I'm putting together a picture here that I really don't like: dinner jacket or no, I'm underdressed for the occasion, although Ramona fits right in.
While I'm having these grim thoughts, I notice that my martini glass is nearly empty. It's not a terribly endearing drink — it tastes like something that got hosed off a runway then diluted with antifreeze — but it does what it says on the label. I've got a nasty feeling I'm going to need plenty of Dutch courage to get through this evening. What that horrible lawyer-creature Sloat was saying is sinking in: This is either a cover or a warm-up for some sort of auction, isn't it?
Maybe Billington is planning on selling whatever he dredges up from JENNIFER MORGUE Site Two to the highest bidder. That would make plenty of sense and it'd explain why the Black Chamber and the Laundry are both riled up about it, but I can't shake the feeling that this isn't the whole story: What was the business with Marc all about? Assuming it's connected. Maybe Ramona knows something she'd be willing to share with me.
I shake my head and look around. I don't see her among the glitterati at the gaming tables, but there are enough people here that she could have wandered off. **You there?** I ask silently, but she isn't answering and I can't sense what she's doing. It's as if she's figured out how to draw a thick blackout curtain around her mind, keeping me out when she doesn't want me around. That'd be a neat skill to have, I think, then mentally kick myself. What one of us can do the other can learn really fast. I'll just have to ask her how she does it whenever she comes out of hiding. At least she's not in trouble, I guess; given the nature of our link, I'm certain I'd know if she was.
I circulate back towards the bar in the other room and plant my glass on it, then turn round to see if I can spot either of the Billingtons among the happy-clappy flock of saleswomen: Ellis may be delayed but I can't see his wife throwing a revival-style party for her faithful without circulating to stroke her flock. 'Another of the same?' murmurs the barman, and before I can make up my mind to say 'no' he's fished but a glass and is pouring gin with a soup ladle. I nod at him and take it, then head back towards the gaming tables in the back room. I'm not going to drink it, I decide, but maybe if I keep it in my hand it'll stop anyone from trying to refill the bloody glass again.
The crowd near the tables is noisy and they're smoking and drinking like there's no tomorrow. I strain to see what's going on over a gaggle of sericulture-vultures with big hair.
It's a baccarat table and from the disorganization there it looks like a game's just ended. Half a dozen of Billingtons crowd are moving in while an old fart who looks like a merchant banker leans back in his chair, sipping a glass of port.
'Ah, Mr. Howard I believe.' I nearly jump out of my skin before I recall that I'm supposed to be suave and sophisticated, or at least gin-pickled to the point of insensibility.
'Care for a game'
I glance round. I vaguely recognize the guy who knows my name. He's in early middle-age, crew cut, solidly built, and he fills his tuxedo with an avuncular bonhomie that I instinctively mistrust; he reminds me of the sort of executive who can fire six thousand people before lunch and go to a charity fundraiser the same evening with his sense of selfrighteousness entitlement undented. 'I'm not much of a gambler,' I murmur.
'That's okay, all I ask is that you're a good loser.' He grins, baring a perfect row of teeth at me. 'I'm Pat, by the way. Pat McMurray. I consult on security issues for Mr.
Billington. That's how I know about you.'
'Right.' I nod as I give him the hairy eyeball. He winks at me slowly, then tugs his left ear lobe. He's wearing an earring that looks a lot like a symbol I see most days at the office on my way past the secure documents store in Dansey House.
This isn't in the script: Security consultants who've been briefed on me? Gulp. I try to feel what Ramona's doing again, but no luck. She's still got that blackout curtain up. 'What kind of security issues do you consult on?' I ask. 'Well, you know, that's a good question.' He points at my glass. 'Why are you drinking that garbage when there's perfectly good liquor behind the bar'
I stare at it. 'It just sort of slipped into my hand.'
'Heh. You come over to the bar and we'll get you a real man's drink. One that doesn't taste like drain cleaner.' He turns and heads for the bar in complete certainty that I'll follow him, so I do. The bastard knows I need to know what he knows and he knows I can't say no. He leans on the bar and announces: 'Two double tequila slammers on the rocks.'
Then he turns to me and raises an eyebrow. 'You're wondering what I do here, aren't you?'
'Um.' Well, yes.
He must take it as agreement, because he nods encouragingly.
'Ellis Billington's a big guy, you've got to know that.
Big guys tend to pick up parasites. That's nothing new.
Trouble is, what Ellis picks up is a different class of bloodsucker. See, you know who his company subcontracts for: this makes him a target for people who don't want just his money, they want a piece of him. So he hires specialist talent to keep them at arm's reach. Mostly ex-employees of you-know-who, plus a few freelancers.' He taps his chest. The bartender sets two glasses down in front of us; crystals frost their edges and they're full of a colorless, slightly oily liquid, along with a slice of lemon. 'C'mon. Back to the table, bring your glass.
Let's play a round.'
'But I don't gamble — ' I begin, and he stops dead.
'You'll gamble and like it, son. Or Ellis Billington ain't going to make time for you.'
Huh? I blink. The brown envelope labeled EXPENSES feels extremely hot and as heavy as a gold brick in my breast pocket. 'Why'
'Could be that he don't approve of limp-dicked limeys,'
McMurray mugs. 'Or could be it's all part of the script.
Besides, you'll enjoy it, you know you will. Go on, over to the cashier. Get yourself chipped up.' Moments later I'm swapping the contents of the envelope for a pile of plastic counters. Black, red, white: six months' salary gone to plastic. My mind's spinning like a hamster wheel. This isn't in the script I'm working from, either the gambling or McMurray's stark ultimatum. But it's all running on rails, and there's no way to get off this train without blowing the timetable. So I follow McMurray over to the table, trying to figure out the odds. House cards: nil. That's four in fourteen of anything I draw. Then it's modular arithmetic down to the wire, the sort of thing I could do in my head if it was in hexadecimal. Alas, playing cards predates hex and I've just sunk four shots of expensive gin and I'm not sure I can build a lookup table in my head fast enough to be of any use.
I sit down. The old toad with the cigar nods at us. 'I bought the bank,' he announces. 'Place your bets. Opening at five thousand.' The croupier next to him holds up the shoe and six sealed packs of cards. Four elderly vultures in frocks giggle and hunch at one end of the kidney-shaped table and two guys in DJs and big moustaches sit at the other end.
McMurray and I end up in the middle opposite the old toad.
A couple more gamblers take their seats — a woman with skin the color of milk chocolate and the complexion of a supermodel, and a guy in a white suit, open-necked shirt, and more bling than the Bank of England. 'Opening at five thousand,' repeats the banker.
Without willing my hands to move, I slide a handful of chips forwards. McMurray does likewise. The cards go into the mechanical shuffler in front of us, then two of the vultures squabble for the privilege of cutting them before they end up in the brass and wood shoe. My fingertips and nasal sinuses are itching: I actually want a cigarette, even though I don't smoke. There's a hollow sense of dreadful anticipation in the pit of my stomach as the toad positions the shoe in front of himself and then flicks out cards, face-down, one towards each of us. Then he repeats the deal. A second card lands in front of me, half on top of the first. I sneak a look at the cards. Six of hearts, five of clubs. Shit. Around me everyone else is turning their cards. I lay mine down face-up and watch with numb disbelief as the croupier rakes in my stake.
'Next round.' The banker glances round. Again, I can't stop myself, even though there's a cold itch at the base of my spine and my wards are ringing like alarm bells. I slide another ten thousand forwards. This time I twitch and nearly scatter the stack everywhere. McMurray spares me a coldly amused glance; then the banker holds up the shoe and the card deck and begins to deal. There's something very wrong here, I tell myself. But it's no compulsion or geas I'm familiar with. There's a pattern to it, something I can't quite put my finger on. Where's Ratnona? I can sense nothing but velvety darkness where she ought to be. I'm alone in my own head for the first
