Secret of the Seventh Son (13 page)

He passed Caesars then the Venetian, but they were too fakey and Disneylike. Harrahs and the Flamingo left him cold. The Bellagio was too flash. New York New York, another theme park. He was running out of Strip. The MGM Grand was a possibility. He didn't love it but he didn't hate it either. At the corner of Tropicana he almost made a left to swing into the MGM parking lot. But then he saw it and knew it was going to be his new place.

Of course, he had seen it before, thousands of times, since after all it was a Las Vegas landmark. Thirty stories of black glass, the Luxor pyramid rose 350 feet into the desert sky. An obelisk and the Great Sphinx of Giza marked the entrance, but the true marker was at the apex, a spotlight pointing straight upward, piercing the darkness, the brightest beacon on the planet, putting out an insane forty-one gigacandela of luminosity, more than enough to blind an unsuspecting pilot making an approach into McCarran. He drove toward the glass edifice and drank in the mathematical perfection of the triangular faces. His mind filled with the geometrical equations of pyramids and triangles, and then a name tenderly slipped from his lips.

"Pythagoras."

Before Mark settled into the sedate bar at the casino-level steakhouse, he gave the property a once-over as if he were a prospective house buyer. It wasn't the Constellation but it punched a lot of tickets. He liked the bold hieroglyph designs on the gold, red, and lapis carpets, the towering lobby re-creation of the temple statues of Luxor, and the museum quality mock-up of Tutankhamen's tomb. Yes, it was kitschy but this was Vegas, for heaven's sake, not the Louvre.

He drank his second Heineken and pondered his next move. He had located the high-limit rooms behind frosted glass partitions to the rear of the casino floor. He had money in his pocket and knew that even if he refused to acknowledge the count in his head he could still spend a few diverting hours at the tables. Tomorrow was Friday, a workday, and his alarm would sound at five-thirty. But tonight there was something titillating about being in a new casino; it was like a first date, and he was feeling shy and stimulated.

The bar was nearing capacity, clumps of diners awaiting tables, couples and groups spouting animated conversation and throaty laughter. He had chosen the empty middle stool in a row of three and as the alcohol took effect wondered why the stools on either side of him remained unoccupied. Was he radioactive, tainted? Did these people know he was a failed writer? Had they heard he was a card cheat? Even the bartender had treated him coolly, hardly making the effort for a decent tip. His mood darkened again. He drank the last of his beer fast and tapped the bar for another.

As the alcohol soaked into his brain he had a paranoid notion: what if they also knew his
real
secret? No, they were clueless, he decided contemptuously. You people have no idea, he thought angrily, no fucking idea. I know things you'll never know in your whole fucking insignificant lives.

To his right a busty woman in her forties leaning hard on the bar shrieked like a girl when the fat guy standing next to her touched the back of her neck with an ice cube. Mark swiveled to take in the little drama, and when he swiveled back a man was occupying the stool to his left.

"If someone did that to me I would split their lip," the man said.

Mark looked at him, startled. "I'm sorry, were you talking to me?" he asked.

"I was just saying, if a stranger did that to me, it would be all over, you know what I mean?"

The fat man and the lady with a cold neck were pawing each other, having a jolly time.

"I don't think they're strangers," Mark said.

"Maybe not. I'm just saying what I would have done."

The man was thin but extremely muscular, clean-shaven and black-haired, with soft fleshy lips and oily skin the color of hazelnuts. He was Puerto Rican with a strong island accent, casually dressed in black slacks and loose-fitting tropical shirt open to the breastbone. He had long manicured fingers, a square gold ring on each hand, and shiny gold chains around his neck. At most he was thirty-five. He extended a hand, and Mark had to grab it out of politeness. The ring seemed to weigh as much as the appendage. "Luis Camacho," the man said. "How you doin'?"

"Peter Benedict," Mark replied. "I'm doing okay."

Luis pointed emphatically at the floor. "When I'm in town, this is my favorite place. I love the Luxor, man."

Mark sipped his beer. There was never a good time for small talk, especially tonight. A blender whirred loudly.

Undeterred, Luis continued, "I like the way the rooms have sloping walls, you know on account of the pyramid. I think that's pretty cool, you know?" Luis waited for a reply, and Mark knew he had to fill the void or perhaps risk getting a split lip.

"I've never stayed here," he said.

"No? Which hotel you stayin' at?"

"I live in Vegas."

"No shit! A local! I love that! I'm here like twice a week and I almost never meet locals outside of the people who work here, you know?"

The bartender poured something thick from the blender into Luis's glass. "It's a frozen margarita," Luis declared proudly. "You want one?"

"No thanks. I've got a beer."

"Heineken," Luis observed. "Nice beer."

"Yep, nice beer," Mark replied stiffly. Unfortunately the beer was too fresh to excuse himself gracefully.

"So what kind of work do you do, Peter?"

Mark glanced sideways and saw that a comical frothy moustache had appeared on Luis's lip. So who would he be tonight? Writer? Gambler? Computer analyst? Like a slot machine, the possibilities rolled around until the wheels stopped. "I'm a writer," he answered.

"No shit! Like novels?"

"Films. I write screenplays."

"Wow! Have I seen any of your movies?"

Mark fidgeted on his stool. "They haven't been produced yet but I'm looking at a studio deal later this year."

"That's great, man! Like thrillers? Or funny comedies?"

"Thrillers mostly. Big budget stuff."

Luis took large slushy pulls on his drink. "So where do you get your ideas from?"

Mark gestured broadly. "All around. This is Vegas. If you can't get ideas in Vegas, you can't get them anywhere."

"Yeah, I see what you mean. Maybe I could read something you wrote. That would be cool."

The only way Mark could think to change the conversation was to ask a question himself. "So what do you do, Luis?"

"I'm a flight attendant, man. For US Air. This is my route, New York to Vegas. I go back and forth, back and forth." He moved his hand one way then another to illustrate the concept.

"You like it?" Mark asked automatically.

"Yeah, you know, it's okay. It's like a six hour flight so I get to overnight in Vegas a few times a week and stay here, so yeah, I like it pretty well. I could get paid more but I got good benefits and shit and they treat us with respect most of the time."

Luis's drink was spent. He waved the bartender over for another. "You sure I can't get you one, or another Heineken, Peter?"

Mark declined. "I've got to take off soon."

"You play the tables?" Luis asked.

"Yeah, I play blackjack sometimes," Mark answered.

"I don't like that game so much. I like the slots. But I'm a flight attendant, man, so I gotta watch out. What I do is limit myself to fifty bucks. I blow through that, I'm like done." He tensed a little then asked, "You bet big?"

"Sometimes."

Another margarita was served up. Luis seemed overtly nervous now and licked his lips to keep them moist. He took his wallet out and paid for his drinks with Visa. The wallet was slim but stuffed, and his New York driver's license slid out with the credit card. He absently let the license sit on the bar and placed his wallet over it and took a large gulp of his fresh margarita.

"So, Peter," he said finally. "You feel like betting big on me tonight?"

Mark didn't understand the question. It disoriented him. "I don't know what you mean."

Luis let his hand move across the polished wood until his pinky touched Mark's hand ever so slightly. "You said you never saw what the rooms here look like. I could show you what mine looks like."

Mark felt faint. There was a legitimate chance he was going to pass out, fall right off the bar stool like a drunk in a slapstick. He could feel his heart start to pound and his breathing become rapid and shallow. His chest felt like it was mummy-wrapped. He straightened his spine and pulled his hand away, sputtering, "You think I--"

"Hey, man, I'm sorry. I thought, you know, that maybe you dug guys. It's no big deal." Then, almost under his breath, "Anyway, my boyfriend, John, would be happy I struck out."

No big deal? Mark thought violently. No fucking big deal! Hey, asshole, this is a major big deal, you fucking faggot! I don't want to hear about your fucking boyfriend! Leave me the fuck alone! This broadside blared inside his head as a cascade of visceral sensations piled on, dizziness, rising nausea, full-blown panic. He didn't think he'd be able to stand up and walk away without hitting the ground. The sounds of the restaurant and casino disappeared; he could only hear thumping in his chest.

Luis seemed alarmed by Mark's wide eyes and crazy stare. "Hey, man, chill, you know. You're a nice guy. I don't want to stress you out. I'm just going to hit the john, then we can just talk. Forget about the room thing. Cool?"

Mark didn't respond. He sat motionless trying to get his body under control. Luis grabbed his wallet and said, "Be right back. Watch my drink, okay?" He lightly patted Mark's back and tried to sound soothing. "Chill, okay?"

Mark watched as Luis disappeared around the corner, his slender hips packed tightly into his slacks. The sight distilled all his emotions into one: rage. His temperature soared. His temples burned. He tried to cool himself by chugging the rest of his cold beer.

After a few moments he thought he might be able to stand and he gingerly tried out his legs. So far, so good. His knees held. He wanted to leave fast, without a trace, so he hastily threw a twenty down on the bar, then another ten to make sure. The second bill landed on a card. It was Luis's license. Mark looked around then furtively picked it up.

He threw it back down on the bar and almost ran out. There was no need to write it down. It was already memorized.

After he left the Luxor, he drove home to his subdivision on a quiet six-unit cul-de-sac. The patio house was a pleasant off-white stucco with an orange tile roof. It sat on a small plot with rug-sized lawns. The backyard had a deck off the kitchen and a privacy fence for sunbathing. The interior was decorated with a bachelor's insouciance. When he was in the private sector earning a big high-tech salary in Menlo Park, he'd purchased expensive contemporary furniture for a modern apartment, minimalist pieces with sharp angles and splashes of primary colors. That same furniture in a Spanish-style ranch looked off, like rancid food. It was a soulless interior almost completely devoid of art, ornaments, and personalized touches.

Mark couldn't find a comfortable spot. He felt raw, his emotions a roiling acid bath. He tried to watch TV but after a few minutes turned it off in disgust. He picked up a magazine then threw it down on the coffee table, sending it sliding into a small framed photograph, which toppled. He picked it up and looked at it: the freshman roommates, twenty-fifth reunion. Zeckendorf's wife had it framed and sent it as a memento.

He wasn't sure why he had displayed it. These people meant nothing to him now. In fact, he'd despised them once. Especially Dinnerstein, his personal tormentor, who turned the ordinary traumas of being a socially backward freshman into exquisite torture with his constant ridicule and opprobrium. Zeckendorf wasn't much better. Will had been different from the others, but in a way he wound up being more disappointing.

In the photo, Mark stood woodenly, faking a smile, with Will's big arm over his shoulder. Will Piper, golden boy. Mark had spent the entire freshman year enviously watching how easily things came to him--women, friends, good times. Will always displayed a gentlemanly grace, even to him. When Dinnerstein and Zeckendorf ganged up on him, Will would defuse them with a joke or bat them away with his bear paw of a hand. For months he had fantasized that Will would ask to room with him sophomore year so he could continue to bask in his reflected glory. Then in the spring, right before midterms, something happened.

He had been in bed one night, trying to sleep. His three roommates were in the common room, drinking beer and playing music too loudly. In frustration, he shouted through the door, "Hey, you fuckers, I've got an exam tomorrow!"

"Did the dipshit call us fuckers?" Dinnerstein asked the others.

"I believe he did," Zeckendorf confirmed.

"Need to do something about that," Dinnerstein fumed.

Will turned the stereo down. "Leave him alone."

An hour later the three of them were beyond drunk: loose-jointed, room-heaving, inebriated--the kind of state where bad ideas seem good.

Dinnerstein had a roll of duct tape in his hand and was sneaking into Mark's bedroom. Mark was a heavy sleeper and he and Zeckendorf had no problem taping him to the top bunk, looping the film around and around until he looked like a mummy. Will watched from the doorway in a stupor, a stupid grin on his face, but did nothing to stop them.

When they were satisfied with their handiwork, they kept on drinking and laughing in the common room until they crashed out on the floor.

The next morning, when Will opened the bedroom door, Mark was cocooned to the bed, immobile in a gray wrap. Tears were streaming down his red face. He turned his head to Will. There was hatred and betrayal in his eyes. "I missed my exam." Then, "I peed myself."

Will cut the tape away with a Swiss Army knife and Mark heard him mutter a thick apology through his hangover, but the two of them never spoke again.

Will had gone on to fame and renown doing admirable things, while he had labored a lifetime in obscurity. Now, he remembered what Dinnerstein had said about Will that night in Cambridge: the most successful profiler of serial killers in history. The man. Infallible. What could people say about him? He clenched his eyelids tightly.