Dillon couldn’t help but wonder what Okoya meant by “we.”
PART IV - A PLUMMET OF ANGELS
17. Gamblers And Other Sharks
A black glass pyramid roasted in the desert sun.
From a clear sky, clouds began to fold out from a point in space directly above the pyramid. The many people wandering this end of the Las Vegas Strip took quick notice, wondering where the clouds had come from, and how they had grown so quickly. Then a single bolt of lightning exploded from the sky, striking the very peak of the pyramid, knocking out its electricity.
Inside Luxor’s casino, the brightly lit gambling tables were plunged into darkness, and although the backup generator should have come on, it didn’t. At the card tables, the dealers stopped their hands in mid-deal. At the roulette tables, the croupiers covered the house chips to make sure none were stolen during the blackout.
One particular croupier stood behind his roulette table in the darkness, yelling, “Nobody panic”—although he was more panicked than the gamblers surrounding him.
Then suddenly, the lights came back on . . . and standing directly before him, staring in his eyes, was a young man with red hair.
The kid was either underage to be in a casino, or a young eighteen, and around him stood four others. Like the redheaded kid, they were all dressed in shimmering gold silk shirts, and spotless white jeans—and had appeared out of nowhere while the casino was dark. They all wore the faintest hint of a smile, as they looked directly into the roulette croupier’s eyes, as if they knew something he didn’t. It was unnerving, and he had to look away.
In a moment, the gambling resumed.
“Place your bets!” the croupier called out. He pushed the wheel, giving it a faster spin, and took the small, white ball in his hand. Various gamblers around the table stacked their chips around the velvet betting board. The redheaded teen and his friends only watched, as he released the ball. The ball hugged the rim, fell toward the wheel, skipped a bit, and landed in a green pocket.
Double zero.
Moans were heard around the table. No one had bet it. Few people ever did. The croupier raked in the chips, clearing the board for the next wager.
Still the redheaded kid and his friends only watched, but now the croupier thought he felt a strange aura, like heat at the edge of a fire. And then, there was the breeze—not just the hotel air-conditioning, but a breeze that seemed to pull down cigarette smoke from the high atrium above, and send it swirling in an eddy around the table.
“Place your bets!” he said again. He was sure it was just his imagination.
Bets were placed randomly around the table. Square bets, street bets, columns and lines. The redheaded boy and his friends did not wager. The croupier released the ball, it spun around, then bounced in and out of numbers, and found its pocket.
Single zero.
Moans from around the table. No one had bet it. Few people ever did.
Now that strange aura began to pulsate, as it grew stronger—and it wasn’t just him. He could see some gamblers around the table, as well, beginning to loosen their collars. The croupier raked in the chips, and took a deep breath to try to chase away the strange feeling. “Place your bets!” he said.
And this time, the redheaded boy pulled a five-dollar chip from his pocket. He placed it on number one. When all bets had been placed, the croupier released the ball, it spun around the lip of the roulette wheel, and fell out of orbit, landing in number one. The kid had won.
The croupier raised his eyebrows. “You must be lucky. First time playing?’’
“Yes,” said the redheaded kid. The croupier gave him his winnings, and the boy said, “Let it all ride—this time on number two.”
The swirling breeze around the table was getting denser. The croupier could feel it on the hairs on his forearm. It was more than just that, though, for as he looked on his forearm, he could see the curly hairs there begin to grow thicker, denser, as if they were growing at an unnatural speed. And there was that bald man in the corner. Was it just his imagination, or was that man not quite as bald as he had been just a few minutes ago? What was all this about?
The croupier gave the ball a spin. It orbited four times, and dropped squarely into a pocket.
Number two.
Exclamations of surprise echoed around the table, but not from the boy and his friends. It seemed as though they were expecting to win. The croupier felt the pulsating feeling grow as he gave the boy his winnings, like a presence that was pushing on him, pressing on his heart and lungs, until he could feel his heart and breath match the steady rhythm of that strange pulse. . . . And yet, he realized, it wasn’t a bad feeling at all. It felt good in some odd way. He felt good, although he couldn’t say why. This time he returned the young man’s smile when the young man said, “Let it ride on number three.”
By now a small crowd had begun to gather around the table—the kind that always gathers around a winning streak. But more people than usual were gravitating toward this unusual sequence of events. The croupier let the ball go, it orbited four times, and dropped.
Number three.
The exclamations of surprise exploded from the onlookers. In less than five minutes, this boy had raised his pot from five, to five thousand dollars. The pit boss had taken notice, and the hidden camera above their heads had taken notice as well, for security was zeroing in on the table from across the casino floor.
“Let it ride on number four,” the boy said. Five of the other gamblers around the table moved their chips over next to his. The croupier was sweating now, breathing quickly, accepting the rhythm of the pulsating beat. His own excitement was souring, because he knew he wasn’t just witnessing this, whatever it was, he was a part of it. Before security could arrive, he spun the ball and the wheel. Watching intently until it fell . . .
. . . into pocket number four.
A cheer erupted around the table. The black kid turned to the redheaded boy and said, “Very good, Dillon. You could buy a house with that.” And the croupier laughed, because it felt so good to know his name. Dillon. Security guards pushed their way through the throng, getting between Dillon and the table.
“Sir,” said one of the four guards, “may we see some identification for you and your friends?”
“We don’t have any,” said the blonde girl.
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”
At that, their smiles only grew wider. Dillon looked the man over from head to toe. He sniffed the air around the man as if smelling his cologne, and then he reached up to an old scar that cut diagonally across the guard’s forehead. As soon as Dillon touched the scar, it began to bubble and fold, until it was gone.
“What the . . . ?” But before the guard could say anything further, Dillon caught him in his gaze.
“Vietnam?” asked Dillon.
The man nodded dumbly.
“Helicopter or plane?” asked Dillon.
“Helicopter.”
“I can hear the weight of their deaths in your voice,” Dillon said. And then he whispered, “But there was nothing you could do. From now on, you’ll stop blaming yourself.”
Then the man—who was the toughest guard in the hotel—released his breath with a gust, almost as strong as the swirling cigarette smoke, as if the world had gone from night to day. Then he smiled like a baby. Neither he nor the other guards made a move to eject Dillon and his friends. Instead, they joined the spectators.
“Tory,” Dillon said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “this place reeks of cigarette smoke. Could you clean it up?”
“My pleasure.” She raised her hand in an overtly dramatic gesture toward the swirling wind that now spun with cocktail napkins and cigarette butts, and in an instant the thick, smoky air was crystal-clear. Dillon turned back to the table, and when the croupier looked down, almost everyone had already placed their bets on number five. Dillon looked at his own immense pile of chips.
&
nbsp; “Let it ride on five,” he said simply.
“But . . . there’s a five-thousand limit to this table,” said the croupier, apologizing as best he could.
“That’s all right,” said Dillon. “Five thousand on five, then.” He spun the wheel and let the ball go. When the ball went down, he paid Dillon and everyone else their winnings, without even looking to see where the ball had landed.
***
The table was shut down less than five minutes later, and so Dillon and his four friends left, the swirling wind, suddenly blowing straight through the doors at the end of the casino, like a carpet of wind to carry them out. They marched out of the hotel with dozens of people following them diagonally across the street, toward the green towers of the MGM Grand, and straight for the blackjack tables.
***
Four hours later, with a parade of two hundred people behind them, they marched into the lobby of the Mirage. They had made their way down the strip, having broken the bank in half a dozen hotels. They had taken everything from the Bellagio’s craps tables. They had tapped out the slots at Bally’s. They had emptied the vaults of Caesar’s Palace, by way of baccarat.
And finally they pirated Treasure Island in a game called pai-gau, which none of them had ever heard of before.
Now, Dillon and his coconspirators stood in the hotel’s lobby, where a giant tank filled with sharks and Caribbean exotics graced the reception area.
Dillon tapped the glass of the giant shark tank three times with a gambling chip.
A few minutes later, as a strange vibration built in the walls around them, they met a representative of the March of Dimes. With the cameras of three local news stations in his face, Dillon held out an extremely heavy sack to the woman’s shaky hands.
“I would like to present the March of Dimes with a three-million-dollar donation, as a personal gift.”
“Who shall I say it’s from?” the woman asked timidly.
“You can say it’s from Dillon Cole,” he instructed. “Dillon Cole, and the surviving Shards of the Scorpion Star.”
And then he turned to the cameras. “Tomorrow,” he said, “there’s going to be a disaster. But don’t worry.” And he smiled. “I’ve got everything under control.”
The vibration in the walls then became a high- pitched whine that ended with the crash of glass as the shark tank shattered. Hotel staff dove over the reception desk to escape the falling glass, and when they looked again, the shark tank seemed entirely unharmed. Except for the fact that its glass face was lying in ruins on the floor.
All eyes turned to Dillon for an explanation for this marvel, but he and his friends had disappeared in the confusion.
In a hotel where white tigers disappeared daily onstage, smoke and mirrors and sleight of hand were nothing new. The manager was ready to laugh at this interesting trick . . . until a small nurse shark poked its nose out of the water-wall, tore the pen from his breast pocket, then swam off with it to the back of the tank.
18. Roll Up For The Mystery Tour
“If the idea was to draw attention to ourselves,” said Lourdes, pleased with the outcome of the day, “I think we did a good job.”
They were twenty miles out of Las Vegas; eleven buses with no posted destination driving southeast on Boulder Highway. The lead bus was a well-appointed coach—a traveling hotel suite, really, done up in oak and leather and filled with all the creature comforts that one could cram into a bus. It was reserved for the five shards.
“Shouldn’t we each have our own buses?” said Tory. “After all this is Las Vegas—it’s not like less is more.”
“If we could arrange for buses, why not planes?” suggested Michael. “Really jazz up the show!”
“When we need planes, we’ll get planes,” said Dillon. “Right now buses are more than enough.”
Tory swiveled in her leather chair. “Cleopatra did not ride around in a bus.”
“Oh,” said Winston with a smirk, “is that who you are now?”
“Don’t get snotty—I was only using her for comparison.”
“And besides, if anyone’s Cleopatra, it’s me,” said Lourdes.
“History says she was as ugly as sin,” said Winston. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Drop dead.”
Just past Boulder City, Dillon instructed the driver to pull off the road, into the desert. There the eleven buses formed a circle, like an old-fashioned wagon train, around a campsite that Okoya, who had gone on ahead, was already in the process of setting up. Dillon was the only Shard who felt the need to go out there. Truth was, the others were famished from their day at the casinos. More than famished—they felt vacant. It was a feeling that gave Tory the urge to rub her arms compulsively, as if trying to shed some invisible layer of grime. The hunger made Winston feel a sense of futility in all he did. It made Michael acutely aware of the absence of love in his heart, and for Lourdes, that hunger reawakened her hopeless longing for Michael. Surely a nice all-you-can-eat buffet could have been fit into their Las Vegas schedule—but the very thought sickened them, for their hunger was not for that sort of food.
Tory peered out of the window, where the busloads of followers poured forth, pitching tents, and setting up camp, in preparation for tomorrow’s main event. “What we do now is crucial,” Dillon had said. “We can’t afford to make mistakes.” Of course, no one but the Shards and Okoya knew what the event would be, and as for the Big Show itself, Dillon was in charge of that. They would all be handed their parts when the time came, but for now, they didn’t feel a burning need for dress rehearsals.
As the bus driver left, Okoya stepped in carrying a sack of goodies.
“While you were all working,” said Okoya, “I found some things I thought you might appreciate.”
As he reached into the bag, Tory snuck a peek. “Ooh! Is that a new skin lotion?” She asked, practically growing fangs at the thought. “I’d kill for a good lotion!”
“Would you?” Okoya said. He pulled out the container of lotion, but put it down, out of Tory’s reach. Tory leaned over to get it, but Okoya held her back. “Patience,” was all he said.
He reached into the bag again, and produced a cake, with a deceptive white creme frosting, that gave way to dark chocolate and a glistening cherry filling when he cut it. “For you, Lourdes.”
“Black Forest!” she exclaimed, holding her hands forward like an anxious Oliver Twist. “I love Black Forest.”
Okoya handed her the slice of cake, and she dug her hand into it, without waiting for a fork. Then he reached in and came up with a magazine. “They were selling some . . . uh . . . interesting magazines on the strip,” he said to Winston. “There are some pictures in here that are not to be believed. Have a look, Winston. You might learn something.” He gave Winston a wink and tossed him the magazine.
“Me next,” insisted Tory.
Okoya ignored her, and pulled out a new Walkman for Michael. “Top of the line, and I’ve tuned the radio to a fantastic station I’ve found here—you’re going to love it!”
He handed the device to Michael, and although Michael felt his own Pavlovian urge to slip into a comfortable beat, he didn’t put the headphones on just yet. Instead he watched. By now Tory was rubbing her hands in front of her like a fly as Okoya reached for the bottle of lotion. Okoya took his time, spilling a drop of the lotion onto his index finger. “It’s fragranced with the essence of ten different kinds of rose, and guaranteed to make you feel as fresh as the day you were born.” He held it toward Tory, but not close enough for her to smell it.
“You said you would kill for it,” said Okoya. “Did you mean what you said?”
She kept her eyes glued on the viscous pink liquid dripping down his finger. “Definitely.”
Then Okoya reached to a compartment in the bus’s kitchenette, peered inside, and retrieved a crystalline ice bucket. Inside was a silver ice pick. Instead of giving Tory a dollop of lotion, he gave her the ice pick.
Tory stood immobile with the pick in her hand, giggling at the thought.
“Go on,” prompted Okoya. “You want your lotion, don’t you?”
Tory looked at the sharp end of the ice pick, and found herself turning it toward Winston’s chest. Lourdes filled her mouth with cake and eyed Tory, but made no move to intervene. Winston spread his arms pushing his chest forward.
“C’mon,” he said with a grin. “Right here—right through the heart!”
Perhaps it was because Michael had not yet plugged into his music, or just that he had dredged up a moment of clarity, but whatever the reason, in the midst of everyone else’s laughter, Michael realized that Tory was pulling her hand back, like a gun hammer cocking itself. She was actually going to do it!
Michael dropped his Walkman and lurched forward as Tory began her downward arc. He firmly grasped her wrist, and the pick stopped an inch from Winston’s chest.
“Tory—what are you doing?!”
Tory turned to Michael as if he had done something wholly inappropriate.
“The lotion,” she said simply. “I want the lotion. For my skin.”
“You almost stabbed Winston!”
Unconcerned, Winston vanished behind his magazine. “Big deal,” he said. “Dillon would have brought me back.”
“That’s not the point!” Michael turned, hoping to find support from Lourdes, but she was digging her hands into the rest of the cake.
“It would have been interesting to see if he could actually die,” she said matter-of-factly. “For all we know, we’ve become immortal.”
“Immortal?” said Michael incredulously. “What about Deanna? She was one of us, and she died.”
“That was then,” said Lourdes; “this is now.”
“How could you be so flippant about it?” yelled Michael. “How could you be . . .” But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn’t just them. He wasn’t much different. How self-absorbed had he been lately? How malignant had his own arrogance become; the thrill of being worshiped, the self-satisfaction his own power now brought him?
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