Coffin Dodgers (23 page)

"Ladies and gentlemen... friends," Bob says. You know that stuff Sunny was saying about your hearing deteriorating, so you can't hear the same high frequencies you could when you were younger? I wonder if the same thing applies to detecting sleaziness. To my eyes, Sleazy Bob just seems smarmy and oily, but if any of the guests thinks the same they're hiding it well.

Sleazy Bob trots out some guff about how important tonight is, how great it is that so many people have been able to give up their valuable time, all the usual clichés, and then he turns to Everett. "I'm sure you all know tonight's guest of honour, so without further ado, please welcome Mister Adam Everett."

The rapturous applause is for Everett, I'm sure, but Sleazy Bob clearly thinks it's for him. He stands beaming for a full ten seconds before sitting down and letting Everett take over.

Everett smiles at the guests and waits for the applause to subside. "Thank you," he says. He coughs before continuing. "I've never been much for public speaking. I've always been more of a backroom boy, but the combination of tonight's cause and Bob Hannah's gentle persuasion, nagging and undignified begging --" there's a ripple of laughter through the room, which Everett acknowledges with a smile -- "was very compelling." Another ripple. "First of all, I'd like to thank you all for coming along tonight, and for pledging your support. Your generosity, your kindness, they make such a difference. We all know somebody who's been touched by this terrible disease, whether as a victim or as someone who cares for a family member or friend who's been affected. That means not just the victims themselves, but their friends, their husbands, their wives and their children."

I think it's time to change the soundtrack. As the guests applaud, I hit the play button and mute Everett's microphone. I must have knocked the volume control, because a blast of feedback immediately bursts out of the speakers and silences the applause. Everett shoots a foul look in my direction, but he looks away again and continues talking. He's doing his best to hide it, but he's obviously pissed off.

Everett's voice booms from the speakers, but what the guests hear isn't what Everett is saying into the microphone.
 

"You're all the same. Too stupid to see what's staring you right in the face."

The diners gasp. Everett's face juggles puzzlement and anger, but while he looks over at me again there's no sign that he can see me or that he's recognised me. He knows something's wrong with the sound, but he hasn't twigged that I've turned his microphone off.
 

 
"People do dangerous things. They've been given the gift of life, and all they do is try to destroy it. They're killing themselves anyway. All we're doing is ensuring the right ones do it at the right time."

Everett has stopped talking. His face is creased in fury.

"You can call it what you want. It's still murder." My voice sounds a bit squeaky coming through the speakers.

"It's a noble sacrifice."

Everett catches somebody's eye and points directly at me. I know what Dave's going to say before he says it. "Incoming!"

I jump up from my seat. Floyd and the other goon are already up and heading towards me. I turn towards the door, but they're already running. I don't think I'm going to make it before they catch me.

Dave is shouting in my ear. "Go! Go! Go!"

I run for the door and glance over my shoulder. They're closing fast, but then someone -- Amy -- steps right in front of them with a tray of drinks. There's a crash of glass and both Floyd and the other one are on the floor.
 

"They won't be down for long," Dave says. "Run."

I barge through the doors and into the corridor. It takes me a second to find my bearings -- I haven't been in this bit of the casino very often -- but I recover quickly and sprint towards the escalators. There's a loud bang behind me as Floyd charges through the doors. Dave was right. They weren't down for long, but it was long enough to give me a head start.

There are six escalators from the Monroe Suite to the lower floors, and I'm on the second of six when I hear the metallic thuds as Floyd and his partner start down the first one. They're moving fast, but so am I.

"Keep moving," Dave says. "They're catching up."

I run faster, taking the escalators three stairs at a time, nearly losing my footing when I misjudge the distance. Against all odds I manage to stay upright, though, and I keep running. I can hear them getting closer, but I'm still one and a bit escalators ahead of them.

I reach the end of the final escalator and make a snap decision: instead of running towards the exit, I'm going to try to lose them in the casino. I run right, charging down the long corridor and through the ornate doors that lead on to Little Italy.

"I think you've lost them," Dave says. "They're standing at the bottom of the escalator, arguing."

I lean against the doorway and catch my breath.

"Shit," Dave says. "They're thinking what you're thinking. Heading your way."

I'm standing at the edge of St. Mark's Square, or at least a pretty good scaled-down version of it -- although I'm sure the Venetian original isn't made of painted MDF or lit by hidden spotlights. Like the real thing, though, it's packed with people. The courtyard area is the seating area for four restaurants, all of which seem to be at capacity, and there are lots of people wandering around with cameras taking photos of one another.

There's nowhere to hide here, but it's the only wide open bit of Little Italy. If I can get to the streets before the goons catch me, I've got a good chance of losing them. I make my way as fast as I can through the milling crowds, but it's slow -- although the same people who are slowing me down should also slow Floyd and the other guy down too.

I make slow but steady progress, constantly checking over my shoulder. No sign of anyone. I glance at the narrow canal on my right but there's no good hiding places there, and a fake gondola isn't much use as a getaway car. I'm just passing the tenth jewellers when Dave speaks.

"They're catching up. About a hundred and fifty metres behind you. They haven't spotted you yet."

I try to quicken my pace but it's like walking through treacle, with people stopping dead right in front of me for a chat or a fight and others changing direction, seemingly at random, without warning.

"Seventy-five metres now," Dave says.

This is no use. I look for somewhere to hide. The best I can come up with is a lingerie shop on the left. Unlike most of the shops in Little Italy this one doesn't let you see in: it has the same floor to ceiling windows as every other shop, but the mannequins are posed in front of full-height velvet drapes. I duck inside and pretend I'm shopping for a present. The sales girl hovers but leaves me alone.

"They're coming up on the shop now," Dave says.

He doesn't say anything for about ten seconds, then: "They've walked past."

There's no point in retracing my steps. I've lost my head start and I'd be caught in seconds. The best plan is to keep going in the same direction, but there's a pair of goons between me and the front doors. I'm still wondering what to do when Dave comes back on.

"They're coming back. This time they're looking in all of the shops. Six to go."

I look around in panic. I'd hide in the changing rooms but there's nothing here for men at all, and I don't fancy rowing with the sales assistant if I try to go in there with something flimsy. I could do without the embarrassment, too. Then I spot the wigs. There's a display of wigs along one wall of the shop, around ten long wigs in colours ranging from ash blonde to shocking pink.

"Two shops to go," Dave says. "I'm assuming you're still in World of Pants, or whatever it's called. Can't see you from here."

"One."

I grab a shocking pink wig and pull it on, standing with my back to the door. The sales assistant hasn't noticed yet, so I've got a bit of time. I peer into the mirror and shift position until I can just make out the doorway.

"Incoming," Dave says.

The goon who isn't Floyd walks into the shop and stands at the doorway, scanning the room. I watch him in the mirror. He looks right at the back of my head, but his eyes move right past me. He gives the shop another once-over and walks out again.

"I'm not sure I want to know what you're doing in there," Dave says. "They're moving on."

I take the wig off and put it back on the stand.

"Still heading back. Three shops away from you now."

I smile at the shop assistant and slip into the crowd, heading towards the exits and away from Floyd. I twist and turn to get through the crowds, receiving a few accidental handbaggings for my trouble, but I manage to make good progress without attracting undue attention. The next few minutes feel like hours, but eventually I can see the glass doors leading to the mezzanine and the way out.

"They've spotted you," Dave cuts in. "And they're running."

Shit. I sprint for the doors and charge through them, cutting left along the balcony towards the stairs and escalator. There's a bang behind me as Floyd and his partner make their entrance. I look down: the stairs are packed, the escalator less so -- but the escalator's going up, not down. I quickly look over my shoulder and see that Floyd's catching up fast, so I hope for the best and jump onto the marble divider between the stairs and the escalator. The highly polished marble is like a slide and I shoot down, using my feet as brakes as I get near the bottom. I jump off and run like Hell into the gaming floor.

"They're taking the stairs," Dave says. "You're a bit ahead now."

I know Floyd and his partner will catch me in a straight sprint, so instead of charging down the aisle I cut left between two rows of slot machines. The machines are just short of head height, so I duck down and half crouch, half walk to the end of the row.

"They're just inside the gaming floor. They haven't seen you," Dave says. "They're walking slowly down the aisle, about twenty feet back."

Keeping my head down, I move to the end of the next row.

"They're nearly level with you. Stay put."

There's an old guy at the cash machine just to the left of me. He gives me a funny look and then goes back to stabbing the buttons. Maybe he thinks that's a slot machine too.

"Okay, they're two rows ahead."

I move to the next row.

"Wait... okay. Next one."

This is going to take a while.

"Stay where you are. Floyd's coming back."

I press myself against the side of a slot machine, taking care to keep every bit of me from sticking out.

"Okay, you can move one more."

We do this for the next seven rows of slots, with Dave telling me when to stop and when to go. When I get to the second last row, Dave tells me to wait again.

"They're deciding what to do. Don't move yet."

The aisles are like spokes on a wheel, dividing the gaming floor into sections. The aisle to the right goes past another collection of slot machines and then on to the bar; the one on the left goes past the card tables, roulette wheels and dice tables and then leads on to the main foyer. I'm hoping they don't choose that one, because that's the one I want to take.

"They're going towards the tables."

Crap.

"Get into the row or they'll see you."

I shuffle round so that I can't be seen from the next aisle. There's a very large woman sitting two machines down from me. She looks at me as if this happens to her every day. Maybe it does.

"They've changed their minds. They're coming back. Stay put."

I could really do with a beer right now.

"They're splitting up. Floyd's going right towards the other slots. The other guy's coming your way. You'll need to move when I say. I'll count to three."

"Okay. One. Two. Three."

There's no point in being subtle about it, so I propel myself as fast as I can towards the leftmost aisle and sprint past the tables. A few players look up but I'm not as interesting as money, so they look down again. I'm halfway down the aisle when I hear the shout.

"Here they come."

My legs are on fire but I force myself to run even faster, my head down and my arms pumping. I make it to the end of the aisle, narrowly missing a group of Chinese men in suits coming in, and hurl myself down the long corridor towards the foyer.

"Matt, zig zag! Zig zag!"

A chunk of stone explodes from a column two feet from me and I realise Floyd's shooting. I follow Dave's advice and run like a crazy person, veering left and right at random to make myself harder to hit. I think I hear four shots, maybe five. Ahead of me people are scattering, leaving cases and coats on the foyer floor as they run for cover.

My heart's beating so fast I think it's going to jump out of my chest. I reach the foyer, veer right and burst through one of the double doors, the sound of footsteps right behind me. I cut right again and sprint down the pavement as Floyd and the other guy barge through the doors, seconds behind me.

And that's when the world goes white.

"Armed police! Throw down your weapons!"

Floyd and his partner are caught in the glare of seven spotlights, which are mounted on top of seven patrol cars. The doors are open, and behind each one there's a policeman wearing Kevlar and pointing either a rifle or a sub-machine gun. Only one of the policemen isn't armed: Burke. He's the one with the megaphone.

Floyd looks as if he's planning to run, but then he decides against it and drops his pistol. His partner does the same.

"Put your hands behind your head!" They do.

"Now very slowly, get on your knees!" They do that, too.

Within seconds they're surrounded by policemen, their guns moved out of reach and their hands cuffed together.

"You okay?" Burke says from behind me.

"Yeah."

"Good. Here." He hands me a bottle of mineral water. "Wait here and catch your breath. I'll be back in a minute."

I slump onto the ground, my back against the casino wall. The water is freezing cold. I drink most of it and use the rest to cool my burning head.