of quickly changing blocks of information that in the heat of play might be difficult to process much less be properly acted upon. So instead, Bernardini shifted his thinking in the direction of the transmission of bids.

  “Why?” Walbee asked.

  Bernardini leaned to the coffee table and tapped it three times, paused, then tapped again once, and after another hesitation tapped once again. “That’s why.”

  Walbee nodded slowly. “A code?”

  “And a very economical one.”

  Walbee counted on his fingers, then his eyes sparked with recognition.”Eleven green?”

  “Eleven green.”

  “Shit. That’s… almost too simple to be believed.”

  “La semplicità è l’ultima sofisticazione.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication,” he grinned. “At least according to Leonardo da Vinci.”

  Potcheck returned to his chair then leaned to tap the sequence himself. “Those five taps could… would contain some extremely valuable information.” He thought a moment. “But it would have to be delivered and… Charles, we’ve got Geno Polata who designed the Tournament Room acoustics and we’ve brought in, unknown to Claude mind you, a couple of outside consultants to examine all of the technicalities involved, and are satisfied that the enclosure is airtight.”

  “Your point being?”

  “There is no way any signals of whatever could enter that room from outside of it, and even if they could they’d be detected. And besides, you’ve seen the hell we put the Four through with the elimination of any metals of any kind.”

  Bernardini grunted. “If I recall, they managed to carry in quite a bit of hardware for the first round.”

  “We made a one-time exception. We weren’t about to screw up that first match because of Lascaux’s childish demands.”

  “Ah.”

  “It was an error in judgment,” Walbee put in. “It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

  Bernardini relaxed into his chair, seemed about to speak but said nothing. Walbee went across and sat before him on the coffee table. “We’ve all made mistakes, eh?”

  Bernardini gave no response.

  “Charles?” Potcheck asked.

  “Is it possible Mr. Polata might know things that your consultants might not?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m asking. Is it possible?”

  “He can be trusted.”

  “Like you trusted St. Honore?”

  Potcheck’s face went blank, then he shrugged.

  “Let’s assume for discussion purposes… ” Walbee began, then hesitated. “Well if Geno’s involved in something, we’re pretty much fucked.”

  “I’m not saying he is,” Bernardini responded. “Do you agree with Franklin?”

  A slight grin came to Potcheck’s lips. “Let me recount a small incident.”

  Before St. Honore signed on, he’d made it clear that he wanted to bring in persons or firms of his choosing to supervise most of the primary functions having to do with both the resort and the WST events, a request Potcheck agreed to with few reservations, one of them being that Polata had already been retained and was deep into realizing many of the owner’s pipe dreams. St. Honore accepted this exception, along with David Reynolds heading up Security, Maureen Spivack overseeing Culinary Operations and Gerri Sherman as Director of Guest Services; accepted with the proviso that if he had good cause to replace one or more of them he’d be allowed to do so.

  Everything was going smoothly until one of the weekly Directors’ meetings chaired by St. Honore when the man began questioning Polata about the Oasis Theater’s sound system. Polata parried all of his complaints with detailed explanations, some of which obviously surpassed St. Honore’s knowledge. Rather than acknowledging Polata’s expertise, the Frenchman tried to deflect attention from his misunderstanding of the physics involved with synching the performances and the Ultratron by introducing some details concerning a few brushes with the law Polata had had in his youth, though didn’t get the rise out of his target that he was apparently expecting. Instead, all he received were a few grumbles from some of those seated around the conference table.

  “I was only there as an observer,” Potcheck added. “But it was evident Geno had gotten Claude’s number.”

  After a few more exchanges, St. Honore tossed a file over his shoulder and stood. “Franklin,” he stated, “I expect cooperation from all of those under my control and in this case I am not being, how do you say… afforded it? And unless you do something immediately to correct this situation, I fear your position will be untenable.”

  Potcheck replied that as he was the owner and proprietor of Prism, nothing about his position was anything but tenable and that he’d be happy to discuss the issue in private after the meeting was adjourned, but that Polata’s position was as secure as the ice on a Wisconsin pond in the dead of winter.

  “You valued Polata enough to refuse Claude’s demand?”

  “Geno came very highly recommended,” Walbee said.

  “Might I ask by whom?”

  “Andy Polanski.”

  “The singer?”

  Walbee nodded then grew serious. “Andy brings much more to the table than his musical abilities.” He paused. “He’s become one of our… well, I won’t speak for Franklin… ”

  “This wouldn’t be the first time you have, Ben,” Potcheck grinned, and they all laughed.

  Walbee shrugged as if it was self-evident. “Andy has become one of our most trusted advisors on a number of issues. His counsel has been invaluable and I expect it shall continue to be as we proceed with other projects, other pursuits.”

  Bernardini thought a beat. “So regarding our current situation, you trust Mr. Polata based on Mr. Polanski’s thoughts?”

  Walbee shook his head. “There’s more to it.”

  After the other Directors were excused, Potcheck took the head chair at the other end of the table then motioned for St. Honore and Polata to join him. Once they were seated he bluntly queried if St. Honore would quit if Polata was not relieved of his assignments. St. Honore stated that was precisely his ultimatum so Potcheck gestured for him to take his
leave. The man huffed to the door, opened it, hesitated then looked back. “I suppose I can live with this single exception,” he growled, then left.

  “So I asked Geno if he was satisfied with the outcome,” Potcheck said. “He stated he was appreciative of my support and confidence in him then added something in Italian that he later explained meant he’d be happy to bore old Claude a new set of specs.”

  “Then I’d say he’s a man we can all trust.”

  They sat a moment not speaking, watching the muted television screen displaying the concert, then Walbee asked, “Assuming that Claude or an operative has a method to transmit information to a player… ”

  “Or players,” Bernardini interrupted.

  “Or players? As in more than one?”

  “Poker hustlers do it all the time. Teamwork can often accomplish much more than a lone shill can, especially if the mark’s cards are unknown or speculative.” He paused. “One can work on winning the pot while the other works on building the pot.”

  “Shit,” Potcheck groaned.

  “But how do you think it’s done?” Walbee asked.

  “Currently, all I can offer are theories. Having said that, those theories are based on hard intelligence, a few reasonable assumptions, a few seemingly logical speculations and the suspension of disbelief.”

  “Continue.”

  “Please,” Potcheck agreed.

  “Based on my own research along with that of your consultants, it seems very unlikely that any form of ordinary electromagnetic radiation would be capable of penetrating the Tournament Room without being detected, along with the facts that they wouldn’t be difficult to detect and hence disrupt. However, ELFs, or extremely low frequency radio waves, are horses of a different color.”

  Weighing in at between three and eighty Hertz, the waves were inaudible in the general sense of the term but could be detected by a small portion of test subjects who generally reported them as causing a tingling sensation. Attempts to incorporate them into useful products had resulted in very limited success due to the massive amount of power needed to generate them and the vast size of antennas needed to receive them. However, rudimentary technologies could make the waves audible by capturing them then playing them back at much higher speeds.

  “I don’t understand,” Potcheck said.

  “You’re a big fan of popular music, Franklin. Musicians often use variations of that process to achieve unique sounds during recording, yes?”

  The man grinned and nodded. “Now I get it.”

  “Do you have an example in mind?” Walbee asked.

  “Many. But one of my favorites is the lead guitar break that I once thought George Harrison performed for A Hard Day’s Night.”

  “Ah, that is a striking bit of musicianship. How do you mean once?”

  “Their producer, Sir George Martin… talk about having the right man for the job… had Harrison record the individual notes slowly, then doubled their speed and added it to song.” He chuckled. “I mean, that’s some pretty frigging serious picking if you think about it.”

  The other two men laughed.

  “Now as far as power goes, the feed coming in to the property to blast all of those coins into the air… and allow me to compliment you on that unique piece of showmanship, Ben.”

  “Thanks. We’re very happy the damn thing actually works. The possibility of shorting out the entire metro area to make a point was an eventuality that we didn’t want to think about.”

  Now they all laughed.

  “So,” Bernardini continued, “tap into that source and you’ve got more than enough juice to send ELFs just about anywhere.” He paused. “But then we come to the antenna issue, which led me to the possibilities of cusisicu.”

  The synthetic amalgam had been fabricated a few years earlier in an attempt to create a material useful in facial enhancements or reconstructions but the costs of manufacture proved prohibitive as far as commercial applications went. Saddled with just over six ounces of the final product that had exhausted $130 million worth of R and D, the wildcat scientist who’d concocted the substance began searching for ways to recover some of the funding. Quite by accident, while investigating the long shot of incorporating it into nanotech transistors, he discovered that while it was useless for that purpose it performed exceptionally well as an ELF receptor in addition to standard transmissions.

  “As there was but a single primary source for cusisicu, I had someone in Brazil pay the man a visit. He was reluctant at first to discuss to whom and in what amounts he may have placed his concoction with, but once Bianca placed a pair of stacks of hundred dollar bills on the table and assured confidentiality, we were able to secure something of interest.” He paused. “An ounce and a half was purchased by a pharmaceutical materials supplier in Marseilles, France. For a fee of five hundred Euros, an employee of the firm provided us with the address to which the material was delivered, a location I was familiar with.”

  “Dear Lord,” Potcheck whispered.

  “Indeed. Chateau du Changeant.” Bernardini shrugged. “But here the trail went cold. At least until today.”

  Walbee stood and stretched. “ELFs. Cusisicu. St. Honore. What happened today?”

  Bernardini reached into the pocket of his suit coat, withdrew a folded piece of paper titled Procedures List, flapped it open then passed it across to Walbee. “The activities conducted at Chateau, for understandable reasons, are not readily available. We’d been trying forever to compromise somebody on the inside to discover if any of the cusisicu was employed in any procedures and if so, the identities of the recipients. We finally arranged an exchange for a gratuity of twenty-five.”

  It read:

  R,Pcsscoicd’i

  K,Ncsscid’imc

  S,Ccsscoicd’i

  E,Scsscid’imc

  B,Bcsscoicd’i

  K,Ncsscoicd’i

  K,Ncsscoicd’ix

  E,Scsscoicd’i

  Walbee looked puzzled. “I’m not sure what any of this means but I ’spose it’s worth twenty-five Euros.”

  “Twenty-five thousand Euros,” Bernardini elaborated. “Plus another five for some additional clarifications.”

  Walbee looked to him with a resigned grin. “As I said.”Then he set the document on the coffee table. “Continue.”

  Bernardini lifted the list and studied it a moment. “Initials of individuals who may… and I stress may… have been recipients of cusisicu implants and the placement locations.” He paused. “Only a pair of those initials were of interest.”

  Walbee leaned down for another look. “Last names first?”

  Bernardini nodded. “We already knew Kerensky was a visitor, but not Easton.”

  “You’re certain she’s E-S?”

  “5,000 Euros certain.”

  “What do these letters in the third column mean?”

  “That information was beyond our source’s knowledge. However, after running them by a few physicians fluent in French, speculation is… assuming they did undergo a surgical procedure… that they reference either something being placed in or near the ear or in a muscle.”

  Potcheck reached across to take the document then thoughtfully ran his finger up and down each of the columns. “Nick appears three times but Sarah only once and he has all different notations. Your thoughts?”

  “Nothing solid. Could, and again I must stress all of this is hypothetical, could mean he had three implants that would serve a function only known to those plotting the desired outcome, or one was augmented or replaced for some tactical reason or… I simply don’t know.” He paused. “And there’s two other items.”

  “Please.”

  “I still need to review Kerensky’s play in the first three rounds, but I think I’ve run across something a little odd in Easton’s… a mannerism that might be connected to her possibly receiving information.”

  “What?”

  “Just prior to making a pair of risky bids, she’s cocked her head in the e
xact same way. As if trying to listen to something.”

  “That’s it?” Walbee asked. “There could be other explanations for that. Maybe it’s a nervous twitch. Maybe she’s reconsidering. Maybe it’s a coincidence.”

  Bernardini made a noise. “True, true. Or even something else.” He smiled. “But I don’t believe in coincidence.” Then he reached into his jacket pocket, removed the Ziploc and held it up for them to see. “This is a strand of cusisicu. If embedded in a human body? Undetectable.”

  Potcheck and Walbee looked to each other, Potcheck nodding slightly. “So what do you recommend at this juncture, Charles?”

  “Continuing my investigation tomorrow,” he sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Is there anything we can do to assist?”

  He thought a moment. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Polata.”

  “About what?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I’m sure we could arrange that.” Potcheck looked to Walbee who glanced at his watch.

  “We need to get downstairs, Franklin,” he said, then added to Bernardini, “Are you coming to the post party? Wisconsin Bar?”

  “If you’d recommend.”

  Walbee checked his watch again. “Geno’ll be there, as might Claude who’ll be watching everything that’s going on.” He hesitated. “But we should be able to figure out a way to make the introduction without raising suspicions. If not, would sometime tomorrow work for you?”

  “If it’s early it would. Time is at a premium.”

  “See you at the party, then.”

  ***

  “Welcome back to Fox and the Oasis Theater here at the Prism Resort and Casino in Las Vegas Nevada, home of the $1,000,000 World Standoff! Tournament… along with a small concert that’s about to proceed to its third segment. I’m Connie Scanlan.”

  “And I’m Jip Spotswood.”