Perpetual Motion (4 page)

HONK! A cab driver laid on his horn,
reminding Cynical that he was jay-jogging across a busy street -
and that fortunes can turn fast in Vegas. One minute you’re flying
high; the next you’re in the gutter with a broken wing.

“Watch where you’re going!” the taxi driver
yelled after him. But Cynical was already gone, hustling down the
street to the orange and red flame.

As soon as he entered the Flamingo he hurried
to the gaming room, passing the churning slots and going straight
into the land of blackjack tables. Looking around, he grabbed the
closest cocktail waitress he could find.

“Hey, where’s roulette?”

“Over there.” The waitress pointed a red
fingernail deeper into the casino. “Good luck,” she called after
him.

With his nerves already on high alert, he cut
through the ten and twenty five dollar tables. Spotting a suit that
was all business at the edge of the roulette wheels, he approached
quickly. “Are you Frank?”

“Yeah,” the big swarthy fellow said as he
looked Cynical over. “You Jones?”

“Yeah.”

“This was posted in the back,” Frank said,
pointing a hairy knuckle at the reward above the photo. Looking up,
he gestured to a roulette wheel with activity around it. “There you
go.”

The center of attention was a skinny kid with
a pale complexion; his black hair, even wilder than in the
photograph, sticking out a good five inches from his scalp. While
he was hairier and ganglier, it was a life-size version of the
photograph.

“That looks like him,” Cynical confirmed.

“It says here you are offering five Gs,”
Frank reminded him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cynical said while he listened
to the click, click, click, of the bouncing metal ball. Taking out
his tightly wound wad, he heard a cheer go up around the table. The
five or six on-lookers were having a mini-celebration around
Michael. A drunken business man pounded him on the back as chips
were pushed in the kid’s direction.

Cynical started to loosen the roll so he
could count it out, but Frank shook his head and pocketed the whole
amount in one motion.

The exchange complete, Frank looked up,
“Either you take him out of here or I will.”

“Why do you want him out of here?”

“He’s winning,” Frank said matter-of-factly.
“He’s only been here an hour and he’s already up nearly six
grand.”

For a moment, both men stood watching the
table from a safe distance.

“I checked around before I called you,” Frank
mentioned. “Heard someone matching his description took Bally’s for
ten Gs last night. Three nights ago he got the Bellagio for
eight.”

Apparently, Frank had access to better
information than he did. Of course, Cynical had only been in town
for a day.

“Is it always roulette?”

Frank nodded. “He’s smart to keep his winning
fairly small; nothing that would get the casinos talking too much.”
The pit boss stared hard at the gambler. “No one wins every night
unless they’re up to something.”

At the table, Michael was a picture of
concentration, waving away a free drink from a hostess and
scattering a column of blue chips around the green felt. When he
was ready, he nodded to the wheel man who spun away.

All eyes around the table followed the ball,
holding their collective breathes in that moment of suspense. It
was similar to when a quarterback releases a bomb toward the
end-zone; a basketball player takes a game winning shot from beyond
the arc; or the crack of the bat sends a baseball arcing toward the
fence. This ball was small, but it was mighty for the simple reason
that money was riding on it.

When the ball had made its final decision, it
settled neatly into one of its thirty eight slots. This time, the
result was decidedly less giddy. From the sound of the noise it was
either a foul or a pop up fly.

But it was a long night and Michael simply
replaced his fallen players with another line-up on the field. A
soft ringing came from the table as Michael checked the number on
his phone; then set it down, before placing another bet.

“Right there. That’s how he’s doing it,”
Frank said through a studied expression. “A scanner in the
phone.”

“A what?”

“A scanner,” Frank repeated. “It probably has
laser tracking, calculates the ball speed; helps him predict where
the ball is going to land.”

“Really?”

“You don’t see them very often – and most
don’t even work,” Frank said, his eyes narrowing. “But I’ll bet you
a chicken dinner that’s what he’s doing.”

Final bets were called at the roulette
table.

“It’s a prosecutable offense in Nevada,”
Frank stated. “We could put him away for five years.”

The wheel spun again and everyone stood in
reverence while the ball bounced counter clockwise. As the wheel
slowed, the ball began to skip over numbers, stopped, and then
leaping up for one last gasp.

Another cheer went up from the table,
followed by more laughs and back slaps. Now the table was populated
by a dozen spectators, all of them staring at Michael and hoping a
little luck would rub off on them.

“Get him of out of here,” Frank demanded. As
Cynical took a step toward his target, he heard the pit boss
whisper, “And be discrete.”

Discrete was exactly the way to handle it;
the last thing Cynical wanted was a scene. Saddling up to the
roulette table, he elbowed his way past a couple of spectators on
the perimeter and corkscrewed his way next to his mark. He had
decided to play the part of the obnoxious gambler. It wasn’t too
much of a stretch, well within his repertoire.

“Can I get a hundred dollars in chips?” he
asked loudly.

The croupier made a show of being annoyed
with making chump change; sliding the hundred dollar bill down a
slot. Oblivious to the newcomer at his side, Michael moved his
chips around, covering a wide range of numbers on the red and black
checker board. A few of the people were placing their bets on top
of Michael’s chips, trying to draft off his action.

“Let’s see, I think I’m just going to go with
black,” Cynical announced as he placed his single chip on the black
square. “It’s not really my money anyway. It’s my boss’s – the guy
who owns the business – and he’s in London. He doesn’t even know
I’m here, so what the hell?” He laughed at himself and casually
glanced around for a reaction.

Most at the table either ignored him or cut
quick glances of annoyance in his direction. Michael gave him a
longer, sidelong look; his eyes swimming behind his unfashionable
eyewear. The kid hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, although it
was hardly noticeable on his baby face.

“Please step away from the table unless
you’re betting,” the croupier said as he held up his hands. “Place
your final bets.”

Cynical pressed in even closer to Michael,
who was nervously tapping his cell phone as the wheel went in
motion.

“No more bets,” the croupier called out.

With all eyes following the silver ball,
Cynical leaned to his side and whispered, “Cash out after this spin
Michael.”

There was no reaction, except the pupils,
dilated ever so slightly behind the glasses lenses.

Excitement grew around the table as the
dealer announced, “14 Black.”

“Hey - how about that!” Cynical proclaimed.
“I’m a winner!” He took his two chips and slid them into his
pocket, as Michael began to gather up his winnings.

“Are you finished sir?” the croupier politely
asked the big winner.

“Yeah,” Michael replied to the moans of his
adoring public.

There was a general sense of disappointment
as the money machine scooped his chips into a velvet sack provided
by the hotel and made his way through the glad-handing crowd. Just
as the kid got into the clearing, he felt a heavy hand fall onto
his shoulder.

“Looks like you had a good night.”

“Who are you?” Michael asked, turning to face
the man.

“My name is Cynical Jones,” he said calmly.
“I’m a private detective. I was hired by Mr. Mancuso to find
you.”

Cynical wasn’t sure what kind of reaction
Mancuso’s name would elicit. If Michael was afraid of his so-called
partner, he didn’t show it.

“So where is he?” the kid asked, looking
around.

“I have to call him,” Cynical said. “He’s
going to meet us. Come on.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” the kid
said defiantly. “I don’t know you.”

“Sure you do,” Cynical said patiently. “I’m
the guy that just saved your ass. You were about two bets away from
seeing the backroom of a casino.”

Looking around, Michael was trying to decide
if he could make a run for it and shake the older man. Then he
caught a glimpse of Frank standing less than twenty feet away,
flanked by a couple of security guards. With his arms crossed, the
look on Frank’s face gave credence to the private detective’s
story.

“That’s Frank,” Cynical said with a nod. “He
was the one that was going to show you the backroom.”

“Why does he want me?” Michael asked
nervously. “Just because I’m winning?”

“That - and because you’re cheating.”

“I’m not cheating.” The kid let out a low,
careful laugh. “Give me a break.”

“That’s exactly what Frank is going to do if
you don’t come with me.”

Michael did a double take on Frank, who did
not look like he cared for the nuance of bluffing. Michael folded.
“I need to cash out first.”

“Okay, let’s both go cash out.”

Cynical walked the shuffling kid across the
red carpet to one of the cages. After the private detective got his
two hundred dollars, he waited while the cashier counted out
Michael’s six thousand and change.

“You did okay,” Cynical said, admiring the
fistfuls of money before grabbing a skinny arm and leading him
across the floor.

Neither of them looked back as they cut the
shortest path through the football field sized room. Finally, the
bells started to fade as they headed into the well-lit night.

As soon as they were outside, Michael made an
attempt to twist away. Having anticipated the move, Cynical
tightened his grip, giving the arm a turn of his own.

“Now look buddy, I know you’re smart, so why
don’t you act like it,” the private detective admonished. “Settle
down and let me do my job, okay.”

“What are you going to do if I start yelling
for help?”

“First, I’ll punch you in the gut,” Cynical
said matter-of-factly. “If you persist, I’ll march you back into
the Flamingo and let Frank ask you a few questions. When he’s done
with you, I’ll pick you up in a dumpster and we can start all
over.”

Michael glared, but his muscles loosened,
seemingly giving in to the inevitable. “Okay, now what?”

Cynical hadn’t thought that all the way
through. He hadn’t really expected to find him, especially so
quickly. “Are you still at the Bellagio?”

“How’d you know I was there?”

“They took a credit card imprint,” Cynical
informed him.

“Yeah,” Michael said, nodding knowingly. “I
was worried about that. That’s why I moved to the Mirage.” With his
free arm, he pointed toward the black building down the street.

“Okay, that’s where we’re going,” Cynical
said, thinking out loud. “You can pack up and then we’ll meet
Mancuso.”

Keeping him close, the PI turned the kid
toward the flowing lava that led them to the gold capped Mirage in
the distance.

The ex-detective and the ex-gambler walked at
a brisk pace through the lobby of the resort hotel where a shark
floated aimlessly inside an aquarium behind the front desk.

The old gray fellow looked depressed; his
days of eating sushi and chasing tail were behind him; now he was
reduced to being gawked at by retirees.

Loosening his grip, Cynical allowed his catch
to walk on his own volition to the bank of elevators. When one of
the doors opened, they entered with an elderly couple going to the
seventh floor, and an attractive young lady headed to fifteen.

Still sulking in a world of his own, Michael
didn’t seem to notice anyone. The young woman, however, noticed him
when he pushed the penthouse level.

“Has anyone seen the white tigers yet?” she
suddenly inquired.

“Oh, yes!” the older woman said, instantly
animated. “The babies are so cute!”

While the cuteness of baby tigers was
discussed, Cynical was thinking about how he was going to make ten
times his original investment on the $5,000 reward. It had been an
easy score and all that money almost put him in a good mood.

The seventh floor arrived and the couple
shuffled off, a bucket of coins between them. And then there were
three. The pretty girl in the business suit was glancing at them,
trying to figure out the relationship between the two men. Cynical
was a little too young to be the kid’s father, too old to be his
buddy.

“What’s your game?” Cynical asked as they
started their next leg up.

“Excuse me?” the young woman asked.

“Craps, slots, blackjack?”

“Oh.” She smiled. “Just a little slots. I’m
here on a convention. Pharmaceutical sales.”

“Pharmaceuticals are a good game,” Cynical
retorted, grabbing Michael’s shoulder. “This guy here is the king
of the roulette wheel.”

“Really?” She turned to Michael, who seemed
uncomfortable with the attention.

Everyone seemed to be waiting on him to say
something…

“Actually, the original “roulette king” was
Francois Blanc,” Michael informed them. “He founded the first
casinos in Monte Carlo. The legend is that he sold his soul to the
devil for the secret to the roulette table.”

“Really?” the girl said, actually
interested.

Michael nodded as he continued, “Some say
that’s why if you add up all the numbers on the wheel it equals
666.”