been traipsing around the casino below.
Pope had once asked him why he hadn’t renovated the entire hotel rather than just the fourteenth floor, and Troy had told him that he was afraid it would scare away the locals and budget tourists who made up ninety percent of his trade.
“Besides,” Troy had said, “it would cost too much. And you know how fond I am of money.”
Pope did indeed. In fact, his own current lifestyle was, in part, the result of that fondness. But he also knew that the Oasis, just as it stood, was the perfect under-the-radar cover for Troy’s other, less legitimate, activities.
Anderson Troy was not your typical casino owner. For that matter, he wasn’t your typical anything.
He was, however, a dangerous man.
Once Pope’s shoes were in place, Arturo handed him a pair of disposable foot covers, which he dutifully slipped on over his socks.
He felt like a toddler wearing bunny pajamas.
“Go on in,” Arturo said. “He’s expecting you.”
No shit, Sherlock.
Pope almost made the remark out loud, but restrained himself. What was the point? Arturo was a simple working man who did his job and seemed to bear no grudges against anyone. Even when he was killing them.
Instead, Pope nodded and pushed through the double doors into the now familiar lair of one of the youngest self-made multi-millionaires in the world. A man who had made those millions in DVDs and video games, among other things. Not creating them, mind you, but hacking their copy protection, pirating and selling them overseas.
Only a select few knew that Troy was worth so much. And since making his first several million, he had branched out into a variety of Internet schemes that could potentially land him in prison for life, if he weren’t so good at remaining anonymous.
A self-styled gangster, he was really nothing more than a thirtysomething computer geek with a lot of hired muscle. And, of course, the will to use it when necessary.
He was sitting on the sofa, which was a soft gray puff of nothing that blended in beautifully with the muted grays and whites that dominated the room. Looking like a stain on the fabric, he was hunched over a laptop computer, wearing a faded GOT ROOT? T-shirt and frayed, cut-off maroon sweats, his stringy wannabe rock star hair hanging in his face.
He didn’t bother to look up when he said:
“A fag?”
These were the last words Pope had expected to come out of Troy’s mouth at that particular moment, so he responded with a simple, “What?”
Troy tore himself away from the computer screen and made eye contact. “You want me to believe I was once a faggot? A homo?”
“I think the politically correct term is gay,” Pope said.
“I don’t give a fuck how you candy-coat it. This Nigel Fromme guy? I just did a Google on him and found some very disconcerting information. Turns out he was an artist. One of the hottest painters of his time.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Not a thing,” Troy said. “It’s his sexual orientation that concerns me.”
“I take it he’s gay?”
“Gayer than a bucket full of butterflies.”
“So? What difference does it make?”
“Difference?” Troy closed his laptop, got to his feet. He was high school-basketball tall. “Let me explain something to you, Daniel. I come from a long line of God-fearing, gun-loving homophobes. Now, personally, I’m a little more progressive in my thinking. I don’t have an ax to grind when it comes to people’s choice of bed partners. You’re a guy, you want to bag another guy, shit, you want to bag a gerbil, that’s your choice. Whatever you do in the privacy of your home is your own business. But do me a favor and make sure it stays that way. I’ve got no interest in you unless you’re a big-titted blonde with no sudden surprises dangling between your legs.”
He moved toward Pope now. “So when I find out this Nigel Fromme guy was a full-on flamer, you can understand my concern.”
“Not really, no.”
Troy sighed. “If I believe all this stuff you’ve fed me about past lives-”
“ I’ve fed you?”
“-then I have to believe that my soul once occupied Nigel Fromme’s body, right?”
Pope shrugged. “That’s the theory.”
There had long been a debate in the hypnosis community over past life regression therapy. Was it real, or was it, as Pope’s grandfather, an old jazz musician, used to say, pure bushwa?
A lot of people in the field believed that even simple childhood regression therapy was bullshit. Nothing more than a combination of recall and imagination. But, to Pope’s mind, that didn’t necessarily negate its usefulness as a therapy. Recall and imagination could reveal quite a bit about a person.
For the record, however, it was Troy who had originally brought up the subject of reincarnation, after reading an article about it online. Pope’s own feelings about the matter remained noncommittal. He didn’t really give a damn.
“So if this Nigel guy liked to bat for the home team,” Troy was saying, “then my soul was batting right along with him. The same soul that occupies my body, right here, right now.”
Pope said nothing. Figured it was better to let that one go.
“In other words, you’re telling me I’m a fag.”
Pope stared at him, wondering if this was a joke of some kind. Troy having fun. Was Sharkey standing behind the door to the kitchen, laughing his ass off at Pope’s expense?
He didn’t think so.
Troy wasn’t the kind of guy who joked around. And computer geek or not, the man was unpredictable when he got angry.
“I’m not telling you anything,” Pope said. “That’s not how it works.”
“Oh? Then how does it work? Because the way I see it, either I’m a fag or you made a mistake. Which is it?”
There was a sudden chill in the room. Real or imagined, Pope couldn’t be sure. Feeling a presence behind him, he turned to find Arturo standing quietly in the doorway.
Not a good sign.
What had begun as an off-the-cuff, semi-stoned conversation during a late-night poker game had turned into an impromptu, after-hours hypnosis session that had now somehow morphed into a deeply offended and lethally angry Anderson Troy. And the only one Troy could find to blame for the insult was the messenger. The hypnotist. The guy who had put him under.
That, of course, would be Pope. Star of the Desert Oasis Hotel-Casino’s ever popular late-night lounge show, Metamorphosis. Twenty bucks and a drink. Discount coupons in the hotel lobby.
“You know,” Pope said, offering Troy his million-dollar stage smile, thinking he needed his glittery black tux to make it official, “this isn’t an exact science. Maybe I did something wrong, got some wires crossed somehow. If you like, we can try again, see what happens.”
Troy nodded to Arturo, who quietly returned the nod and left the room.
“I’m glad you see it that way, Daniel. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to replace this carpet again.”
5
The boy couldn’t remember any of it.
After Anna identified herself as FBI, the owner of the junkyard stowed his shotgun and muzzled his German shepherd, letting Anna pull Evan out of his hiding place and carry him back toward the house.
