Santeson had a special elevator key, given him by Milan, which would take him to those topmost rooms when he was summoned into the man's presence. But generally, during the day, Aristotle Milan stayed well out of sight, down in the subterranean bowels of the place. Santeson understood that his employer had private apartments down there, to which he wasn't and never had been privy. To his knowledge, only Milan's goons had ever got that close —
— Well, until tonight, anyway…
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE… Before The Storm
It was almost as dark inside the casino when Santeson re-entered the place. Some electrical failure, which had taken out most of the lights, and no one left to fix it. But even if it was black as night in there he would know where to find Milan's minders.
Surrounding the Pleasure Dome's central spindle, six elevators formed a hexagonal tube of glass and stainless steel. Four of these serviced the casino's upper levels, excluding Milan's bubble. The fifth was for the use of casino personnel only and gave access to the basement and the almost literally bomb-proof Fort Knox-like accountancy vaults. As for number six: that was exclusive to the persons of Milan himself, his minders, and anyone else who he might choose to entertain, either in the bubble or in certain unknown regions in the belly of the place.
But associates? Visitors?
Huh! Damn few of those! Santeson thought as he approached the central area where, sure enough, Milan's bouncers were waiting to intercept him. Flanking an elevator door marked PRIVATE (the door to Milan's elevator, of course), they were seated in pink-marbled leather armchairs beside slender, urn-shaped ashtrays. But as Santeson came hurrying between the unlit rows of sullenly silent slots, so the minders came smoothly yet indolently to their feet, and stood side by side, their arms folded on their chests, like a matching pair of eunuchs.
Their expressions remained blank, but the positions they had adopted said it all: they were blocking the elevator doors.
Santeson shook his head, wondering, What is it with these two? Apart from Milan himself, they were the only ones who had keys to that subterranean level housing what Santeson supposed would be sumptuous apartments. His key would only take him up, not down. But in any case he wasted no time in argument; these zombies always reacted precisely the same way no matter who it was who approached these doors.
'I have to see Mr Milan,' he told them. 'And I have to see him now. So don't go fucking me about, because it's too important.' They looked at him, then at each other, and back to Santeson. And he looked at them.
They could be twins, he thought, and changed his mind. No, it wasn't that they looked like brothers but that they had like looks. The way they stood there — smartly outfitted, well-built six-footers in their mid-to late- twenties, with sallow complexions that looked sort of grey in this indoor dusk — they could almost be tailor's dummies, motionless yet somehow threatening. Only their eyes moved, and their eyes… were weird!
Santeson was sure he'd never noticed it before, but now he saw a kind of yellowish, almost feral luminosity in those eyes. It must be the light, or lack of it, and he was further galvanized by that thought.
'Look,' he said, 'all shit could break loose any time now, and Mr Milan has got to be told about it. Now, I don't want to see him on my own… hey, boys, if you're that concerned over security, you can escort me! I mean, you'll have to go with me anyway, 'cos I don't know where he is or how to get there. But you do. And believe me, if you don't take me to him right now, tomorrow you could be out of work…'
And then, losing it a little when their expressions didn't change: 'Er, helloP' he said. 'I mean, am I getting through to you, or would you like me to draw some pictures? Maybe your on-switches are off or something, or I don't know the secret code that could lead us to a basis for some kind of mutual, kindergarten understanding!'
But in fact he had never had anything of an 'understanding' with them, not with these two. The rest of the Pleasure Dome's workers were regular folks, but these two… everyone avoided them like the plague. Hah, even an Asiatic plague! Santeson thought.
It was a funny thing, because when they had come here looking for jobs a couple of months ago, they had seemed like regular people, too. But now: they never strayed far from the elevators, and Milan wouldn't go anywhere without them. But come to think of it, he never went anywhere much anyway! And there was the same kind of look about him, too. So maybe they were blood relatives, but Santeson didn't think so.
Finally one of them spoke. 'Mr Santeson/ he said. 'We've already told you three or four times — Mr Milan won't see you. He isn't seeing anybody. He's expecting a busy night and wants to get some rest. If we take you to him, it won't be you he'll get mad with — we'll be in trouble. So why don't you take some good advice, and…' Pausing in mid-sentence, he gave a small but violent start, and a facial tic began jerking the flesh at the corner of his mouth. Then his face took on an odd attitude of listening.
From the first word out of the minder's mouth, the spidery Santeson had backed off a pace… mainly from his breath! The man had the worst case of crotch-or armpit-mouth that the private detective had ever come across. His breath was so vile it literally stank like a cesspit, or maybe like a slaughterhouse? And now this. He stood there as if he'd been struck dumb, with his head turned a little on one side and his strange eyes rapidly blinking. But what was bothering him? What was he listening to?
It lasted for maybe twelve to fifteen seconds, until suddenly he gave his head a shake and straightened up. And smiling in a twitchy, nervous sort of way, he said, 'Mr Milan will see you now. We're to take you to him.' His eyes had stopped blinking.
Earphone! Santeson thought. Direct communication with the boss. This guy is wired, definitely, and in more ways than one! But at least it gets the job done.
The other minder thumbed the button and the elevator doors opened. Santeson got in and the goons followed on. Then the one with the earphone used his key, and the glass cage descended — down past the basement level, then to a sub-basement level (the last stop marked on the internal indicator)… where to Santeson's surprise the elevator didn't stop! Not until the next sub-level, which wasn't even registered on the indicator. And Santeson had to admire the brilliance of it, for anyone who wasn't wise to the system wouldn't even know that this nethermost level existed.
The elevator had lights, but as the doors hissed open Santeson saw that the corridor outside didn't. Well, it did, but so low-key, so subdued, he might easily be in some ultra-low-class Hong Kong brothel.
'This way,' said one of the minders… and something else that had been niggling at Santeson at once crystallized. It was their voices. Voices that rumbled out of them; they coughed, or growled, their words. They fired them at you; speech came bursting from them, literally impacting on you, or at least that was how it felt. Up in the casino, in some kind of decent light, the effect was lessened — lessend by the light, maybe, the accustomed surroundings — but down here in the near-darkness…
… It was like these people belonged down here in the dark. Almost as if they were made for it.
The minders led the way. Santeson couldn't complain about that; it was oddly reassuring to have these two in front of him and not behind. But he'd only taken a few paces when he stumbled. And now that his eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom he saw why, and also why the place had reminded him of a brothel. It was the lighting.
The corridor was lit by a string of small red light bulbs, well spaced-out on a cable that was hooked up to a low ceiling. But the ceiling was of stone, likewise the walls and the floor. Natural stone, hewn stone. And this wasn't a corridor at all — except in the most primitive sense of the word — but a tunnel. A tunnel carved from the bedrock, and the floor was ridged and uneven.
So? Santeson asked himself. What did you expect down here? You go far enough down and there's rock, for Christ's sake! And as he stumbled a second time:
'Mind the floor/ one of the minders grunted, half-turning to glance back at him.
Only half-turning, but Santeson got a glimpse of his eyes. And he saw that they burned like sulphur in the dark! He began to panic, and immediately got a grip on himself. It had to be a chemical reaction, some kind of gas down here. For all he knew, his eyes might be burning yellow, tool Or perhaps — again perhaps — it was the lights.
