by Rhine, Scott
Once I looked over all the data one more time, I powered the interface down for today. Removing my data garb, I said “Only one more thing left to do, Officer Anselm.
“Get ready for dancing downstairs. They’re having casino night, and I’m in the mood to celebrate.” They also gave all teams 500 dollars in chips to gamble with.
The victory hug I gave her turned into a slow victory kiss.
Before long, we were both panting hoarsely. It was still too early in our reunion for Mare to go all the way, but we definitely got reacquainted with one another’s bodies. Even the smell of her sweat was a turn on. When she finally got down to her underwear, she looked up at the clock and said, “Oh, dear, we’re late! I wouldn’t want you to miss your casino night.”
She locked herself in the bathroom to get ready while I whimpered, and tried to regain the ability to walk.
Chapter 14 – Formal Night
In honor of our night in Monte Carlo, all of the covering networks were doing special programs of some kind. The Entertainment Channel was doing a history on the Cannes Film Festival on the Riviera. MTV was doing a Bond theme song retrospective. NPR gave an Encyclopedia Britannica report on the tiny nation. Monte Carlo was two miles long, less than a mile wide, home to more than 30,000 souls and a world-famous Russian Ballet. While putting on the tie for a tuxedo, which I rented from the hotel, I was surprised to find out about the Treaty of Versailles. The treaty affirmed Monaco’s right to exist but gives the land to France should the King of Monaco ever fail to have a male heir. This was why the country had rejoiced when the union of Prince Rainier and Princess Grace produced Prince Albert.
ESPN, imminently focused on the sport, covered the two local races held annually; the Monaco Grand Prix and the Monte Carlo Rally. They did relax the rules a bit and allow for a guest appearance from some old math professor who explained the game of Roulette and assorted schemes that gamblers used to cheat at casinos in Monte Carlo.
The whole night was a surreal experience. I felt like Cinderella at the Ball. Everyone here was so rich and powerful, the glitz was almost blinding. They gave us SimCon name tags at the door with the DeClerk name in brass on a black background. I kept eyeing Mary in that sleeveless, black evening gown, and she sized me up in the tuxedo.
First, we tried our luck at the casino. The room was filled with noises of human extremes, from wailing to cheering, with a constant patter of lucky phrases in between. I lost twenty dollars at dice before I could blink and decided to move on. Mare turned out to be a natural at blackjack. She had our fortune up to almost seven hundred when I left to get her sloe gin fizz from the bar. A band was setting up on the parqueted wood floor in the next room.
While waiting in line, I caught a glimpse of a killer young blonde. Bending over a table to touch up her lipstick, she was wearing a backless, red dress tight enough to be a swim suit. She must have seen me in her compact mirror, because she caught me looking, turned around, and smiled. Embarrassed, I faced the bar and ordered early.
On my way back to the blackjack table, the blonde bumped into me, giving me as complete a view of her front side as I’d had of her back. “Interested?” she asked.
“Uh, in what?” I stalled, taking a swallow of Mare’s drink. She wanted it made with diet cola, so it tasted awful.
“I don’t like big parties,” she confided. “I’m much better with intimate ones.”
I could see every curve on her body, and my temperature had to be climbing. “I ... I already have a date for tonight.”
“She can come, too. I don’t mind,” the blonde purred.
I took another swallow. People wrote letters to magazines about encounters like this. “Miss... what did you say your name was?”
“I’m Bambi. Wanna be Thumper?”
I was starting to get stares from other men nearby. Actually, she was getting the stares. “Bambi, why me?”
She traced her well-polished nail up my shirt until she tapped my name tag. A shiver ran up my spine. Nails that long could be dangerous. “You are the Scarab, aren’t you?” She smiled, expectantly.
Say yes, my body screamed. Say anything.
Three days ago, I would have kicked myself for what I was about to do. “Gosh, I wish I were, miss. But I’m only the mechanic. The Scarab doesn’t like crowds either.”
She deflated visibly, her whole manner changing. I was no longer the quarry. “Is he in the company suite right now, in bed?”
“In bed, but in another room, which we’ve been sworn to keep secret. He doesn’t like people much.”
She leaned close enough for me to smell her skin over her perfume. “He’d like me. If you want to try first to make sure, I’d understand.”
I shook my head, partly for her, but mainly for me.
“Well, if you’re not into girls, you could earn an easy hundred by just giving me the room number.”
I emptied Mare’s drink, grasping for a convincing lie. “I could lose my job.”
She gave a throaty laugh. “Trust me. You’ll get promoted.”
This woman was unstoppable. I needed another drink
In my desperation I could only think of one way to get rid of her. I got a house phone from the bartender and called the Pensatronics suite. He grunted “What?” after four rings.
Just loudly enough for Bambi to hear, I said, “Boss, remember you were asking about try-outs for a new model for the ads? I’ve found the perfect girl for you. She’s eager to audition, but she’ll need proof that you’re really the Scarab. Give her one of your cards and I’m sure she’ll take the offer.”
The head of Pensatronics was practically drooling as he described what he was hoping for. “Whatever you say, boss. Just don’t forget to send us the numbers you promised for tomorrow’s run.” As soon as I hung up, I gave her the slug’s room number. I had to force myself not to watch her walk away.
Mare started losing after I left, and had just been waiting ever since. “Long line?” she said with a chill in her voice. Ouch, she was sharp.
I weighed my options from total denial to complete honesty. Since Mare would never go along with pandering and the sick deal I just made with Pensatronics, I compromised with “a very persistent young lady wanted to visit my room.”
“I didn’t think the bartender wore Jungle Passion.” If Mary admitted to having that much evidence, she had much more that she was withholding. She probably even watched the whole thing. “What did you tell her?”
“No. Firmly and repeatedly.”
“You know she was a professional? I heard in the powder room that someone’s paying bounty of $1000 a head to anyone who can keep a player up all night. It’s the sort of trick politicians use before a debate.” Seeing the surprise on my face, she said, “Why did you say no?”
I heard the sound of a brass section playing “In the Mood” and had my answer. “Because I had other plans for the evening—I wanted to take my best friend dancing.”
The fairy tale started again in the ballroom. We danced for nearly an hour before I got hungry. After one more slow dance, she started acting kind of funny. She got really calm, and when we went to the buffet, Mary stayed at our table and wouldn’t take a thing to eat.
“This all looks tremendous. I’ve never seen so many types of cheesecake, babe. And look at these chocolate-dipped strawberries! I’d even have some champagne if I weren’t afraid of the hangover from mixing. You’ve got to have some of this chocolate!” I said.
“No, I want to be able to fit into my grandmother’s dress,” she said, almost to herself.
I didn’t catch the clue bus at first and piled up my plate with seconds. Just then, somebody grabbed me roughly by the shoulder. Bambi’s pimp or Exotech’s goons, I worried. Fortunately, it was just a really pissed-off techie with a North Ameri-Car name tag. “So you’re the wise-ass who rigged the power line test. The amperage doubled after you messed with it and the thing fried every disk we had attached to our interface. We lost over fifty weeks wor
th of research today because of your joke, Mister, and somebody’s going to pay!”
I was too distracted at the time to wonder how he had managed an equipment malfunction after he was dead, but I had heard rumors about other brand new disk drives in the building failing spontaneously due to what the industry call “infant mortality.” If he hadn’t bothered to make back ups, that was just too sad. I squinted at the stick-on name tag beneath the North Ameri-Car logo while he took his first breath. Balding, but still in fair shape, Frank looked like he might knock out my teeth, but it would aggravate his ulcers to no end—a definite type A personality. “I’m sorry, Frank, I’m busy right now. If you’re looking for donations to keep the old dinosaur you call a company afloat, you can froth at me tomorrow, and I’ll be more than happy to listen.”
He hauled back a fist, telegraphing like Western Union. I took the stainless-steel tray of canapés I was holding, and thrust it against the expected blow. He hit hard enough to break the handles off the tray, and a number of his fingers. It could have been worse, it could have been my face. My Dad only taught me one thing about fighting, never do it when you’re angry.
There were cheese and cracker treats everywhere, and he was cradling his arm, swearing a blue streak. I flicked an olive off his lapels, and escorted him over against the swan ice-sculpture to cool his hand. I told him to stay there, out of trouble, till I could get him first aid.
As a parting shot, now that I had his attention, I whispered in his ear, “The power line was fine when I left it. I’d help you, but I had paint over my windshield at the time and couldn’t see. Tell the judges to check my log if you don’t believe me.”
I sent a writer from Car and Driver, a woman of oriental extraction, over to tell Mary to meet me back at the room. She was at the Baccarat table, learning the rules. I’d probably have to give Ms. Lee an interview before the week was up, but at least she knew her topic. Ms. Lee was a stringer hired for this event mainly for her programming experience.
Several people chuckled and shook my hand on my way out. A clique of executives from the top three car makers circled their wagons around me. The ties bugged me, and I refused to be chummy.
“Don’t worry. He’s only sore because he never even got out of Paris,” said one who looked like a model 50’s TV father.
“A thousand dollars says the last car they have in the race bites it tomorrow,” said one who looked like a banker.
“Just because they have a technician who can’t type?”
“Hell, he only needs one finger for that!”
“He’s right to worry about the budget when his company’s helicopter division is closing,” the TV father confided.
“Yup. I hear TSM is cutting out their military division, too,” whispered the banker. “Not even going to build this year’s designs. Trying to cut their losses on that Senate Oversight fiasco.”
I felt a little guilty, so I tried to steer the conversation away. “They should be in good company. Exotech’s already in the hot seat.”
“Ahh, the new wunderkind! Maybe you can settle an argument for us,” said another whose perfect hair reminded me of a politician. “Who do you think was the greatest fictional racer of all time. I say Steve McQueen, he says James Garner in Gran Prix. This Neanderthal here says Frankenstein from Deathrace 2000.”
“Racer X,” I replied. That started another debate on Japanese animation, a topic which I knew more about than all of them combined. Still, I feigned ignorance, pasted a fake smile on my face, and made my way out. I stayed away from numerous side-bets and big offers that sounded too much like what you’d hear in Hollywood.
Upon reaching the sanctuary of the front desk, I drank in the relative quiet while the desk clerk, who looked like a movie butler, talked on the phone. I was coming down off the adrenaline and scared that the next attacker might be a professional.
Behind the counter, a facsimile machine was cranking away.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing with my chin.
“Oh, just the latest from the Tokyo exchange. Some of our guests like to keep tabs.” He said it kind of snotty, like a man who never had a facial hair in his life and thought grease under the nails was uncouth.
“Hmm. I think my company went on the exchange today, could you check it out for me?”
“You mean the one you work for?” He said, sneering.
“No, the one I own.” I pulled a business card out of my ratty, old, disintegrating wallet, and handed it to him. With dawning fear, the clerk took the card and traced down DeClerk in the listing.
“It went up eighteen points,” he said in reverence.
“Is that good?” I asked, playing the bumpkin, and holding back the smile. He nodded, dumbly. “Good. Then, I’ll celebrate. Send a nurse and bottle of your good Scotch to Frank by the ice sculpture with my compliments.” I took the double-digit chip out of my pocket, and slapped it on the counter. “I’ll be retiring for the evening if anyone asks.”
I headed for the elevator, with a three-mile grin on my face. I couldn’t wait to tell Mary. On the way up, the nagging clue caught up to me—her Grandmother’s dress, wedding dress! I felt a warm explosion inside as the implications hit me. With any other woman, at any other time, that thought would have sent me into a screaming panic. But now, the prospect settled around me like a comfortable old chair. Lord knows we’d been dating for long enough, and now that I no longer had the debt looming over me, it could work. Yes. It felt right.
I plotted how I could get a decent ring and take her out tomorrow night. I’d get a loan from Nigel, and do it up right, violins and everything. I practically floated off the elevator.
All in all, it had been a good second race day.
Chapter 15 – Pandora’s Box
Saturday. Poems are full of praise of the majesty and splendor of the night, and quaint, friendly phrases like “the wee hours of the morning.” Poets are rarely forced to stagger blindly out of their bedrooms after less than three hours sleep. At least when they are forced to do so, they can think of something more eloquent to say than, “Go away! I’m trying to sleep.”
The microwave clock read 4:00 AM. Something was ringing. Not the door. Not a fire. A phone. I had unplugged the one in my bedroom, but neglected to turn off my private cell phone. Moonlight came in through the balcony window, and I grabbed a pillow to hold in front of me as I walked across the exposed patch.
I avoided the arm of the sofa, but whacked my shin on the glass coffee table. The sharp explosion of pain woke me up faster than a bucket ice water. Within minutes, I was going to have a spectacular purple bruise on my leg, with a yellow and red starburst.
I wanted to shout, but held it down through clenched teeth so I wouldn’t wake up Mare. “Ouch... who is it? I mean, hello.” I held back on the profanity in case it was important.
“Hayes, my good friend,” said a drunk with a familiar Dutch accent. “I am calling from the lobby.” I heard giggles in the background. “You are a man after my own heart.”
Oh great, the man I think is the lowest slime at the convention thinks of me as an equal now. Just what I needed. “She passed the interview?”
He chuckled. “I will give you what you asked. Do you ever play Adventure Live?” He was referring to a remake of one of the original interactive text games as a virtual reality sim. A lot of Hollywood talent had contributed out of fond memories of the game.
“Who hasn’t?”
“Remember the lowest level, how you get the big treasure through the narrow tunnel?”
The gemstone was the size of a plover’s egg, an allusion to the Encyclopedia Britannica definition for testicle. You could only teleport to the other side with one of the magic words.
“Yes.”
There was a click on the other side. Evidently, he felt that he had fulfilled his end of the bargain.
As long as I was awake, I had to find out what was inside the vault. I logged on for system maintenance, using time gleaned from other play
ers to pay. I put the evidence cartridge into my removable drive to record the session, and went straight to inventory.
I dialed the word PLOVER on the safe, and nothing happened. I tried several variations, still with no luck. Eventually, I typed “XYZZY”, and I had a new item in my inventory—ELECTRONIC WARFARE DEVICE, category seven. It appeared to tie into the vehicle communications system through a Universal Connector (YUKON as we usually referred to them) and had a touch screen interface. I couldn’t look at the internals, but the power requirements were significant. The patent, of course, was held by Pensatronics.
The moonlight and my lack of sleep lent an air of unreality to the moment. I plugged the device in, just to try it out. I heard the whine of the drives and most of my systems powering up as the device integrated itself. Suddenly, all my panels went dark, except for a faint silver pentagram in the forward virtual view screen.
At first, I thought it was some sociopathic prank. Then, I remembered the power requirements. I amplified my Virtual Reality pick-ups and started raising the energy feed. I had to pump in repair time at five times the normal rate in order to see any change in the display. At six times the normal rate, the view zoomed through the pentagram, focusing on flaming letters in the distance. When the company name exploded around me, I was lowered into a pit of fire.
“This side show better be worth what I’m paying.”
An enormously muscled Djinn dressed only in a loincloth appeared on the screen in holographic glory amid the smoldering piles of brimstone. It spoke in low, rumbling German phrases. I made out a word that sounded like Master. Not wanting to waste a moment longer, I swept my hand over the language control for universal icons.
“Three wishes, I’ll bet.”