Perpetual Motion (6 page)

“So, where are we going?” Michael asked out
in the hallway.

“A cheap room off the strip,” he said. “We
just need to buy a little time till you get a chance to meet with
Mancuso in person.”

It was a relief to Cynical when Michael
didn’t balk at the mention of getting together with his former
investor. In fact, he seemed resigned to the idea.

“I want to take my car with me,” was
Michael’s only comment.

“We can take my car,” Cynical said as they
arrived at the elevator. “You can get your car after you talk to
Mancuso.”

“It will just take a minute,” Michael
insisted as he hit the down button. “It’s in the parking lot.”

“It’ll be fine there,” Cynical reassured him.
Checking the hallway, he took notice of a man in a dark suit.

“Well, I’m not leaving it here,” Michael said
adamantly, giving the down button an extra couple of presses.

Cynical gave the man a second look. Something
about him didn’t seem right. Maybe it was the way he was ambling
along, moving slowly, too slowly. Maybe it was the fact that he was
wearing sunglasses inside a dimly lit hall.

“Are you listening to me?” Michael asked.

The elevator light came on, announcing its
immanent arrival. The man in the hallway was now about fifteen feet
away; his face was turned down, as if studying the pattern of the
carpet. Suddenly Cynical noticed it - an earpiece.

The elevator doors opened revealing a second
man, also wearing a dark suit, sunglasses and an ear piece. Either
there was a deaf and blind convention in the hotel or something was
wrong.

The man in the elevator reached for his coat
pocket, solidifying Cynical’s course of action. Without hesitation,
he stepped around Michael and, with a clear shot, put everything he
had into a straight right cross. Bulls-eye. His fist landed in the
middle of the man’s face, smashing a pair of wire frame glasses
into nose cartilage.

The man fell backwards into the elevator,
slipped, and went to the floor. His ear piece hung from his neck, a
heavy handgun clattering on the floor beside him.

The man from the hall was already grabbing
Michael from behind. Cynical spun around, tackling both Michael and
the man. Bouncing off the wall, they scattered on the floor like
three spare bowling pins.

Michael stayed down, but both the private
detective and the assailant struggled to get off the carpet first.
A little quicker to his feet, Cynical shoved the crouching man into
the wall again, breaking a framed abstract picture.

“Cynical!” Michael shouted from the
floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cynical caught
sight of a third man charging down the hall. It was his opinion
that carrying a gun generally caused more problems than it solved.
At that moment, however, he wished he had something to even the
odds.

Michael reached up and pushed the down button
again. The elevator was waiting and the doors immediately reopened
revealing the dazed man sitting in the floor, holding his bloody
nose. A quick calculation told him his odds were better in the
elevator with one semi-conscious man, Michael leapt inside.

Through the closing doors, Michael could see
Cynical being tackled, hard. And then the doors shut, as if the
scene was too violent to show in its entirety.

As he began his descent, Michael looked down
at the man with the broken glasses and nose, groping for his
handgun a couple of feet away. With barely controlled panic, he
stomped on the man’s hand. Already anguished, the man yelled and
yanked his hand back, giving Michael a chance to bend down and pick
up the pistol.

In a soft thin voice, Michael could make out,
“We have the lobby secure,” coming from the bloody man. But the
man’s mouth wasn’t moving. Staring closer, he realized the words
were coming from the man’s dangling earpiece.

“So there are more in the lobby?” Michael
asked. Without waiting for an answer, he looked at the passing
floors on the panel: 17 and counting down. Hitting button 15, the
elevator came to a remarkably smooth stop given its short notice.
With his bag of cash and clothes still in tow, Michael jumped out
of the elevator and ran down the hall.

Upstairs, Cynical had turned the tables and
was working over one of the men with savage body blows. The second
man seemed content to catch his breath and watch the fight for a
minute. When he’d seen enough, he pulled out a gun from inside his
jacket, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

A sharp pain surged through the side of
Cynical’s ribcage, instantly finding its way to his heart. Every
muscle seized up and, when the electrical pulse ended, his entire
body went limp, leaving him to collapse in a heap in the
hallway.

Taking a moment to listen to their ear
pieces, both men calmly stepped over the motionless PI, pressed the
down button, and waited for the elevator to return. In the interim,
they re-tucked their shirts and straightened their sunglasses and
ties. The shooter then leaned down and plucked the taser prongs out
of their victim’s side.

“It’s your lucky day,” the man said as he
rolled up the wires. “Next time it will be a bullet to the brain.”
Standing up, he gave the statement an exclamation point with a
swift kick to the still ringing ribs, sending a fresh dose of pain
bouncing off his internal organs.

When the doors opened, both men stepped
inside the elevator as if they’d just finished a business meeting
and were on their way to grab lunch. All Cynical could do was close
his eyes and thank God he was alive. Then he passed out.

As he regained consciousness, Cynical looked
up to see a man hovering over him. When he noticed the suit, dread
washed over him as he braced for another round with the men in
black. Then he could see this particular suit was wrapped a little
too tightly and came with a brass nameplate affixed to the lapel
that read ‘hotel security.’

The bulky security guard with a crew-cut bent
down to examine him. “He’s awake.”

With his vision sharpening, he looked around
and found himself in a nondescript backroom. Decorated with a table
and three metal folding chairs, the interior designer had clearly
stopped before getting to this section of the hotel.

A second security guard with gray hair
materialized into his field of vision.

“All right, Mr. Private Detective, let’s have
a little chat.”

Obviously, the security guys had already gone
through his wallet. Putting forth his most compliant face, he
stared up at Gray Hair. “What do you want to know?”

“For starters, what went on in my hotel a few
minutes ago?”

“I was attacked – by three guys,” he told the
want-to-be Steve Wynn.

“Why?” the security officer asked, knowing
this already since he’d just watched the entire scene on the
security video. “What did they want?”

“I don’t know. I was just hired to find
someone, which I did. His name is Michael Dexter,” Cynical said.
“He was staying in one of your Presidential Suites. They were after
him.”

Picking up a piece of paper, Gray Hair read,
“We have him registered as ‘B. Pascal.’”

“Pascal? Well, I figured he was staying under
a fake name.” Cynical stopped to consider the alias. “Wasn’t that a
French philosopher or something?”

The two security guards shared a blank look.
Guess they’d skipped that class.

“So, who hired you?” the lead investigator
asked.

“I don’t know,” Cynical said with a shrug.
“The whole thing was arranged through an attorney in LA. Like I
said, the job was to find Michael Dexter. I think it involved some
sort of business deal gone bad, but I don’t know the details.”

“What was this Michael Dexter doing at the
Mirage?”

“He was playing roulette all over town. He
was winning too. I found him over at the Flamingo and brought him
back over here to pack up and leave.”

“Okay, so you found him…” Gray Hair pulled a
chair over and took a seat opposite his prisoner. “Then what?”

“I was going to take him to meet my client,”
Cynical said innocently.

“I thought you didn’t know who your client
was?” the security man interjected.

“I don’t. I guess I would have met him if I’d
been able to hang on to Dexter. We were waiting for the elevator
when we were jumped by these guys.”

“And you don’t have any idea who they
were?”

“No idea,” Cynical said, shaking his head for
emphasis. “I figure the kid must have made some serious enemies
though.”

The security officer nodded thoughtfully.

Cynical felt like he had sounded pretty
cooperative and hoped his interrogator would reciprocate. “Did they
get him?” he asked. “Did they get the kid?”

“We’re still reviewing the tapes,” the Mirage
officer said. “Whoever they were, they didn’t stick around. But,
no, we didn’t see them leaving with your boy. In fact, we haven’t
seen him leave at all.” As if suddenly remembering he was supposed
to be the one asking the questions, he redirected, “Where are you
staying?”

“The Bellagio.”

“Good,” he said. “I don’t want to see you at
the Mirage again.”

“That’s not a problem,” Cynical reassured
him. “I’m leaving Vegas as soon as you’re finished with me
here.”

Gray Hair stood and hitched up his pants.
“We’re done. But if you see Mr. Dexter or Mr. Pascelli or whatever
he goes by, tell him to steer clear of the Mirage.”

“I don’t think I’ll see him, but, if I do,
I’ll definitely pass that along.”

Gray Hair gave a nod to his large, silent
partner who walked over and opened a side door. That seemed to be
his cue. Getting up, Cynical left the room and entered a steel
hallway. At the end of a long corridor, he pushed open another
metal door and was suddenly thrust into the gaming room.

Judging by the lack of activity, it was
really late or really early, depending on how much you were up or
down. The way he figured it, he was down fifty grand and could feel
a gambler’s hangover coming on strong.

As soon as Cynical got outside the Mirage, he
redialed the last number on his cell phone. After a few rings it
was answered by the man himself.

“Mancuso.”

“I lost him,” Cynical said, not wasting time.
“This group swooped in and tried to take him. I don’t know who they
were, but they were pros. They had sunglasses and ear-pieces. They
even wore ties. It was very impressive.”
There was a static filled couple of seconds before Mancuso got to
the only question that seemed to matter to him. “Where’s Michael
now?”

“I don’t know.” Cynical paused, checking to
see if anyone was following him. There were a few stragglers on the
fairly quiet strip. For Vegas, he was virtually alone. “I think he
got away, but I’m not sure about that.”

“A shame,” Mancuso said softly, sounding like
he meant it. “Do you have any idea where he could have gone?”

“Not really,” Cynical admitted. “He could be
anywhere.”

“I suppose you’ll go back to Los Angeles,”
Mancuso said after a beat.

“Yeah,” Cynical said.

“Well, I appreciate you letting me know,”
Mancuso said, and then was gone.

Standing on the brightly lit strip, Cynical
hung up. Tired, hungry and sore, he felt like Vegas had just rolled
him in a back alley and left him for dead. Just then, a torrent of
fire and smoke exploded behind him. This time the private detective
didn’t even turn around. If you’d seen one erupting volcano in the
city, you’d seen them all.

By the time Cynical dragged himself back to
his room at the Bellagio, it was four in the morning. As weary as
he was, he wasn’t sure he could get to sleep. His chest still ached
from the electrical shock and his mind reeled from the jumble of
events. Rather than toss and turn for a few hours, he decided to go
ahead and pack up, check out, and return his rent-a-car at McCarran
Airport.

Waiting at the terminal gate, he watched as
bleary-eyed businessmen, strung out gamblers, and hung-over
conventioneers trickled into the boarding area for the LA flight.
Departure time was nearing and he was itching to get home where he
could crawl into bed and not wake up for about two or three
days.

As he closed his eyes, the loudspeaker
crackled to life. “Mr. Jones, please come to the ticket counter,”
the ticket agent announced, “Mr. Jones, to the ticket counter.”

What now? Was he now going to be forced to
check his bag or strip searched? Tentatively approaching the desk,
a friendly airline agent greeted him.

“Mr. Jones?”

“Yeah?”

The agent smiled benevolently. “Since you
paid full price for your ticket, would you like to be upgraded?”
Leaning in a little closer, she lowered her voice. “We have an
opening in first class.”

As much as he despised the bourgeois caste
system imposed by the airlines, he hated their cramped “economy”
seats even more. At least he might be able to catch a few minutes
rest on the short flight. “All right,” he grumbled, giving in.

“You’ll be in row five, seat B,” she
whispered so the riffraff couldn’t overhear. Then, taking the
microphone, she announced. “Flight 1212 to Los Angles is now
boarding first class.” She winked at Cynical.

Meandering over to the gate, he took the
short walk through the jet bridge, over to his waiting bird. An
attendant checked his freshly minted ticket and beamed with
newfound admiration as she directed him to his seat, even calling
him by name. Suddenly, he was somebody.

Approaching 5B, he couldn’t help but notice a
long shapely leg extending a foot and a calf into the aisle. At the
fifth row, Cynical turned and took in the rest of the body warming
seat A. Attractive by any standards, her dark hair was pinned up;
her eyeglasses made her look both smart and sexy. First class all
the way.