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  “Fucking mess,” I said.

  “They’ll have it back to normal by tomorrow,” Silverman said.

  “I am so comforted by that.”

  My feet squelched in the sodden carpet.

  Silverman seized my arm. He pointed. “’Scuse me. I need a shot of this—”

  He ran a few paces, dropped on one knee, raised the camera.

  I followed his direction with my eyes.

  A small but regal-looking group was now making its way between the blacked-out slot machines. At their head I saw a shortish, strutting figure in a white suit. Dim light left his hair a deep shade of maroon, and he gestured furiously, issuing orders right and left. Runners came and went. Others pressed around. As he walked, a makeup woman deftly stepped ahead of him to add a little blusher to his cheeks, expertly dab his nose.

  He marched right up to Silverman. He stood scarcely a yard away, the camera angled up at him. He understood instinctively that such a shot would make him seem a giant, a colossus, striding through the world. He raised his arms, opened his mouth, ready to make some rousing, thunderous speech.

  Then he saw McAvoy.

  His brow creased up. His mouth worked. His arms came down. He pointed, and his lips moved, but he couldn’t find the words. “You—” he said.

  His index finger wagged like a baton, beating on the air with vicious, angry force.

  “You little shit.”

  Edward Ballington had come to town.

  Chapter 57

  The Bug

  “Get the lights on. I want full lights here. Where’s the tech crew?”

  His head was back, his shoulders swung. He swaggered through the wreckage like an emperor.

  Behind him lay a trail of sodden footprints, silver with reflected light, fading as the carpet pile eased back into shape.

  “That man.” He pointed. “Have him clean the bar. Get this place working. I want everything—everything working. How many staff are still here?”

  No one answered. He grabbed the nearest of his entourage, seized him by his shirtfront and almost pulled him off his feet.

  “How many?”

  “I can—I can check, sir.”

  “Good. You fucking check for me, all right? You fucking do that.”

  Still the man hesitated. It was barely a second; but Ballington thrust his head forward, till they were nose to nose.

  “Run, you jackass!”

  Two yards on, we came upon our first real casualty.

  He lay, curled up, half under the blackjack table, as if he had wedged himself in there to hide. His hair was gray, cut short; he wore a silk shirt and slim-cut jeans. There was blood smeared on his face and clotted in his hair. As we approached he moved one arm, but couldn’t raise it, and it flopped down on his belly. A moan came from his lips.

  And Ballington stopped dead.

  He had been talking, but he broke off, mid-sentence, staring at this figure, folded up there like a broken doll.

  I genuinely thought he looked confused. As if he’d never once imagined people might be hurt, or even killed in the attack.

  He waved away his underlings, advancing cautiously. He squatted on his heels, leaned over, inspecting the man’s damaged face. Then, with one hand, he started picking through his bloody hair, hissing and tutting to himself, as if examining his monthly balance sheet.

  He uncovered the wound. He pressed a finger to it, and the man shivered. One foot began to kick. His breathing became rapid, harsh and shallow.

  There was nothing cruel about it. He seemed merely curious, to come upon a thing he hadn’t seen before. He pressed his finger to the wound, withdrew it; sniffed at his hand. Then he wiped it on the carpet and stood up.

  “Get this out of here,” he said.

  His aides swapped glances.

  Someone, braver than the rest, said, “Hospital . . . ?”

  Ballington wrinkled up his nose. “Hospital. Get rid of it!”

  A flurry of activity began. A figure in civilian clothes—Ballington’s doctor, I presumed—came racing up. Ballington gave rapid orders. “I want the finest medical facility in town. Whatever it costs. Everything will be paid for. Whatever this man needs.”

  He was no longer looking at the injured man.

  “I want to know his name. I want to know where he goes. How long it takes to get there. You will keep me informed to his state of health, is that clear?”

  He sounded angry, as if the man’s injury—his whole presence there—were some kind of affront. But he shook himself. He glanced around, looking for props, then posed in the arch of a restaurant doorway, stretching out his arms. “This historic day,” he said. “This—” He brought his hands together, almost as in prayer. “This honorable day—”

  Silverman still had his camera on the injured man. One of Ballington’s staff went over and pulled him away. The man looked familiar. He was dressed for Vegas: bright blue shorts, Spider-Man T-shirt, Yankees cap. The somber face just didn’t fit the party clothes. It was Captain Ghirelli, Ballington’s security: the man who couldn’t smile.

  To Silverman, I said, “You’re working for this guy?”

  “It’s a commission, Chris.”

  “For Ballington? You took his money?”

  “Not exactly . . .”

  “You took his money and you told him where we were.”

  “No! That’s not what happened. Absolutely not—”

  “Very plausible.”

  “He paid my flight and my hotel. It’s small change to him. And Chris, he didn’t even ask me. He knew you were here. He knew already.”

  I looked at him.

  “I’m not lying,” he said.

  It was turning into a playground spat.

  I shrugged. “Thought better of you, frankly. Still—I’ll know next time.”

  “Chris! I didn’t—”

  “Mr. Copeland.” Ghirelli’s voice was quiet and level.

  I said, “It’s a low trick. Fund-raising. Not the word I’d use . . .”

  To Ghirelli, Silverman said, “Tell him.”

  Ballington was yelling again, issuing orders, bellowing at this person and that.

  The clutter bothered him. The mess. Like he could march in with his private army and expect the whole place pristine and neat.

  “Mr. Silverman is quite correct.” Ghirelli was talking to me. The T-shirt might have looked ridiculous, but it made every muscle stand out. This guy did serious gym time. “Your phone, Mr. Copeland.”

  “Yeah. And that’s another thing. I want my phone back, right now.”

  “Your phone contains a small transmitting device.” He was very matter-of-fact. “I placed it there myself.”

  “What?”

  “Simple to attach. Considerable range. What you know, we know.” He nodded, a craftsman sharing secrets. “Who you’re meeting, where and when. I’m coming down. There couldn’t be a better signal.” He should probably have smiled then, but his mouth just wasn’t made for it. “Now—if you and Mr. McAvoy will come with me?”

  Silverman looked at me. “I tried to tell you.”

  We were moving off when Ballington called me back.

  “Copeland,” he said. “You’re not done yet.”

  “Oh, I’m done.”

  “We had a deal. The terms can change at any time, but we still have a deal.” He put his head on one side, watching me. “You know the way it works. Survival of the fit. I told you that. And who’s fitter than me?”

  “Fittest,” I said. “It’s fittest, you lunatic. It’s Darwin. Don’t you know that?”

  He raised his hand. A flash of fire shot from his fingers. The heat burst over me. I stumbled backwards, smashed into a pile of chairs and sent them scattering across the floor.

  An after-image floated in my eyes.

  Ghirelli took my arm and helped me stand.

  Ballington chuckled, mugging for the camera.

  “We are so past Darwin now,” he said.

  Chapter 58

/>   Prisoners

  There was an office on the second floor. Prints of race horses hung on the walls. To this, McAvoy and I were quickly escorted, and we joined the other refugees in what was, it became clear, a forced but amiable internment. There were guys from the casino here, watched by a handful of the Ballington crew. A card game was in progress. Shwetz had commandeered the desk, hunching up over his phone. His suit jacket was gone. His voice was scratchy. Every now and then it rose into a peak of irritation, bellowing across the room: “Then goddamn find it,” he was saying as I walked in. “Find it and fax it, can’t you?”

  Eddie-boy perched on a filing cabinet, drumming his heels against the metal drawers.

  He looked like a gargoyle in a cowboy hat.

  “Chris! Hey, great to see you, man!”

  On the floor, cross-legged, Angel sat. Her shirt was wet, her hair was plastered down. She glanced at Eddie and she rolled her eyes.

  He, meanwhile, had spotted McAvoy.

  He levelled a finger at him, closed one eye.

  He made a gunshot noise. “You can run but you can’t hide, motherfucker.”

  McAvoy said nothing.

  I said, “Your old man’s got some explaining to do here, I think.”

  “Relax, Chris. Take a seat.”

  He jumped down from his perch, went to clap me on the shoulder but I moved away.

  “It’ll all work out,” he said.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of . . .”

  I sat on the floor with Angel. She’d taken off her shoes and they lay beside her on the carpet. A little pool of water had spread around them.

  “OK?” I said.

  “Hurt pride. You?”

  “I’ll live. Ballington Senior’s downstairs. I mean, what is this, anyway? Die Hard does Vegas?”

  “Junior here says Senior’s bought the place. No one else agrees.”

  “He’s bloody wrecked it, not bought it.”

  Shwetz’s voice rose to an industrial pitch. “You will fucking find it for me now, you understand? Or I will personally sue you, you and your fucking company. Then I will come and break your legs. You hear?”

  “That’s been going on for fifteen minutes,” she whispered. “He’s talked to his boss, his boss’s lawyers, about half a dozen other people.”

  “Sounds like they’re giving him the runaround.”

  Eddie had been listening in through all of this. Now he broke in, like he’d been part of the conversation. “I told him. You heard me tell him, right?” This last was to Angel. “Dad-o’s impatient these days. Lawyers. Paperwork. You know the saying, legal takes too long? Well, that’s Dad-o, sure enough.” He jerked a thumb at McAvoy, sat on a plastic chair and flanked by guards. “This guy, he’d have gotten clean away, we’d waited for the legal folks.”

  He clapped his hands together. To me, he said, “Now, you relax. Recall I once made you an offer? We’ll tell you when we’re ready for you, man.”

  I took Angel’s hand. We sat there, without talking. McAvoy was maybe six feet off. After a time I realized he was staring at me. Just sitting there, his thin legs stretched in front of him, and drilling holes into my skull.

  I don’t think that he even blinked.

  So finally, I met his stare.

  He did not look good. His face was thin and undernourished, rock star cheekbones jutting in a pale, unhealthy skin.

  “You lied to me.”

  I said, “I didn’t lie.”

  “You’re not control.”

  “No.”

  He said, “So how do you intend to get me home?”

  Shwetz threw his phone across the room, just missing one of Ballington’s guys. He lumbered to his feet. He hunched up, hid his face. His striped shirt stretched across his shoulders, wet with sweat. His back heaved, tensed, and fell.

  A croupier retrieved his phone. He took it, and, his moment’s fury over, went back to the desk. He held the phone, lifted his eyes towards the ceiling. Then he punched another number.

  I said to McAvoy, “I was at GH9.”

  “I don’t remember you.”

  “I heard you died there.”

  “Uh-huh.” He had what might have been a herpes in the corner of his mouth. He pressed his knuckles to it.

  Then he said, “I want a cigarette.”

  “Can’t help you there.”

  “Anyone?” he called out. “Cigarette?”

  I’d seen him only briefly on the CCTV but he’d looked cocky, self-assured. Now he whined.

  “Cigarette . . . ? Please?”

  One of the guards passed him a smoke and lit it. McAvoy sucked greedily. He shut his eyes.

  I said, “So tell me how you got out.”

  “Out?”

  “GH9. You survived it. Tell me how.”

  “Best way there is.” He lolled his head back, smiling with a new calm. “I wasn’t there,” he said.

  “You swiped in. There’s a record of your ID.”

  The cigarette was going quickly.

  I said, “Tell me. I’m interested.”

  “Can’t work it out? Oh, too bad. Too fucking bad.”

  I felt a little nag of anger in me, but I pushed it down, tried to act friendly.

  “One week on, and one week off,” he said. “But say it’s not that week you want off. Say you want another week instead.”

  “Spell it out for me.”

  “We swapped badges. Clever clever clever, weren’t we? You have my badge, I’ll have yours. You couldn’t guess that? Really?”

  “So you’d be there—what? Two, three weeks, sometimes?”

  He nodded.

  Christ, I thought. No wonder you’re nuts.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You were at GH9. And you were skimming. Right?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Just you? Or others, too?”

  He said nothing.

  “Well,” I told him, “it’s impressive, anyway. Most people steal office supplies. You went for the big one.” I was looking right at him. “You stole the gods.”

  Silence.

  “So,” I said, “indulge me. I’m wondering how you did it. And why.”

  His cigarette was down to the filter now. He took a final drag, then ground it out under his shoe.

  “You weren’t at GH9.”

  “Actually, I was.”

  “You’d know then.”

  “Like I say—indulge me, eh?”

  “If you were there, you’d know what it was like. No checks on anything. I could take a flask, siphon what I wanted. I took stuff out hidden in a laundry bag. That’s how slack it was. No security.”

  “There was plenty, stopping people getting in, believe me.”

  “None going out.”

  “Christ. So—I suppose you got a stack of stuff, right? Stashed somewhere?”

  There was a little, tight-lipped grin came on his face then, and I saw that cockiness once more; the flip look and the offhand pose, the would-be rock star cool.

  I hated that. The arrogance. The ego of it all.

  I said, “You stole them. Bits of gods, right?”

  The grin was still there.

  I said, “You’re kind of crap, though, when it comes to setting up, aren’t you? Containing them? All that?”

  He looked away. He called out for another cigarette, but this time nobody was giving.

  “You set ’em up, put ’em in place, then what? Like this? This is a mess. And Ballington’s,” I said. “Another mess.” I took a breath. “And the old lady. New York? Made yourself some money out of that, I think. You know what happened to her?”

  “What old lady?”

  “De Vere, the name was. Melody Duchess. Difficult. Cantankerous. She died, you know.”

  “So?”

  “She died as a result of what you sold her.”

  “Not my fault.”

  “I was there, you shit.”

  Eddie stepped between us. “Guys, guys—”

  Mc
Avoy ignored him. “You think you know me, but you don’t.”

  “I’ve got a fair idea.”

  I heard Shwetz curse into the phone.

  “You’re not control.” McAvoy tapped at his chest. “I’ve done things you can’t even dream about. That’s why they’ll take me back. That’s why they need me. I’m important. Whereas you—the hired lackey—”

  “What things?” I said.

  Then Shwetz gave out a yell. He smashed the phone down. For a moment he just sat there, breathing hard. Then he looked up at the handful of casino staff nearby.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Fucker bought the place. Official. Bought it, trashed it. Turns out it’s his place all along.”

  “Told you,” Eddie said. “Impatient. That’s Dad-o for you . . .”

  To McAvoy, I said again, “What things?”

  His chest rose and fell. His grin was close and wide.

  “Above. Right now.” He jabbed a thumb towards the ceiling. “Without me there’d be nothing. You sit there, think you’re so important. But I’m the one they want. I’m the one who matters here. Not you . . .”

  Shwetz pulled on his coat, made for the door. One of the military types then tried to stop him, but he didn’t pause. He swung around. His fist shot out, caught the man on the side of the head. It looked like no more than a tap, but the guy went flying, crumpled to the floor. Eddie yelled. His people moved in, coming from all sides. Shwetz turned with an unlikely grace, as if it were a dance, smacked one of his assailants on the jaw, shoved a second out the way, pushed past a third—

  They tased him.

  Twice. Three times.

  He jerked, his head went back, and somehow, for a few moments, he kept his footing. He even took a step, shuffling forwards, and his arm came up, his mouth gaped—

  And he dropped, just like a house falling down.

  Chapter 59

  Your Father’s Crazy

  “You’re going to bottle it for me.”

  Ballington Senior put his hands upon his hips. He thrust his chest and belly out.