Casino Infernale (27 page)

Jacqueline Hyde—a lot of people have found a use for her, and him, and their fortunes have fallen and risen many times. But neither of them were ever rich enough to attend Casino Infernale.

“Someone’s funding her,” said Molly. “But why?”

“Another distraction?” I said. “A wild card thrown into the mix . . . or, just possibly, she knows something we don’t.”

Jacqueline herself was small, painfully thin, neurotic; sitting uncomfortably at her table, scrunched up and eyes down as though trying not to be noticed. Her dress would probably have looked attractive on anyone else. She had a sharp-boned face with piercing eyes, a tight-lipped mouth, and ragged mousy hair. She didn’t bother with her appearance, because she never knew how long she’d stay that way. Hyde came and went. She glanced about the restaurant, but never looked at anyone for long. She had a bottle of whisky on the table in front of her, and was drinking steadily through it, one glass at a time. Didn’t seem to be affecting her much, but then, once you’ve had Dr. Jekyll’s Formula, everything else is always going to seem like a poor relation.

And then I saw who was sitting at the table beyond, and I forgot all about Jacqueline Hyde.

I knew the face, and the reputation, from Drood files. Earnest Schmidt, current leader of the reformed Brotherhood of the Vril. Back in the day, the original organisation was a mystical supergroup, and a major supporter of the Nazis. The Vril supported Hitler on the way up, and once he was in power, he showed his appreciation by supplying them with all the warm bodies they wanted for their special experiments. Sometimes, they let him watch.

The Vril loved being Nazis, and playing with innocent lives and deaths. But once the war was over they quickly discovered they had no friends and a hell of a lot of enemies, so they just grabbed as much loot as they could and disappeared into the jungles of South America. Along with so many other war criminals.

The Brotherhood of the Vril split and schismed so many times, they effectively neutered themselves. But just recently they’d shown signs of pulling themselves together again. They’d run out of war loot long ago, but they were finding new funds from somewhere . . . which might explain what a Nazi scumbag like Earnest Schmidt was doing here, at Casino Infernale.

A portly, dark-haired man in his early forties, he sat stiffly at his table in a tuxedo almost the match of mine. Though he didn’t wear it nearly as well. He held his head high, as though to make clear to everyone present that he was not a man to be trifled with. His eyes were a pale blue, his mouth a flat line, and he had a single glass of brandy in front of him that he didn’t touch. Nazis always were big on self-denial, except for when they weren’t. Schmidt didn’t wear a single swastika or Gestapo death’s head. Or even the SS double lightning bolts. He might have passed for just another successful businessman, here for the games and the thrills . . . except for the look in his eyes. The way he looked down on everyone else in the room for not meeting his exacting standards.

“Vril,” said Molly. “I hate those little shits. You think he set those Pan’s Panzerpeople on us, on the way here?”

“He does seem to be looking at everyone else in the restaurant apart from you and me,” I said.

I picked up the croissant by my plate, and threw it at Schmidt with devastating accuracy. It bounced off his head with enough force to make him cry out. He put a hand to his head and looked round sharply and saw me smiling at him. He sat very still, and then turned away again. Saying nothing, doing nothing. Perhaps because he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge the existence of such an obvious inferior as myself.

I reached for the water jug. Molly put a hand on my arm to stop me, smiling even as she shook her head.

“Why not?” I said. “I can hit him from here.”

“Because we don’t have any proof he was behind the attack,” said Molly. “And because you never know who you might need as an ally in a place like this.”

“Him?” I said. “The only use I’d have for that evil little turd is as a human shield. Or possibly a battering ram.”

“Anywhen else, yes,” said Molly. “But this is Casino Infernale. The rules are different, here. You never know when you might need to make a deal against someone else. Someone worse, or just more immediately dangerous. You must remember,
Shaman
, we can’t depend on our usual protections. Either of us. We really don’t want to start a fight we can’t be sure of winning.”

“You’re no fun when you’re right,” I said.

I looked around for someone else to interest me, and immediately recognised a person of interest I knew from Drood files. A large and fleshy man in a scarlet cardinal’s robes, smiling easily about him. Smiling constantly at some private joke on the rest of us. His face was kind and calm, even serene, until you got a good look at his eyes. Fanatic’s eyes, fierce and unyielding. I knew his story, too.

Leopold, the famous gambling priest. The man of God who went from one gambling house to the next, playing every game of chance there was to raise money for his Church. The priest who never lost because he had God on his side, murmuring in his ear. Or so he claimed. He certainly had a hell of a reputation for winning against all the odds. Backed by the Vatican banks, Leopold had spent the last twenty years cutting a swath through all the great gambling houses of the world, and taking them to the cleaners. Not for him, never for him. All the money he won went straight to his Church. But this was the first time I’d ever heard of him attending Casino Infernale.

“Maybe the Vatican wants him to break the bank here, to bring down the Shadow Bank,” said Molly.

“Unlikely,” I said. “The Vatican banks and the Shadow Bank have a relationship that goes back centuries.”

And as I watched Leopold watching everyone else, it occurred to me that everyone in the restaurant was looking at everyone else, in their own quiet, surreptitious ways. A lot of people were looking at Molly, and some were even looking at me. The only completely detached person in the room was Jacqueline Hyde. And, maybe Leopold, who seemed to find the whole situation deeply amusing.

The food arrived. Two huge plates of richly steaming paella. It looked and smelled amazing, and I had my knife and fork in my hand before the plates even hit the table. But Molly stopped me with a harsh look, and I made myself sit back and watch as Molly produced a long thin bone needle from somewhere about her person. Unicorn horn—a simple and effective test for poison. Molly thrust the bone needle deep into the paella before her, and we both watched grimly as a purple stain rose up the white bone. She tried my plate, and the poison was there, too.

The waiter backed away from the table, shaking his head rapidly, to make it clear that none of this was anything to do with him. Molly rose to her feet, but before she could even accuse anyone, the whole restaurant went insane.

The spaghetti in front of the man next to us shot straight up into the air, and tried to strangle him. White ropy stuff whipped around his throat and tightened, stretched taut and immovable in a moment. More and more of the stuff sprang up into the air, wrapping itself around his head, burying his face under layers of ropy pasta. He grabbed at the white ropes with his hands, but couldn’t break them. His eyes bulged, and his mouth stretched wide as he gasped for air.

Earnest Schmidt’s salad exploded upwards, growing and shaping itself into a single massive green arm, studded with razor-sharp thorns. The green hand grabbed the front of Schmidt’s suit and lifted him right out of his seat and into the air, shaking him viciously. He grabbed at the green arm with both hands, only to cry out as he cut himself on the vicious thorns.

Jacqueline Hyde was quickly on her feet and backing away from her table, as the steaming curry in front of her took on new life. A horribly monstrous form, all hot steaming flesh, with reaching hands and snapping jaws. It towered over the small woman, a monstrous thing of bestial angers and appetites; and then it stopped, abruptly, as Jacqueline became something much worse.

Leopold’s baked baby chupacabra rose up off its plate, levitating on the air. The tiny stitches holding its mouth and eyes shut all snapped at once, and it fixed the gambling priest with terrible glowing eyes as he rose abruptly to his feet. It said something awful to him, in Spanish. Leopold stood his ground, his face twisted with loathing, and began an exorcism in old-school Latin.

The thunderbird exploded right out of the paella before Molly and me; all the meat slamming back together to re-form the great flying bird it had once been, with a long bony beak and flapping skinless wings. It was dead and it was alive and it stabbed viciously at me with its beak. Screaming horribly, as though seeking revenge for its death, for our meal. I dodged the beak and punched it in the head, and hurt my hand. Molly yelled for me to get out of the way, and hit the thunderbird with a fireball. It scrabbled across the tabletop, burning fiercely, flapping its fiery wings, not dying because it was already dead.

“Why isn’t the hotel dropping a null zone on all this?” I said.

“I don’t know!” said Molly, hitting the flapping bird with another fireball. “Maybe they approve of competitors thinning out the herd, before the games start.”

I looked quickly about me. The whole restaurant was in an uproar, with everyone fighting off what had been their meals just a moment before. No one was trying to work together, and no one was interested in helping anyone else.

I grinned at Molly. “I’ve got an idea!”

“About time! These fireballs are barely slowing it down. What’s your idea?”

“Grab a wing!” I said.

And we both grabbed a flapping wing, gritting our teeth against the flames, and ripped the wings right off the firebird. The fight went out of it. Slowly, it stopped struggling, and then it just lay there on the tabletop, a very overdone piece of blackened meat. The wings turned into mists in our hands, and disappeared. And the burns on our hands disappeared, too. Which made me wonder just how real the whole experience had been, anyway.

I looked to Jacqueline, but she was gone. Hyde was there. A squat, ugly, barrel-chested figure, with a dark face and a beast’s eyes; an angry vicious brute that hated everything in the world, except the one person he could never have. He tore the curry monster to pieces with savage exuberance, laughing aloud as he did it. It was a horrid sound that raised all the hairs on the back of my neck. Hyde looked around, knowing he was feared and hated by everyone else in the restaurant, and loving it.

He turned back into Jacqueline, and for a moment I seemed to see both of them at once, two people superimposed on the same spot. It looked like they were holding hands. And then Jacqueline was back; her head down and her shoulders slumped. As though she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.

And then everything stopped. The food attacks crashed to a halt, as all the food went back to being food again. And that was when I realised Leopold had finished his exorcism. We all looked at him, and he looked coldly back at all of us. He didn’t look calm or serene any more.

“Yes,” he said. “I saved you. Not because any of you are worth saving, but because there’s no fun in winning against second-raters.”

He turned his back on all of us, and strode out of the restaurant, his scarlet robes swirling around him. Molly turned to our waiter, who was still standing by our table, shuddering and quaking. She smiled sweetly at him.

“Could we order something else? I don’t think this paella agrees with us.”

Gambling with Your Life

U
niformed staff arrived with stretchers to take away a dozen or so dead bodies. Presumably the official report would read food poisoning, although food attack would be more accurate. The staff had to hold the stretchers up to head height to manoeuvre them past the people still sitting at their tables. Some guests had left the restaurant, if only to change their clothes, but the vast majority had stayed. Some were actually eating the meals that had just tried to kill them. I suppose you have to have a strong stomach to be a gambler. No one looked at the stretchers, or the bodies on them. Presumably, in case such bad luck might rub off. Molly and I ordered lasagne. It seemed the safest thing on the menu. And the excitement had left us with an appetite.

“Just as well no one ordered the dragonburger,” Molly said finally. “That could have got really out of hand.”

“But, what was the point of all that?” I had to ask.

“I think someone just wanted to see whether we could defend ourselves,” said Molly. “And get a look at what kind of protections people had going for them. You saw Jacqueline turn into Hyde. Which was . . . pretty nasty, actually.”

“Do you want to look at the dessert menu?” I said.

“Of course! It’s free!”

“I think I just want to get started on the games,” I said. “You might remember you found poison in our food even before it rose up and attacked us. Which suggests to me two different attackers. I really don’t feel safe here.”

“Of course we’re not safe here,” said Molly. “This is Casino Infernale!”

And that was when the manager finally turned up. Jonathon Scott just came strolling in, as smart and casual and urbane as ever. Apparently entirely unconcerned with what had just happened. He clapped his hands smartly, to draw everyone’s attention.

“The Introductory Games are about to begin,” he said, bestowing an avuncular smile on one and all. “Might I respectfully remind all of you that attendance is mandatory this year for all of our guests who have not attended Casino Infernale previously.”

Everyone rose up from the their tables, sometimes abandoning half-finished meals or desserts, and headed for the exit. Scott stepped quickly back to get out of their way, still smiling his managerial smile. I was ready to go too, but Molly put a hand on my arm to stop me.

“Not yet,” she said. “Frankie isn’t back. I want to hear what he has to say, before we venture into enemy territory.”

I scowled. “I hate going on missions where I haven’t been properly briefed.”

“Only so you can lecture everyone else,” said Molly.

“True,” I said.

“I do know a few things about the Introductory Games,” Molly said carefully. “I mean, a girl does hear things. . . .”

“Go on,” I said, resignedly. “Tell me what you know. And we will discuss how you came to know it later.”

“The opening games are the only ones where money still matters,” said Molly. “I had hoped we’d be able to skip them, but it seems Parris is playing strictly by the book this year. The Introductory Games are for newcomers, to sort out the wheat from the chaff; make sure you’re wealthy and worthy enough to be here. And, to test your nerves. Because if you can’t cope with these, you sure as hell aren’t ready for the big games.”

“What are we going to gamble with?” I said. “The cash Frankie got for us won’t go far, not in a place like this. We need to be able to bet big, to win big.”

“I do have an account with the Shadow Bank,” said Molly. “With quite a bit on deposit . . . Don’t look at me like that! How do you think I funded myself before I hooked up with you?”

“Stealing things,” I said.

“Well, yes, but . . .”

Perhaps fortunately, Frankie turned up at that point. He slipped past the head waiter at his post with a nod and a wink, and the head waiter didn’t even look at him, never mind announce his name. Frankie pulled up a chair and sat down at our table without waiting to be asked, and Molly and I quickly filled him in on what we’d been discussing. He nodded quickly.

“You can’t use the money in your account,” he said immediately to Molly. “It’s strictly cash in the Introductory Games. Though you make the most money in side bets, gambling with the crowds on how well you’ll do in the games. But listen, you need to know this. I’ve been wandering around, talking with the staff, renewing old friendships and spreading a little bribery and corruption in all the right places, and the word is, the fix is in. The house will be taking even more liberties than usual this year, and squeezing the odds till they squeal. Apparently Parris is determined that this will be the most successful and profitable Casino Infernale ever, so he can take all the credit. Once you’re in there, watch your backs, and be prepared for treachery from all quarters. You can’t trust the games or the players or the staff this year.”

“Just our luck,” I said.

•   •   •

Frankie led us into the Arena of Introductory Games. With such a grand title, I was disappointed to discover it looked much like every casino and gambling house I’d visited in my time as London field agent for the Droods. No real difference from any of the after-hours drinking and gambling parlours that infest parts of the West End. Where you can get in only if you’re a member, but fortunately they sell memberships at the door.

There were roulette wheels, card tables, dice; all the usual means to part a sucker from his money. Deep pile carpeting, neutral-coloured walls, a general sense of opulence and comfort, but nothing distinctive enough to distract you from what you were there for.

The huge room was packed with people, expectation heavy on the air. Though soon enough that would be replaced with the heavier scents of perspiration and desperation. You don’t come to places like this to enjoy yourself; it’s all about the winning and the losing. After you’ve put a few hours in, and nothing’s gone to plan, and the people around you are betting more and more wildly to win back the money they’ve lost, that’s when eyes go cold and hearts grow desperate, and the wise man just chalks it up to experience and gets the hell out while the going is good. And your soul is still your own.

Casinos exist to take everything you’ve got.

Most people were just milling around, seeing what there was to see, not yet ready to commit themselves to a game until they’d seen what everyone else was doing. Waiting for someone else to take the plunge. There were no Big Names or Major Players here. They wouldn’t lower themselves to play this kind of game, in this kind of company. There was a continual low murmur of conversation, as people worked up the nerve to bet everything they had, and then beg for credit to lose even more. No one bets heavier than the man who can’t afford it and is desperate to hide that fact from everyone else. Pride, and face, are everything in the gambling world.

There’s no sportsmanship in games like these, and certainly no sense of fair play. It’s all dog eat dog, and devil take the hindmost. As far as the Casino management was concerned, these people weren’t even players. Just lambs to the slaughter, and sheep to be sheared. Games at this level were designed to bring out the worst in people, to tempt them and watch them fall. And then laugh in their faces when they begged for another chance.

I had been in places like this before, but I’d always had the good sense to stay away from the games.

“It feels . . . like walking into a room full of enemies,” Molly said quietly.

“We are,” I said. “No one here is on our side but us.” I looked at Frankie, who was smiling and nodding easily about him, perfectly at home. “You know this bear pit better than us, Frankie; where do you recommend we start?”

“Depends on your strategy,” said Frankie. “You do have a strategy, don’t you?”

“Win big, win fast, then get the hell out of here and on to the games that matter,” I said.

“Well,” said Frankie, “it’s risky, but . . . that’s your best chance, right there. Russian roulette.”

We looked across at the single table, standing empty and alone, with the gun lying on it. Two chairs, but no one sitting on them, yet. A group of people were slowly gathering around the table, looking at the gun with hot, expectant eyes and talking animatedly. While being very careful to stay well away from either of the chairs.

“It’s the old game,” said Frankie. “Two players, one gun, one bullet. Spin the chamber, take your turn, and hope you get lucky. It’s risky, but the odds are really no worse than most of the games here, and the side bets can make you a lot of money in a hurry. As long as your nerve holds out.”

“I can’t believe you’re even considering this!” Molly said angrily to me. “You are, aren’t you? We didn’t come here to die! It’s just another mission!”

“They have my soul,” I said. “I want it back.”

“No, Shaman,” said Molly. “I can’t let you do this. You’re still thinking like you have your armour to protect you. If anyone’s going to do this, it should be me.”

“No,” I said. “You can’t risk it, Molly. Not with your soul already owed to so many. I will do it, because I have just had a really sneaky idea. My Colt Repeater has no bullets in it because the gun teleports appropriate ammo into place, as necessary. You can tap into that magic, quietly and discreetly, and apply it to the Russian roulette gun. Any time a bullet threatens me, you just make it disappear.”

“I can do that,” said Molly. “But I can’t keep the gun empty all the time. Someone would notice. You might have to shoot someone, Shaman. Kill your opponent, to win. Could you do that?”

“He’d shoot me, if he could,” I said. “Are you in?”

“It’s sneaky,” said Molly. “I love it. Let’s do it!”

“You haven’t wasted any time getting into the swing of things,” Frankie said admiringly. “You’ll do well here.”

But I still hesitated. Molly was right. The whole point of Russian roulette is that you only really win when the other player dies. What was one man’s life, against the success of my mission? And any other game, you could get up and walk away when you’d had enough. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be allowed in this game.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Molly. “You always were too ethical for your own good. That’s why I should do this. Pulling the trigger won’t bother my conscience. I don’t have one.”

“They’d detect your magic if you worked it at the table,” I said. “So it has to be me.”

“I really wouldn’t worry about it,” said Frankie. “The kind of person you’ll be facing, you’ll be happy to see them die.”

I moved quickly forward before I could change my mind, pulled out one of the chairs, and sat down at the table. I looked at the gun before me, but didn’t touch it. All around me, people began talking excitedly in loud breathy voices. They looked at me with admiring, condescending eyes, as though I’d just volunteered to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. And some of them were looking at me in an eager, anticipatory way, because they had come to this table to see someone die. A few of them knew Shaman Bond, by reputation at least, and sent my name racing round the circle. And then my opponent pulled back the chair opposite me, and sat down hard on it, and the buzz of his name was much louder than mine had been. Because everyone here knew Gentleman Junkie Jules.

He didn’t smile or even nod to me, didn’t even acknowledge my presence. Just stared at the gun, like there was nothing he wanted more in the world. I’d met Jules before in some of London’s more up-market early hours clubs, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t remember me. Gentleman Junkie Jules was wearing an expensively tailored suit that had seen much better days, like its owner. It hung shapelessly about him, as though it was a few sizes too large, draped unflatteringly about his spindly frame. No doubt the suit fit perfectly when he first bought it, but Jules had been through a lot since then. His face was thin and pinched, and unhealthily pale. His eyes were fierce and fever bright, and his colourless lips pulled back in a mirthless smile.

Word was, Gentleman Junkie Jules was a remittance man these days. Paid regular sums by his very well-off family, but only on the understanding that he would never come home to embarrass them. Jules was never that good a card player, but he always had enough money to get into the big games, and lose it all. Until the buzz of high stakes cards just wasn’t enough any more and some kind friend introduced him to chemical heaven. And Jules found out the hard way that heroin is a harsh mistress. Given how much he’d abused his luck all his life, I was amazed he was still around. But it did make perfect sense that he would be sitting here, opposite me, ready to play Russian roulette. He’d been playing it all his life.

I had to at least make a gesture, for my conscience’s sake. I raised a hand, to draw the attention of the manager Jonathon Scott as he drifted by. He immediately changed direction to approach the table, and the crowd opened up just enough to let him pass. While still staying close enough that they wouldn’t miss a word.

“Is there a problem, sir?” said Scott.

“I object to Jules as my opponent,” I said. “This man isn’t fit to play. I mean, look at the state of him.”

“As long as he can pick up the gun and point it in the right direction, he can play,” said Scott. “That’s all the rules there are in this game.”