The Resurrection Pact (Winston Casey Chronicles Book 1)

by Jay Smith

  She looked at me a long time trying to figure out how to play me. The bad Julie Newmar impression melted into a practiced poker face with just a small tell of frustration in her eyes. She was an actor trained for the big stage, not a quiet conversation across a table. I'd spent so much time paying attention to her that I forgot about whatever she'd been looking for over my shoulder. When she looked up, it was because a shadow fell over our booth.

  It was a big shadow from a big man. I had never seen a man of that size outside of television or a circus. If Andy Capp pounded protein shakes and injected anabolic steroids into his testicles, the result might have been the Hulk-like thug in a painter's cap standing beside us. He wore a checkered wool vest over a stained white t-shirt, black jeans and boots designed for curb-stomping. I didn't look at his face right away because he planted two fat oak saplings on the table that turned out to be hairy fists and arms.

  I followed those arms up to the face. It was hidden under the painter's cap but what I saw appeared to be scar tissue or a mask made of human skin. Red hair couldn't hide an ear that looked like used chewing gum.

  "Well, now. You’re not Betsy," I said the meat wall. It didn’t reply.

  Carla did. "Like I said, Winston: it’s real important I get back the black chip from the deposit box. Something like this can cloud your mind and make you greedy. Don’t make that mistake."

  "I know it’s cliché, but…"

  "Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. You and Parker were best buds. He was talking to you up to the day he died." And after, I wanted to add. "You’re here in my town in the one place that has my chip."

  How we went from fake reunion kissy-face to a visit from the Goon Squad kept my head spinning and my feeling that this was all just a gag prevented me from taking Carla – or the walking land mass – seriously.

  I sat back and sighed. "This is getting ridiculous. If you wanted to muscle something out of me, Carla, you didn’t need Beefsteak Charlie here. You’re in better shape, you can run fast and I’m guessing you can crush my hips with your thighs, so…"

  "I don’t like hurting people. He doesn’t mind."

  I let that hang over the table a moment. Carla was an actor, but either she sold the hell out of that line or she wasn't kidding. I didn't get the impression the Leaning Tower of Beef next to me was a student of the Stanislavski Method himself.

  "Jesus, Carla. What the hell happened to you?"

  She gritted her teeth to hold back the demons when she answered, "I'll tell you what happened, Winston. Grant Parker happened to me."

  "What does that mean, Carla?"

  The voice said, "good afternoon. How's everybody doing?"

  Carla quickly redressed her face in a warm smile. The meat wall turned toward the voice like it might be holding food and took a few steps back in surprised disappointment. I turned to see the brown and tan uniform of a Las Vegas Metro police officer, radio mic perched on his wide shoulder. While smaller than Meat Wall, the officer was rather impressive in stature. He was also quite charismatic offering each of us a warm smile and held our eyes for a moment. Carla looked behind the officer and I expect she saw a partner by the door of the tavern.

  "I'm Officer Brask. State law prohibits smoking in public areas and restaurants, so I'll need you to extinguish your cigarette, please."

  Carla didn't exactly sneer, but she dropped her lit cigarette into her glass where is hissed like a trapped snake.

  "Thank you. You all from out of town?"

  I perked up. "I am."

  "Having a good time?"

  "So far, yeah. I just happened to run into an old friend here...Carla Baron. She's local. I just met this gentleman. Didn't get his name, but I'm sure he and Carla know each other."

  Carla tensed up as I offered her name to the officer. He didn't seem to really care, but he was polite enough to nod at her with the introduction and write the name down in his pad.

  "You're not going to ticket me are you, officer?" She tried to smolder, but her pretty wasn't a match to his roaring fireplace of handsome.

  "I could, but a word to the wise and all that."

  Carla's pal decided to wander off like his meter needed feeding. He said nothing as he tried to be inconspicuous, a cartoon bull tip-toeing out like a mouse. Officer Brask's partner put a hand out and waved him off to one side where we couldn't hear or see them.

  "Truth told," Brask continued. "Murray over there doesn't like confrontation. He'd rather call us than handle things himself."

  Thrilled to see the officer, I chuckled and replied, "An Irishman in his own pub doesn't like confrontation? Vegas truly is a realm of oddity."

  Brask tried to hold Carla's attention. "Is, uh, that man over there really a friend of yours?"

  "We, um, just work together at The Crow's Nest."

  Brask nodded. "Right. Been there. Every time on business, you understand. You, Mr. Casey...what's your business? If you don't mind me asking."

  I didn't. During my explanation, four other officers arrived, all of them patrons of the Big and Tall police uniform store and prepared for something messy to go down. Metro Police were carefully dealing with Carla's friend like he was a diseased black bear. Carla seemed a little concerned by this.

  "Don't mind us. The gentleman has a few outstanding warrants. You know you never know what you'll find on these little nuisance calls."

  Fun company Carla kept. With Killer Meat heading out to whatever steel Kong cage they had waiting, Carla looked slightly disappointed that lunch wasn't going so well. I sat in the booth with my water, still hungry and unsure how much of all this was part of Parker's elaborate role-play. I decided to keep playing.

  Brask closed his notebook. "Well that's sure a coincidence you two running into each other, huh?"

  I nodded.

  He smiled. "Well, that's what Vegas is about. If people didn't beat the big odds from time to time, this would all still be desert, right?" He gave each of us the look that said 'I know your names and faces so play nice.' "Well, have fun while you're here. Welcome to Vegas, Mr. Casey. Ms. Baron."

  Officer Brask left the pub, leaving me with a very pale Carla. On instinct, she snatched up a cigarette and then slapped it back to the tabletop when she saw Murray straighten up behind the bar.

  She sat in the booth, shaking.

  "You want to explain," I asked.

  She only sat there, staring at a television running a flashy game show.

  When I moved to leave a few quiet minutes later I expected her to protest, but she continued to ignore me as I walked back out into the dry desert afternoon.

  ~

  Inside the car and with the temperature down to a tolerable level, I kicked myself for not bringing Parker's laptop back from Ebetha. It nagged me ever since I left but there was a part of me that thought TSA might tag it as stolen military property and I might be spending these days in a prison cell instead of traumatizing childhood friends and wandering lost in a Sin City.

  It would also help me research things like The Peppermint Resort and Casino. The Peppermint sounded like a family-fun resort like Excalibur. My GPS told me it was near the center of town, just a block away from the strip like the first ring of hotels at the beach too far from the surf to charge prime rates.

  Parking was easy to find but getting through the herd of tourists took some time. The parade of tanned and reddened flesh made me feel like an Albino by comparison. I parked and prepared myself for another blast from Satan's asshole.

  I stopped outside near a hotel just as a full-scale naval battle broke out in the fountain area. A crowd blocked most of the action, but the cannon roar and thrill of the crowd electrified the hot, dry air. In Vegas, you couldn't turn your head without spotting something shiny and exciting.

  Fifty feet of Penn and Teller loomed over the street ready to defend it against a rabid-looking Celine Dion only three blocks away and pounding her chest on the video billboard like a gorilla ready to piss all over its te
rritory. Street magicians (or very clever thieves) asked me for a "Lincoln" to see an amazing trick but got spooked when someone up the street barked after them to stop and give him back his money. Beautiful women in bikinis smiled at me and everyone else as they wore corporate logos painted across their naked bellies.

  Of course, I am a geek, so amidst all the electric and neon stimulation it was a newsstand with a cafe nearby that caught my attention. Inside, the third book in the Aeternus series sat between a few Stephen King and George R R Martin novels. I picked it up having finished the second, 725-page story on the plane out.

  The third book was a sequel to the first two with many of the surviving characters much older raising soldiers and princes of their own. A war loomed between the two major powers because it always does. I was curious because a theme through the second book was constant reference to a legendary figure prophesized to bring peace and order to the world. This thread seemed like an afterthought woven into every plotline no matter how disconnected. The orphaned girl found the strength to become a warrior which quickly turned to an oath of service to the coming Lord of Lords. Armies of the Reptillus Empire fell before the mighty Barbarian horde and the Savage King declared preparations for a new war with the Magic Lord of the east. The warring kingdoms prepared to spread blood across the continent for the honor of being the only realm standing upon the arrival of "he who will bring our world to the next great age."

  Between the riffs on Dragonlance and the New Testament, I enjoyed the hypnotic, fluid prose enough to keep reading and kill another two hours in a café on Freemont Street before I took another walk in the heat.

  A few blocks up from the heavy crowd of tourists pushing and posturing to see the latest weird thing stood Peppermint Resort & Casino - one of the oldest resorts in town and one struggling against the high-tech, dazzling world of twenty-first century Vegas. The hotel behind the façade rose twenty stories and blended into the eccentric theme park of the Vegas skyline. On the ground, the faded red paint and steady rotation light pattern on the marquee put the Peppermint in the same league as a roadside attraction or historical landmark.

  I wasted the day trying to pretend I wasn't scared to go in and ask about the chip. On top of that I couldn't shake the sensation of being watched. In a town with surveillance cameras everywhere that shouldn't be a surprise, but it was more than that. Park's voice in my head nagged me. "You're waiting. Don't wait. Do something."

  I couldn't. I chickened out.

  …chickened out and went back to my hotel for a shit and a jerk in front of the DIY Network, defeated.

  Chapter Seven

  A casino, when run properly, operates with flash and ferocity. Everything from the pattern in the carpet to the music, bells, and lights are designed to keep you in a heightened, excited state. If you've ever walked across a casino floor with a hangover or after 36 straight hours of travel, you know what I'm talking about. It's like coming home from a vasectomy and walking into the arms of your excited Saint Bernard who missed you very much.

  I can make that comparison because both have happened to me and they felt very much the same, except that the paw to the groin at home was the Vegas sun in my eyes. Beyond that? Yep...the same.

  The Peppermint Casino does all this, too, but in a way that makes you think Ken Kesey didn't go to heaven, but landed in Oz. Even sober, everything looks like it's made of licorice and balloon animals in the abstract sense. It was hard to map out where to go. A parade of tourists in cargo shorts and flowered dresses left the elevators looking for a shiny place to give away their money. Old people mounted rows of quarter slots and became brightly colored versions of the drones found in Fritz Lang's Metropolis. Insert, pull, wait. Insert, pull, wait.

  I made my way to the cashier counter. It's buried deep in the casino. I presume this is a safe place to handle lots of cash as opposed to right on the street, but it's also placed so that if I cash out, I have to walk back through all the flashing lights and excitement, past the 4-star restaurant and the entrance to the upscale shopping mall.

  Instead of white marble, the tellers at the cashier station were divided by painted candy canes and fluffy cotton candy drapes. As I expected, there wasn't much business giving out cash and I could walk up to the least bored-looking cupcake in the row.

  She came to life as if on dying batteries. "Hello, sir. How can I help you?"

  I presented her with my black poker chip.

  "Hi. I'd like to see what this can get me, please."

  The look on the teller's face revealed that I'd given her something of a live hand grenade or a robbery note. She was young and cute as most faces are in the casino. The three security guards who appeared around me in less than ten seconds from that reaction were not so. They were large, smartly dressed and about as out of place in Peppermint Land as a happy couple in a Domestic Relations office.

  They began with elbow grabbing and tugging, politely-grunted orders. Then came the dark corridor and the scary gray room with a big mirror.

  Smart ass remark. "Is this the Law & Order suite?"

  No laugh except mine, which was nervous.

  They took the chip, my wallet, keys and everything else on me but my cell phone, which they looked at briefly and made a point to put right in front of me on the long table.

  After about five minutes, I deduced someone was watching me behind the mirror. I wasn't afraid because I hadn't done anything wrong – to my knowledge. That's not to say they couldn't make trouble or point out that the coin was stolen. They were waiting for me to call someone, panic. I picked up the phone, checked my OneWorld social media account and left a status. "Locked in a room at the Peppermint Casino. Under observation."

  Before I could click POST, my data and phone service cut out. Another ten minutes went by. I killed a few of them by rebooting my phone and trying to load OneWorld again. No service. Someone was intentionally blocking my cell service and Wi-Fi.

  I imagine they'd gone through my wallet and checked my ID, checked with my hotel about my stay and were going through a playbook. After minute ten I had gotten a little nervous. The phrase "possession of stolen property" ran through my head a few times. Had I misread Parker's intentions by giving me the chip? How long would it take the cops to respond to a casino? Seconds? Boy they were dragging this out.

  The only other mark on the chip beyond the casino name was the number: 1850. It was an odd number for a dollar value, so I thought it might be a unique account number, perhaps a room number representing a complimentary drink at the hotel bar.

  Another ten minutes and I stood up. I looked around, walked to the door which implied I was going to try it, spotted the light switch and, before my brain could explain how stupid an idea it might be, I shut off the lights. This provided me a good look at the three people watching me. Two were the big suits who walked behind me (not the one with a grip on my elbow) and the third was a tiny Indian woman in a white blouse and black blazer. I waved at them and turned the lights back on, replacing them with my own dumb image in the mirror.

  I took my place at the table, fiddled with my phone a little more and settled in for what I expected to be another hour of waiting. That was okay by me. I'm a bureaucrat. Waiting in an empty room without a purpose is part of my culture.

  Finally, the Indian woman opened the door and stepped in with a look of irritation that I'm used to in executive meetings. She crossed the room carrying a thin manila folder. I didn't stand. I didn't say anything. I kept it neutral and quiet like a Monday staff meeting.

  Her accent was a lovely mix of King's English, Hindi and condescension. "Mr. Casey. Thank you for coming in today."

  "Thank you for having me, mizz..?"

  "Have you ever been to the Peppermint Casino before?"

  "Nope. Never had a reason to until today."

  "…until you came into possession of one of our chips. You don't know what it is, do you?"

  "It was gifted to me yesterday."

  "By whom?"
r />   "A friend of mine named Parker. He's put me on something of a scavenger hunt."

  "How to you know Mr. Parker, Mr. Casey?"

  "We grew up together."

  Keeping to the script, she interrupted my nervous ramble. "The black chip in your possession, is a rare thing to find outside this casino. Only twelve of these where minted and were commissioned especially for this casino and our most elite members."

  "Incredibly fascinating."

  She glared like an exasperated schoolteacher.

  A young man in a suit entered. He held the door open. It was a grand entrance of a grand lady in a bright blue and cream colored ball gown. Gorgeous black curls framed her pale, heart-shaped face. Huge blue eyes kept a slightly almond shape, the mix of which left me with a vague "Asian" flavor but her heavy makeup and sour expression gave me little more to go on. Her pursed, glossy lips made her look like she had just been sucking blood from a vein through a straw.

  I didn’t notice the young man leave.

  The gown seemed confused about if it wanted to praise the Lord or start a burlesque. From the bottom up, it demanded attention with a billowing skirt cut so not to deny a good look at a dancer’s leg on a spiked heel as she walked, a corset that created a curve in her body that could twist the eyes on their way up to a shelf of bosom garnished with frills inside a Victorian window box. The only thing out of theme for the outfit was the fact she carried clipped papers and a fountain pen in one hand.

  She put the papers on the table and laid a fountain pen on top.

  "What’s this," I asked understanding nothing I read on the top page.

  "It is a non-disclosure agreement," she answered in a smoky, eloquent speakeasy voice. "We cannot talk to you further until you sign it."

  "I can’t talk to you until I know what we’re talking about. Frankly, you look like you just hopped off a Disney cruise ship to talk with me. I don’t know who you are."

  She seemed confused by this and tried to read something in my expression. Eventually, she relented and started again with a different approach. "I am Mistress Huan, Governess of the Las Vegas Duchy of Aeternus." She produced a cream-colored business card from a hidden pocket in her dress. "My card, dear."