One-Eyed Jack (18 page)

“The two cities become, symbolically, one. And he becomes the genius of both.”

Stewart glared. “Who said you could step on my lines, King?”

“Sorry.” I wasn’t, particularly, but he laughed anyway and leaned back. “So what happens then?”

He pushed his hand through his shaggy golden hair. “It depends,” he said. “I’m not sure how he’d step into the role of genius without being dead first. But if he could, Los Angeles conquers, and becomes the magical and symbolic capital of the world. May God have mercy on our souls.”

“But we’ve got you back,” Jackie said. “They’re thwarted.”

Holliday tilted his hat back and looked from John Henry, to me, to the oblivious media ghosts, to Stewart and Jackie.

“For now,” he said, when Jackie looked down and Stewart didn’t. “For now. You can be sure they’ll have another plan in mind.”

It lost some of its impact when I had to repeat it for the spies, but the American’s eyebrows went up, nevertheless, his broad forehead wrinkling. He looked surprised for a moment before his expression sharpened and his eyes gleamed. “Where do these genii normally come from, Stewart . . . Jackie?”

Jackie lifted his chin from Stewart’s shoulder. “The city makes them.”

“How? I mean, ah, what if one of you got killed?” The American made a deflecting gesture, as if to soften the directness of his words. “Where would the new genius come from?”

“Someone would be elevated to the role.” Jackie glanced at me and smiled. “When I saw Tribute, here, I thought he was Stewart’s replacement.”

“You did?” My turn to sound surprised. He shrugged and tossed his head to one side, showing off the curlicues of ink along the side and nape of his neck. I looked down at my hands before he could catch me staring at his throat.

Politics.

“Elvis and Vegas are practically synonymous,” he said, with a shrug.

The American rose to his feet and crossed to the window, where he stood for a moment fiddling with the blinds. He turned around and stood hip-shot, hands in his pockets, shoulders leaned back, gangly as a baby giraffe. “How long does the elevation take?”

“Couple of days.” Jackie looked to Stewart for confirmation.

Stewart nodded. “We’re both original. I’ve never seen a replacement happen in person, but, you know. You hear stuff.”

“Smoke,” the American said, with a glance at the Russian.

The Russian, who had been engaged in some sort of silent communication with the woman, picked exactly that second to look up and met the American’s eye. I caught the edge of whatever passed between them, and the blood in my veins was still hot enough that it made me shiver. I wouldn’t have traded places with the assassin for anything, just then. Not a direct line to Jesus, and not a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich.

“Yes,” the Russian said, as if he was speaking to no one else in the room. His face was expressionless, but I could hear the wink in his voice. “You hear stuff. My friend, are you suggesting that they will have to make their attempt quickly?”

“Technically speaking,” Jackie said, “the new avatar has to be dead. Which is the sticky part, I guess. I’ve never heard of anybody trying to become a genius intentionally.”

“Dead?” The American fiddled with his ring, as if unconsciously. I wished I believed that enough to call it a poker tell.

I got up and started straightening the glasses on the nightstand, keeping my hands busy while Stewart cleared his throat. “Genii don’t get to be genii until we’re dead,” he said, with a flip of his hand. “I drowned. In Los Angeles, come to think of it. But they shipped my body home, and here I am.”

The American steepled his hands, arching both eyebrows. “And Jackie?”

I heard Jackie take that breath and hold it, saw the flicker of Jesse’s attention, the toss of his head. He leaned on my shoulder, cold, and didn’t say anything.

Funny thing about Jesse. Nobody but me can see him. And for me, he comes and goes like the afterimage you get from staring too long at the sun. If you’re not me, I mean.

“Shot myself,” Jackie said, when he let the breath out. He tapped the eyepatch. “Ironic he’s the Suicide King, isn’t it?”

The American didn’t look down, but he paused before he nodded and changed the subject fast. “If the assassin means to replace a genius of Los Angeles who has been recently killed . . . they’ll have to act before the new one is elevated, correct?”

“Or kill him too,” Jackie said. “Which gets awkward, running back and forth between Vegas and L.A.”

“Angel doesn’t strike me a patient sort,” Stewart said wryly. “So they’re on a deadline, although they can punt it if they have to. How do we lure them into acting?”

The Russian looked away from his partner, finally. His eyes weren’t purpling at all; I suspected there would be no sign of the broken nose by morning. He ran one hand through his mop of wheatstraw hair, finger-combing it into a temporary parody of Stewart’s gelled hairstyle. “Easy,” he said. “We use me as bait.”

The Assassin, Lucky at Cards, Unlucky at Love.

Las Vegas. Summer, 2002.

The assassin cleaned his gun and didn’t swear at all. Not even under his breath. Angel wasn’t so reserved. She paced the breadth of their new hotel room and cursed a streak so blue it was almost violet, in English and Spanish and sometimes both. The assassin reserved comment, but he was impressed; he hadn’t heard the like often, even in his Navy days.

It was a good two hours before she threw herself on the bed, finally exhausted. She stared at the ceiling for several minutes while he pretended obliviousness, then rolled on her side, propped her cheek on one hand, and let her dark hair tumble across the synthetic pastel coverlet. “Back to the drawing board,” she said. “You could have warned me that you wouldn’t be able to hit the broad side of a barn when the media ghosts were involved.”

He paused with the brush halfway down the barrel of his disassembled Walther, but didn’t turn to look at her directly. “An unforeseen complication, it’s true.” He laid the barrel down and reached for the plastic squeeze bottle of gun oil. “You’ll just have to kill them for me.”

“Me?” A little bit of a squeak. She sat upright, abruptly, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. The scuffed toe of her red snakeskin-print high heel showed the nap of tan leather through the dye. “But you’re the assassin.”

“You killed Stewart.”

“That’s true,” she said. She toed off her shoes and stood, crossing to him. She leaned the curve of her hip against his arm. “Well, I shot him, anyway. He killed himself. But it’s not like I can’t shoot somebody. I just don’t like it when they shoot back.”

The assassin placed the bottle of oil on the corner of the unfolded pages of the
Review Journal
that he had been using as a work surface, and slid his arm around Angel’s waist. “It’s only fair, love,” he said, pulling her into his lap. “After all, that leaves me with the One-Eyed Jack. And the vampire.”

“Our plan’s shot to hell, though.” Her tone was as piercing as the sound of a wet thumb dragged across a latex balloon.

He grimaced. “We have fallback positions.”

“It’s going to be hard to get our hands on Stewart or Jackie again. They’re ready for us. They know what we want. They know too much about our plans.”

“Right,” he said, and pressed a finger to her lips to silence her. “That’s our advantage.”

She watched him, eyes bright. She didn’t speak, but he read the question on her face.
What do you mean?

“You see,” he continued, trying not to gloat to obviously, “they’ll be hunting. They’ll come to us, when and where we want. All we must do, love, is lay the right sort of trail. And if we can get rid of Stewart and Jackie—well. Your control of the dam is no doubt enough to bring something else under our power. Something that maybe has a little Hollywood and a little Las Vegas in it already, you see?”

He smile, when it dawned, was slow. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I think I see what you mean.”

The American and the Only Girl in the Game.

Somewhere in Las Vegas. Summer. 2002, 1964.

In a lifetime of extraordinarily beautiful women, even the American had to admit this one was different. And not just for the way the Russian treated her—that combination of old-world courtliness and just-one-of-the-guys brusqueness that he reserved for the rare women he admired—but for the athletic strength she betrayed with every gesture and for the mocking, acerbic intelligence in her dark eyes. And for the way the Russian very carefully made sure that
he
claimed the middle seat in the back of the taxicab when they left Tribute and the genii of Las Vegas at the California and returned to their own decade, and their own hotel.

That
was
unusual. Especially since the woman wore a ring on her left hand—
of course she does; they call her
the widow
, don’t they?—
and exuded the particular cognizant sexual self-possession that never failed to prick the American’s ears. And pique his interest.

She
took charge of them both when they arrived back at their hotel, took their arms and squired them upstairs, her black and white patterned boots almost skipping with pleasure. Not to their own room, but to the top floor, where she paused before a door like every other door, raised one fine-boned fist, and gave it a substantial rap.

A plummy tenor floated through the door—“It’s open!”—and the American found himself trading a startled glance with the Russian as their escort pushed the door open and entered.

“Gentlemen?” She stood aside, holding the door, as a slender man dressed in a white shirt and an elegantly tailored gray three-piece suit with the jacket removed turned toward them. His dark, curly hair broke across his forehead, damp and recently combed, and as they watched he wiped the last traces of shaving soap from a determined chin.

He was not wearing a gun.

The widow waved them inside, performing introductions on the fly. “—I don’t believe you’ve met. The other gentlemen should be along shortly, if I am not misinformed.”

The American turned to glance at her. Her delicately plucked eyebrow arched in frank mockery.

“Delighted,” the Englishman said. He tossed the towel over his shoulder, toward the bathroom. It landed draped over the edge of the sink as if he’d hung it there.

The other hand, he extended to the Russian, who took it without a smile. “Charmed.” Murmured dryly, with a lift of the chin and a level gaze.

The American stepped forward and cleared his throat as the widow shut the door behind them. The Englishman’s handshake was as dry and serene as his voice. The American gave back one just like it. “Do you always leave your door unlocked?”

“Of course,” the Englishman replied, an arch lilt to his voice. Their eyes met, and the American thought, quite sanely,
a pox upon this man and his tailor, unto the seventh generation.
“Especially when we’re expecting company.”

“Anyone might wander in.”

“A pity for them, then. Can I interest you in a brandy?”

“Yes,” the Russian said, stepping between them with a cut-glass glare at the American. “I think brandies are in order all around. And then I shall tell you all about our night.”

“You might as well wait until the Americans get here,” the widow said, sharing an untranslatable glance with the Russian, who looked down and very carefully did not smile. “Otherwise you shall have to go through it all again.”

“The
rest
of the Americans,” the American reminded.

She sparkled at him, and turned to take her drink from her partner’s hand. “Quite so.”

When the scholar and the athlete arrived, the other spies were still drinking. The widow let them into the room, and the athlete glanced around at the assembled agents and helped himself to a glass of brandy without asking.

The American, still nursing his first glass of liquor, watched the interplay between sets of partners with a new awareness while he brought them up to date, the widow interjecting as necessary. The athlete paced, toying with his brandy, asking snapshot questions. The scholar leaned against the door, shirt straining over folded arms.

Surprisingly, he was the one who spoke first, his mouth describing an arc that the American couldn’t quite bring himself to call a smile. “Vampires? Black
magic
? Man. Yours is a weird genre, my man.”

The American ran his tongue across his teeth. “You’re taking it better than I expected.”

The scholar’s mouth curved up that much more. “Hey, I
know
who’s fictional around here. It may not turn up every day, but you hear stories.” He shrugged. “You hear stories. You know.”

“Yes,” the Englishman said, who had been so quiet, observant, standing by his partner’s chair. “We all know, I’m sure.”

The Englishman’s room had a balcony overlooking the Strip. The American couldn’t remember if the Desert Inn had ever had balconies or not; he suspected it hadn’t, but he was beginning to understand that the city he moved through, especially here in 1964, wasn’t exactly a real city. Rather, it was a fantasy of a city, a ghost, a land of make-believe. “Down the rabbit-hole,” he murmured, toying with his brandy. “Alice’s adventures in la-la land.”

The sliding glass door to the room was open behind him. If he cocked an ear, he could hear his partner’s voice rising and falling, well in command of the story he was relating to the Englishman, the athlete and the scholar. A hot breeze lifted the hairs at the American’s nape and swirled the drapes into the room. It could have been the breath of a sleeping animal.

He raised the glass of brandy to his mouth, inhaled the fumes. He was unsurprised at the voice close by his elbow, but he feigned a startle anyway, because she would expect it.

“It bothers you,” she said, and leaned her elbows on the wall beside his.

He shrugged.

“You’re jealous.”

The American laughed. “He’s not my type.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Her quiet, alert voice could have stripped him of guile, if he’d permitted, but he had a lifetime’s experience in not permitting. “He’s got secrets.”