Orphan X: A Novel (24 page)

“I’m good on explosives.” Evan turned for the door, double-checking, as always, that the security camera was unplugged. “Thank you, Tommy.”

“Hey, man. I’ll call the guy, that’s all. There are no guarantees.” Tommy dug the wedge of tobacco out from his lip and thunked it into a dusty Carl’s Jr. cup. “Only guarantee is we ain’t gettin’ outta this incarnation alive.”

32

Nowhere to Go

A five-figure cash tip to the manager of the Hyde lounge procured for Evan the premiere table for as long as he needed it. The booth stuck out from the base of the vast Bellagio Hotel over the eight-acre lake like the glass-walled prow of a ship. From his position in the cushioned seats, he could take in the majority of the nightclub, a sliver of the casino floor, and the walkway along the water’s brink. He assumed his post at noon.

Right away he noticed a problem. Past a curved stretch of the lake, maybe a quarter mile away, a Chinese restaurant called Jasmine jutted out onto the water. It was new since he’d last been here. His instructions to Morena’s sister had been imprecise—
Tell her to meet me in the Bellagio Casino at the restaurant overlooking the dancing fountains.
Now he had two venues to cover. The miscalculation ate at him, a gnawing little worm near the base of his brain that kept him on edge. At least he had a clear view through Jasmine’s floor-to-ceiling windows.

He sat for six unbroken hours, keeping watch for Morena even as his hopes for her appearance diminished. He wore jeans, a black jacket, and a baseball cap to shield his features from myriad eye-in-the-sky cameras. For Morena to feel safe, he’d chosen a casino as a meeting spot—the only place with more security cams than an airport.

On occasion women dropped by the table to ask if he wanted to buy them a drink. He certainly looked like a man seeking company, and the professionals took notice. He declined politely. His high-profile position here ran against every instinct in his body, but given how fearful Morena seemed to be, he wanted to be front and center so she could spot him before making her approach. Based on what Carmen had told him about her meetings with her sister, this was Morena’s preferred method of making contact.

He finally got up to use the restroom, then returned and sat alertly as the sun finished its brilliant chariot arc across the sky, finally dipping behind the Strip. When lavender dusk at last faded into full dark, the world’s greatest night-light display morphed into splendid existence, the Paris Hotel’s faux Eiffel Tower igniting into a spire of neon gold, overpowering the moon. The dancing fountains exploded into color on the lake surface laid out before Evan, misting the glass around him, a bizarre choreography timed to an Andrea Bocelli–Sarah Brightman duet. Evan eyed the doors, the flurry of activity by the casino entrance, the hall to the bathrooms. The music wailed—
Con te partirò
—as the fountains shattered the still of the lake. Soon enough a deejay with a sideways Celtics cap took up the turntables in his booth inside, remixed and mashed-up Rihanna competing with the pop-opera duet. The dance floor filled up, sauced bachelorettes and boisterous frat boys, cut-loose businessmen and drag queens in heeled thigh-highs, a jam of fluid limbs strobe-cutting the disco beams—
I love the way you lie.

Evan pictured Carmen sitting on the swings, isolated on the crowded playground, praying for her big sister’s appearance. The school day was long gone. Perhaps Morena had decided to wait for cover of night to make her way to the Strip. Or perhaps she hadn’t come to the playground at all and Evan would stay here, pinned to this spot tomorrow and the day after that. He searched the crowd again, everyone in full-blown what-happens-in-Vegas mode, talking too loud and too close or snapping duck-faced selfies. Slot-machine payouts
ring-ding-dinged
over Eminem’s rap interlude. Across the street fake Europe glowed. Everyone here was chasing a different dream, an alternate version of their same self, freshened-up identities as fake and real as Evan’s own, dropped into this fantasy wonderland only to be left behind at the airport departure counter like abandoned baggage.

Amid the masquerade a few simple realities burned through. He needed to find a scared seventeen-year-old girl. He needed to protect her. And he needed to learn whether she’d given his phone number to Katrin White or to Memo Vasquez.

Evan sipped water, craved vodka, scanned the dance floor, the neighboring restaurant, and then scanned them again. He settled back against the upholstery, stretching his neck. When he next looked through the window up along the curve of the lake, a movement inside Jasmine caught his eye.

Through the glittering wall of glass, he watched a feminine figure edge between white-linen tables. Her back was turned, but he read the posture immediately—shoulders lifted in a half shrug, chin tucked, hands lost to long sleeves, the wrists goosenecked in.

Fear.

She turned partway, and he caught her profile.

Morena.

He checked out the restaurant interior around her. It looked clear. He’d just risen to start toward her when his gaze swept the length of four windows, freezing him where he stood.

Danny Slatcher eased into view around a column, moving slowly toward Morena. He wore roomy acid-washed jeans and a Bubba Gump T-shirt, the perfect underdressed Vegas partaker.

Morena kept on, threading between tables, oblivious to the man behind her.

All around them diners chatted and ate, their mouths moving soundlessly as music crashed in on Evan from the lake—
time to say goodbye
—and the deejay—
just gonna staaand there and watch me burn
—the slot machines chiming, coins crashing, the bass speakers on the dance floor
thump-thump-thumping.
He was standing, hands on the glass, watching the tableau unfold across a stretch of sparkling water.

Slatcher kept on toward Morena. Clearly he had no idea Evan was within eyeshot, watching everything unfold.

Morena moved deeper into the restaurant, Slatcher matching her step for step. Though they remained thirty meters apart, the difference in size between them was astonishing, a grizzly stalking a fawn.

There was no noise Evan could make that would rise above the din of Las Vegas at night, and so he stood on the table and flagged one arm wide, a stab of movement to catch her peripheral vision. It did not, but one of the diners near her looked over, and then another, setting off a flurry of turning heads. Smiles gleamed, and then someone pointed—check out the drunk Vegas idiot standing on a table across the way. Morena picked up on either the diners’ movement or the chatter, because she finally turned, her head swiveling, then fixing on him. Even from this distance, he could see the recognition in her eyes. She raised a hand in shy acknowledgment.

Evan pointed violently, stabbing a finger behind her.

She turned abruptly, shooting a look across the restaurant, and went full-body tense. Slatcher noticed her spot him, and he slowed, one hand sliding beneath his T-shirt at the hip.

Evan could never get there in time.

A waitress was at his heels. “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to—”

Focused on the scene across from them, Evan let her voice fade away.

Morena backed up to the window, edging away from Slatcher. He sidestepped a busboy, closing in slowly, cutting off her angles if she decided to run.

A hand clamped onto Evan’s ankle, accompanied by a much deeper voice. “All right, buddy. I need you to get your ass off the table or I’ll have to drag you—”

Evan glanced down as the no-neck bouncer reached for him with his other hand. Crouching to catch the wrist, Evan twisted the meaty arm across itself, locking the elbow, and planted the bouncer’s face neatly on the table. He stepped on the wrist, pinning him down, then straightened up again, returning his attention to Morena.

Her shoulder blades were now pressed to the window as she slid along the wall. Nowhere to go. Her palms, down at her sides, flat against the glass. Slatcher closed in. A trio of waiters whisked between them, bearing a birthday cake with sparking candles, and Slatcher used the distraction to skip closer to Morena. They were maybe ten tables apart now.

Beneath Evan’s foot the bouncer lurched, his other hand flopping awkwardly over his own head, trying to reach Evan. A few partiers at the fringe of the dance floor took note of the non-scuffle, but for the most part the blaring music and swirling movement provided sufficient distraction to buy him some time.

Slatcher was pursuing Morena only to get to Evan. Evan was the true target. And yet he was stranded here with two windows and a stretch of dancing fountains between them. Helpless.

He stared at Morena, willing her to turn around and look at him again. At last she did, her eyes wide. He pointed at Slatcher, then at his own chest. And then again.

Show him I’m here.

It was all he could think to do.

Beneath him the bouncer bucked and flailed.

Morena’s head swiveled back to Slatcher. He was closing in. Six tables away. Now five.

She looked directly at him, then lifted her arm and pointed through the window.

Slatcher’s stare turned slowly until it locked on Evan.

A frozen moment.

Evan held out his hands.
Come get me.

Then Slatcher broke away from Morena, running for the door of the restaurant.

Evan watched the air leave Morena as she sagged with relief. He waited for her to look over at him again, then gestured for her to flee.

After this scare he doubted he’d be able to coax her into the open again, but right now he cared only about her safety. He gestured again, more emphatically. Finally Morena burst into movement and sprinted along the far wall, disappearing through the swinging doors of the kitchen.

Footsteps thudded behind Evan—heavy men running. He turned as two more bouncers ran toward him. He held an instant for them to reach the table, then jumped between them, sailing over their broad shoulders. He landed on the neighboring table, careened down and across the dance floor, and shot out into the casino between two high-limit blackjack tables.

A commotion echoed up the wide row of shops to the left, one of the radial corridors feeding into the gambling floor. Evan swung around in time to see two women knocked down hard, as if before a truck, purses wagging up on their arms. Slatcher bulled into view as they parted and dropped to the marble. He barely slowed, sprinting for Evan.

Evan reached past the blackjack players and swept their tall stacks of black chips off the felt, sending them airborne. The hundred-dollar chips rained down across shoulders and slot machines, bouncing through the walkways between tables. The gamblers surged. Chairs toppled, grown men dove, even passersby waded in, scrambling after the rolling chips on their hands and knees.

Evan shot past the ruckus, threading between approaching security guards talking into their radios. On the far side of the scrum, he turned and looked back.

Slatcher had hit a wall of security, closing off the zone from the far side. A head taller than the crowd, he glowered across at Evan. Trapped behind the temporary barricade.

Evan turned and bolted past the craps tables, hitting the next wide corridor, already crowded with security guards and onlookers drawn toward the disturbance. Pulling the brim of his cap low, he jogged through a flock of little-black-dress college girls ornamented with Santa caps. He had to get to an exit before word came down from the eye in the sky upstairs.

A woman with cropped blond hair swung around a roulette wheel and into the corridor. She wore a fitted black shirt tucked into dark blue jeans, showing off her curves. Her hand was in her Louis Vuitton purse, and Evan’s brain double-clutched before placing her alluring features.

Candy McClure, Slatcher’s associate, captured in a few grainy surveillance stills astride a Kawasaki.

Her hand whipped out of her handbag toward his face. Evan ducked, throwing his weight backward, his momentum carrying him on even as he dropped. An honest-to-God stiletto flashed past, missing his upturned face by inches. He landed in a forward slide on his knees, skating across the marbled surface, rotating around to face her. Her hand was already back inside the purse, replacing the knife. She offered Evan a pert,
Well, I tried
smile.

It was as though nothing had happened.

More security guards and gamblers crashed forward all around them, driving on, and McClure allowed herself to be swept along by them.

Evan shook off his disbelief. Too much time had passed now, so he shouldered into a bathroom, the one public location in a casino where security cameras were not legally permitted. He shoved his hat into the trash bin, then flipped his reversible jacket inside out, the black shell now turned to white. With a paper towel, he wiped the sweat from his brow, then moved back out into the corridor, hustling along once again.

An elevator dinged to his right and ejected a raft of fresh security guards. Evan kept his same trajectory, slicing into their midst. He eased out a breath, caught a whiff of aftershave and hair gel on the inhale. The guards breezed past, jabbering into their radios, enlarging images on their smartphones.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he spun through a grand revolving door into the river of people clogging Las Vegas Boulevard. Bucking through two oblivious policemen, he scanned the sea of heads frantically, looking for a scared seventeen-year-old. As he rushed up one teeming block and down the next, he realized he wasn’t going to find her any more than Slatcher was.

Morena was long gone.

33

The Long Haul

On his way home, Evan exited the freeway by Dodger Stadium and cased the address that Memo Vasquez had given him. The ramshackle structure, more shed than house, seemed to be deteriorating into the hillside. Dead ivy clung to the cheap cladding. Plywood boarded one of the front windows. Gangbangers congregated on neighboring front porches, sipping 40s, their plaid shorts tugged low. A group of kids played ball, using a shopping cart hung on a Dumpster as a basketball hoop. Strings of Christmas lights blinked sporadically from various rooflines.