“Technically,” said Dionne, “that isn’t true either. We used Bunny.”
“He offered himself,” said Dorothy. “My point is that we don’t pay outside help.”
“He did,” agreed Dionne, “and you’re right, we don’t normally hire assistance. But Bunny still shows that sometimes we might need a little help from – let’s call them outside specialists. Besides, I’m paying these individuals out of my own money. This was back when the two problems were independent of each other.” She turned to Teresa. “Sister, did you get me that brown paper bag I asked for?”
Teresa nodded and handed it to her.
“What do you need that for?” asked Dorothy.
“It isn’t for me.”
Zoya looked shocked when Dionne handed it to her. “I might have called in some old friends.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Carl Worthington was an undeniably popular man.
Attending a conference with strangers could be an awkward and stressful event –especially when some of the attendees were a little unusual. Carl, though, was just one of those people who knew how to get along with everybody. Today was the third day of the event, and already everybody in attendance seemed to know him.
As he walked through the hotel, which had been completely taken over by the Celestial Church of New Hope, he got four invites to breakfast, and a recently widowed lady from Florida invited him back to her room for what he could be fairly certain would be more than breakfast. He politely and charmingly turned down all entreaties. He had a prior appointment.
On his way out the doors of Clown Town, he did stop to say hello to the Guntersons. They were the first people he’d met on his first day in town, and they were still a big favourite. A nice retired couple called Amber and George, they had already tried to convince Carl to come and visit them in Arizona. They had a granddaughter they were particularly keen for him to meet. George had an impressive moustache and Amber had a seemingly endless supply of home-knitted UFO-themed sweaters. Carl still remembered their first conversation well.
“Oh, yeah,” George had said. “We like it here fine. Good people. We drove up in the wagon. Made a trip out of it. Saw the Grand Canyon. Traffic wasn’t too bad at all.”
“Yeah,” Amber had agreed. “We like it here. Much nicer. We used to be members of this church out in Montana.”
“Not any more,” interjected George.
“I was telling him that, honey,” said Amber. “Started off all peace and love, then before you know it, it got all crazy-assed militia and stupid beards. Always the same.”
“Now, honey …”
“No, it’s true, George. That’s why I like Martha. I’m done with men as messiahs. They keep wanting to stockpile virgins and guns. Never understood the thrill of either, to be honest with you. You ever made whoopee with a virgin, Carl? It’s like jumping out of an airplane strapped to someone who hasn’t done it before. It’s all screaming, flailing and fumbling. I want someone who knows where the cord is and who’s brought a partner down for a few successful landings before, if you know what I mean.”
Everyone within fifty feet of Amber had known what she meant. She spoke at a high volume due to being a little deaf.
George looked mortified. “Amber!”
“Oh, hush. You ain’t got nothing to be ashamed of, George. Man of your age and you’re still the friggin’ one hundred and first airborne division!”
Amber’s eyebrows had danced the light fandango above her wide grin while George had spluttered and tried to bring the conversation back to traffic.
Today, they were coming back from their morning walk when they too asked Carl Worthington to breakfast. He made his apologies. He had plans.
He hustled and caught one of the free buses that run up and down the strip. He got off after a few stops, and quickly crossed over a pedestrian bridge. Then he turned around and crossed back. After a few more twists and turns, he eventually ended up at the breakfast buffet in the Paris Hotel and Casino.
A Las Vegas buffet is a sight to behold, with enough food to feed an army. Every conceivable breakfast choice is catered for. There are versions of foods from all over the globe. “Versions” because a lot of them are toned down slightly to accommodate every palate. Still, there is just so much of it. The made-to-order omelette station, the salad station, breads (so many kinds of breads), and “How would you like your eggs, sir?” Not to mention the soda machines that can now deliver any of forty combinations to your over-sized cup. It’s overwhelming, like trying to drink the sea.
Carl thanked the server who showed him to his table. The buffet had a steady stream of customers, but it wasn’t busy. It was set up to cope comfortably should the whole of Paris actually turn up and ask for breakfast. He sat there for two minutes and then, when the moment was right, he headed over to the start of the buffet.
He reached it at the same time as a four-foot-five man wearing a baseball cap.
Carl Worthington was many things, but first among them was a fraud. Because Carl Worthington was really a guy from Hunts Point, New York, called Jackson Diller. He picked up a tray.
“Hey, Dill.”
“Hey, Smithy.”
Meeting here had been Smithy’s idea. They knew the Celestial Church of New Hope was on high alert and as paranoid as hell, so they needed to have a conversation where nobody would suspect them. The perfect place to do that in Las Vegas was in the queue for the omelette station behind a guy from Venezuela who couldn’t decide what he wanted. The omelette station was currently free, so Smithy nodded in the direction of the cereals where they could talk without raising suspicions until a handy queue presented itself.
“Everything OK?” asked Smithy, as he surveyed the selection of pre-prepared bowls on offer before plumping for Cheerios.
“Yeah.”
“Anyone
