His legs in stocks, covered in days of his own filth and rotten fruit, Jared had a hard time feeling grateful that at least his hands were free, allowing him to ward off the worst of it. Left in the public square, he had only known peace at night, his days spent lying on the hard ground while townsfolk pelted him with rotten fruit.
The cover of darkness allowed Stephen to come out, though, his hat down tight around his head, collar turned up. “I’m sorry,” was the only thing he said before he disappeared again. Jared thought about the long hours in the tavern he had spent with the other man, the innuendo, the subtle flirting, eventually getting him out back in the alley. Their compromising position had let Stephen be the one to get away when they were caught. Jared thought about the effort he had put into all that and what Stephen might have lost if their positions had been reversed.
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I could almost hear the grin in Jasper’s voice. “Russian. Maybe Ukrainian or Belarusian. He’s got quite the entourage with him.”
I paused in the middle of all the bells and chiming of the slot machines. If Jasper was giving me this information it was because he wanted something. To respond would be to give him an edge. In an effort to maintain control I said, “Describe him to me.”
I rolled my eyes with my voice. “The roulette room is filled with Russians.” It was true. Roulette and dice were in the same sector and the Russians seemed to prefer those over games involving more skill.
Jasper came back with, “He’s a tall, good-looking fellow, not the usual fat, sweaty type. He must not smoke: His smile is nearly bleaching out the camera.” Almost as an afterthought Jasper added something actually useful, “And he has a beard.”
“Thanks,” I replied and waved to the nearest camera. I knew Jasper would be watching me to see if I took his bait and went to the roulette room. I stayed rooted where I was for a moment, not wanting to give him anything and suddenly reluctant to get involved. Then my curiosity moved my feet, pulling them off the reluctant gravity of the floor. This was probably the only opportunity I was going to get to see the high roller and move beyond the vague descriptions that had been provided to me thus far.
Without a word to Jasper I stepped away from my noisy sector, fairly certain nothing would happen without me for a few minutes. I made my way out of that dimness to the glitzier part of the casino, through a pair of double doors to the main floor that was made up to look like an old Riviera palace. This transformation was convincing enough that I thought maybe it once was one, going from the dim lights and deep red carpet to the bright chandeliers and marble floors. Emerging from the cave of slot machines and into the bright light with black tie high rollers and the tourists let in to gawk at them, I headed to the roulette room.
Next to private games, the roulette and craps tables had the highest stakes. It could generate a lot of excitement. And not just for the players. A hot streak at a table could light up the entire room, sometimes pulling in people from other sectors. Each table even had a video screen mounted above it to display game information to those who got crowded out, cheers and groans rippling away from whichever table emanated the heat of a lucky run.
Fortunately for me there wasn’t that kind of crowd yet, leaving enough room to make my way across the floor, sticking to the walls and out of patrons’ way. I kept my eye out for a bearded Russian with a sizable entourage. It didn’t take me long to find him. He stood up straight and had a smile on his face. That set him apart from all the other casino goers, most of whom were crouched over tables and grimacing or looking ecstatic, depending on what was happening at their table.
True to Jasper’s words, the Beard did have quite the entourage. There was the usual gun moll; a young woman, too thin and with sharp cheekbones, but startlingly beautiful nonetheless. She hung on his arm or around him, casually ordering drinks and hors d’oeuvre she never touched from whatever casino employee came close by. Not far behind those two was the muscle: One looked to have the shape and intelligence of a brick wall and the other an angry looking whip of a young man, a scar on his cheek marking him from a past dispute.
I didn’t know how if the Beard was the same man that Balaclava had informed me about, but he fit the description enough that I kept out of his line of sight. I floated close enough to confirm that I didn’t know him from Adam, though, which made me wonder how he had known enough about me to give a description. Judging by his movements and treatment by the staff, he was connected enough that he might have come by the information second-hand.
What really told me he was important, though, was the pit boss, Thibalt, floating almost unseen nearby. Efficiently, Thibalt coordinated everything to make sure the Beard and his people were happy. A waiter was nearby ready to swoop in if any kinesics indicated a desire for something not present, and a two security personnel cleared a path through the rabble should the Beard get bored and move to another table.
I nodded appreciatively at Thibalt’s efforts. It was a good idea to keep a curtain between the Beard’s security and the tourists. Russian muscle might not control themselves if someone got pushy and the casino didn’t need an incident that might bring cops.
Which is why both Thibalt and me took notice when another entourage appeared, set on a course for the Beard and his people. Walking through the outer doors of the roulette hall, wearing a dark suit with a black shirt and deep purple tie, came Carlu Sartre, a man known to everyone in the hall, the casino, and probably even the city. The local mob boss, he was rumored to be a silent partner in the casino, but no one would ever be able to prove that. Thibalt spoke into his collar microphone, setting the floor abuzz with an activity that was fitting for the arrival of the shadow king.
My own earbud buzzed, summoning me to where I was already at. I smiled at my luck as Jasper’s possible hold over me evaporated.
Detaching from the wall I watched Sartre and his team of heavies move towards the Beard, who kept smiling and betting, oblivious to the new arrival. I wondered at the coincidence of it all.
Despite the consistent lack of women around him producing rumors that Sartre preferred the company of men (or boys, depending on who was telling the tale) it would have made more sense for him to be involved in a dispute over a local girl. The same gossipers had it that amongst his other grifts he ran the local brothels.
I didn’t have a great deal of time to dwell on that, though, as Sartre closed the distance to the Beard with pumping steps of his short, thick legs. His gait spoke of intention. As I moved to intercept I saw Thibalt do so as well. Both of the Beard’s men saw Sartre before their boss did and closed ranks in front of him, but the Beard gestured them aside so he could step forward to meet the shorter man.
People around them stopped paying attention to the action on the table and started watching them. The air began to fill with the kind of intensity one might associate with a public brawl in a high school. I felt more than saw this, ignoring the stupidity of the herd animals. I knew full well that people with money could be reduced to a mob just as quickly as all the people they looked down on in their saner, more sober moments.
With all of that, I didn’t expect Sartre to pull out a pistol.
If there had been any doubt as to the wisdom of re-branding himself as the artificial intelligence known as Sage, the last of it melted away as Brian hit the submit button. Whereas before when he had put forth his work as a human the Internet merely reached into its wonted stable of insults, now it stopped and considered. Now critics pondered the use of certain colors, wondered at the framing technique, and generally asked the types of questions Brian thought all artists should ask of their fellows.
Standing up from his work station Brian put aside worries that someone would eventually call for proof that an AI existed that could do such work. That anxiety was shunted aside by by a cool gray that glided down his computer screen, erasing all the icons and shortcuts, vanishing the browser he had been using to view the digital marketplace. Words appeared on the screen as they buzzed out of speakers that should have been deactivated. “Hello Sage, I’m BrAIn. I think we need to talk.”
“Buckle up.” As soon as the muffled echo of the car doors dissipates he utters those words, sometimes barely audible, sometimes direct command, but never disputable. Disobedience is met with a stubborn refusal to drive, a stare straight ahead, hands on the wheel, prepared to take you to your destination whenever you comply.
Any protest, whether stemming from the drive’s short distance or the rider’s maturity or personal choice, is met with a repetition of the original command. It becomes a ward, a mantra, the driver commanding a blessing upon you.
Further protests inevitably become heated and the driver’s directive becomes steel. That’s when he turns to you and you can see in his eyes the flames and the blood, the screaming and the chaos it was forged in. Not in Iraq or Afghanistan, but just some street in Baltimore.
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By the time I had gotten back to the apartment to get ready for my shift at the casino my mind was full of questions. But I had a good idea of where to start, which was conveniently the same place that I needed to go anyway. I washed the sweat from the cafe fight from my face and slipped into my dress shirt and slacks. Throw on a pea coat and an umbrella for protection against the rain and I felt about as French as I was ever going to get.
I didn’t want to spend a lot of time walking in the rain though so I took the tram into the better part of town, watching the high-rise tenements disappear behind the foothills to be replaced by the terracotta roofs of the old city. I stepped off the tram far from the motorways and promenade that would be filled with tourists even at this time of the year, but much closer to the casino than home.
Still early by gambler hours it was easy to slip around to the back and through an employee entrance. While it certainly lacked the lights and impressive architecture of the grand front entrance, the back did have a large canopy to let smokers enjoy their habit out of the rain. In my case, it allowed me to catch Gaspard on his way in. Many of the pit bosses weren’t friendly with the employees they managed and Gaspard was no exception, setting a quick pace as he moved towards the entrance. Even so, Gaspard seemed to pick up his step when he spotted me by the door. I shook off my umbrella and made as if I had just arrived, hoping to set him at ease.
I reached for the door as he approached, but didn’t get out my security card. Gaspard already had his out and swiped it, but I still had a moment to say hello as I opened it. He nodded and mumbled something, then slid through the cracked door with his narrow shoulders like a man escaping a flooding compartment. I followed him in.
I followed the standard protocol with Gaspard as I did with shop owners and anyone else I wanted something from that also happened to be French. Rather than jumping right to my questions I politely kept pace with him down the utility hall saying, “Hello,” and asking him how he was. Gaspard responded to both of these with the same kind of distant politeness as the merchants I dealt with, but with him there was no recognition of the effort to conform to local tradition.
Sensing that he was as warm as he was going to get I asked him, “The Corsican last night? Was the patron he was bothering older? Good looking? Big white teeth?” Gaspard stopped short in the middle of the hallway, causing a couple of croupiers to move around him with the speed and fluidity the casino demanded of its staff.
The stare Gaspard gave me over his shoulder didn’t contain any of the nervous sweatiness that he had displayed in the holding room with the Corsican. There was only the silent authority that he exuded as a pit boss. “What does it matter to you?”
I appreciated Gaspard’s need to maintain some distance from the other employees, but I was getting tired of him pretending it applied to me. Between the Corsican mentioning a girl and the trio ruining my breakfast there were more questions than I wanted to be bothered with. I stepped close enough to Gaspard that he had to turn fully to me to keep his balance. “I think I’ve seen the Corsican around.” I smiled, all politeness and no mirth. “I want to make sure he doesn’t bother our guest.” That was nearly impossible, of course. After causing enough trouble to get evicted last night, external security would almost certainly be alerted and provided with a description.
My proximity caused some of Gaspard’s previous nervousness to return. He glanced up at me briefly then around to see if there were any other employees within earshot. Without looking back at me he replied, “No.”
That was disappointing, but expected. It didn’t make sense for the high roller to follow his harasser then sic the Corsican’s comrades on me. Then it occurred to me that might not be Gaspard’s answer, but a refusal. Reading him, growing nervousness without good cause, left me more uncertain to which it was. So I requested, “If the high roller comes back, point him out to me. Please. I’d like to keep an eye on him. For his protection,” I lied, adding a bit of truth to it for the sake of credibility, “I believe the Corsican may have friends.”
A shot of fear through went through Gaspard’s eyes that let me know I’d hit on something with the last sentence. His response was a question that didn’t give anything away. “How do you know this?”
I shrugged, indicating I wasn’t concerned, only showing professional caution. “A couple of voyous followed me home last night. They looked a bit like him. Probably nothing.” The momentary fear in Gaspard’s eyes resolved into a guarded circumspection.
I was tempted to push it further, but I couldn’t do it in the hall without attracting the attention of other employees. And word of any sort of altercation would get around. Like any place that runs on silence and formality, the casino employees loved gossip.
Not able to get anymore out of him right now I just smiled at Gaspard and slapped him on the shoulder. Outside of a handshake when we had first been introduced nearly a year ago, I had never touched Gaspard. The pat was an overly friendly gesture that jarred his caginess with an irritation. I used his momentary frustration to give him an oblivious nod and walk away.
Sandwiched between the receiving dock and a row of walk-in freezers at the back of the kitchens were the employee areas, one for changing and one for dining. I went into the locker room and opened mine, taking out the black blazer. Recently dry cleaned, it had a chemical tang that reminded me of baking soda and fresh coffee, an odor I found oddly pleasant. It was one of the small things that brought me happiness in work at the casino. I was also glad I didn’t have to wear one of the vests of the dealers or a pretend cop uniform like some Las Vegas security. The blazer, at least, conferred some dignity. Or at least that’s what I told myself.
I swung by the security office to see if there were any alerts and to pick up my earbud. I nodded to the team of surveillance professionals that were breaking there, there eyes deadened by the constant hours of staring at screens, shirts stained with countless cups of coffee. One of the younger ones, a short man with an unvarying black stubble on his face named Jasper, broke away from the others to say to me, “Lost you on the security footage for a few minutes last night.”
I nodded, popping in my earbud, the constant noise of the casino chatter joining our conversation through it. “Yeah. Had a bit of a backroom waltz.” I threw in a bit of the odd slang that many of the casino employees seemed to enjoy when it came from the American. Funny thing was I had learned that one from an Australian.
“You know, disarming cameras is against casino policy. Punishable by termination.” Jasper gave me a smile that was supposed to tell me he was joking, but also told me he enjoyed having this bit of power over another employee. That’s all you really need to know about Jasper. I could have asked him to get me an image of the high roller the Corsican had been bothering and he most likely could have gotten it. But asking him would have given him something to hold over me and he was the type of person to want that.
“The semeur must have jostled the camera.” I smiled at the obviousness of the lie, letting Jasper know I didn’t expect him to believe it. Dealing with troublemakers like the Corsican, though, was a part of my unofficial duties so anyone Jasper might have told about the incident would choose to believe the falsehood. Jasper knew this, so let me go with an equally spurious chuckle and nod.
I tuned into the buzz coming from the earbud as I headed onto the floor and the section of the casino I had been assigned for the evening. As usual, I was banished to one of the least populated realms, with the one-armed bandits and other automated games, the less glamorous section populated with pensioners and slot jockeys. The rooms were kept dim so the young tourists searching for a bit of excitement didn’t have to see the end game if their curiosity became an obsession.
It was as boring as it sounds. I mostly gave directions to older folks confused by the casino’s labyrinthian layout and kept an eye out for machines that were paying out too often. It wasn’t a bad job as far as jobs go and I was accustom to spending long hours on my feet.
I had been at this for a stretch of time when the buzz of the casino communications went quiet in the earbud. It was replaced by Jasper’s voice sounding more weaselly than usual. He let me know we were on a direct channel by saying my name. I asked him what he wanted.
“That high roller you were asking Gaspard about?” That exchange had made its way up and down the grapevine faster than I thought it would. I didn’t say anything into the microphone pinned under my collar. Moments went by until Jasper continued with, “He’s in the roulette room.”
