Perpetual Motion (5 page)

“What did I tell you?” Cynical said, slapping
Michael on the back. “Rain Man here knows everything about
roulette.”

She laughed as the soft tone announced the
fifteenth floor. “Well, this is me.”

“Nice meeting you,” Cynical replied.

Pausing at the open door, she shyly asked,
“Are you guys in the penthouse?”

“He is,” Cynical said. “I’m just kind of like
his body guard.”

“I’m in 1532,” she said, giving Michael a
long, inquisitive look. “If you play roulette again, give me a
call. I’d like to watch.”

The door closed and the elevator started its
ascension again, leaving Cynical with a half-smile and Michael
red-faced.

“I think she liked you.”

“For your information, I’ve already have
someone,” Michael said indignantly. “I’m engaged.” He held up his
left hand to show off a silver looking ring.

“Good for you,” Cynical said. “Does that mean
you can’t talk to anyone else?

“Are you married?”

“Not anymore”

“Figures,” Michael said, as the doors opened,
he exited the elevator in a huff.

Cynical followed along as the kid continued
to lead the way down the hall.

“So, is that true about the all the numbers
on the wheel adding up to 666?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, stopping in front of a
gold placard that read “Penthouse Suite.”

“So, did you sell your soul to the
devil?”

Michael glanced at Cynical as he took out his
room card and placed it into the slot. A green light popped on as
he pushed the door open. As they entered, lights automatically
brightened, softly illuminating a large, richly appointed
suite.

“Who says crime doesn’t pay?” Cynical asked
after a low whistle.

“I’m not a criminal,” Michael said
defensively as he tossed his room card, wallet and cell phone on
the table stand. “The hotel upgraded me to play in their
casino.”

“That was a mistake,” Cynical commented as he
nonchalantly meandered over to the little table stand. As Michael
leafed thought his winnings, he made a grab for the unattended
phone.

“What are you doing?!” Michael cried,
dropping his cash and reaching out.

Cynical crossed the suite, keeping Michael at
arm’s length. No match for the private eye’s physicality, the kid
desperately grabbed for his phone. To get away from the annoyance,
Cynical pulled open the sliding glass door and went out onto the
balcony, Michael still tugging at him.

It looked like any ordinary cell phone,
except that on the screen Cynical found an unusual icon of a wheel.
With a tap, it instantly began to spin and flash the word
“searching.” A moment later, the icon stopped with the message
“signal failed.”

“Give it back!” Michael demanded.

“You were cheating!”

Michael awkwardly swiped at the phone,
succeeding only in knocking it out of Cynical’s hands. Frozen, all
either of them could do was watch as the phone flipped into the
air, bounced off the railing and out into space – like a run-away
roulette ball.

Both men peered over the balcony as the phone
disappeared into the darkness; seconds later, a tiny splashed could
be heard three hundred feet below.

Cynical came back in from the balcony
empty-handed; Michael doggedly following along behind him.

“Thanks a lot,” the younger man said. “That
was my only phone.”

“You mean ‘scanner,’ don’t you?”

Michael plunked down on the couch; arms
folded across his chest like a petulant teenager who’d lost his
video game privileges.

“So, you were using that thing to figure out
the speed of the wheel?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,”
Michael said glumly.

“Try me.”

With a sigh, Michael said, “By calculating
the wheel and ball speed, I can predict a grouping of numbers that
are more likely to come up. That, and some simple betting
strategies helps me level the playing field.” He pushed his glasses
up the bridge of his nose. “It wasn’t like I was altering ball
movement. It shouldn’t even be illegal.”

The private eye smiled at the kid. “So, you
are smart.” Michael didn’t respond. Spotting the bar in the corner,
he asked, “Do you mind?”

His host shrugged as Cynical sauntered over
to survey the top shelf brands. Taking a tumbler, he looked back at
the kid who was rubbing his temples, tired and trying to think. His
defenses were down, making it a good time to question him.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you
swindle Mancuso?”

Michael looked up, focusing with a steely
glare. “I don’t know what Mancuso told you, but I didn’t
swindle
anybody.”

Cynical merely nodded as he produced the
tongs from the ice bucket.

“He
invested
in my business – and it
would have been the best investment he ever made too,” Michael
continued, his voice rising with indignation. “I can account for
every penny.”

“And how many investors did you have?”
Cynical asked, wondering if he’d oversold his little business.

“Just Mancuso.”

“So, what was your business?” Cynical dropped
a couple of cubes in the tumbler. “Who knows, maybe I’ll want to
invest too.”

That question seemed to stymie Michael for a
second; then he shook his head decisively. “I can’t talk about
it.”

“That’s too bad for me,” Cynical said as he
broke the seal on the Jack Daniels. He knew he shouldn’t be
drinking, but he was feeling pretty good about himself and felt he
deserved a celebratory drink, or so he told himself. After pouring
three fat fingers, he came around the couch and took a seat,
propping his shoes up on the coffee table. “So, if you didn’t do
anything wrong, why’d you leave town?”

“Because,” Michael said more softly. “They
blew up my prototype. Now they’re trying to kill me.”

“Who’s trying to kill you?” Cynical asked
casually, swirling his drink.

“I don’t know,” Michael said, growing
agitated.

“Let me get this straight.” Cynical took a
slow pull on the whisky. “People are trying to kill you, but you
didn’t swindle anyone?”
“That’s right.”

“Whatever you say,” Cynical said, going back
for another generous sip. Part of him knew he should just call
Mancuso, but another part of him was, and always would be, a
detective. This kid intrigued him and he wanted to know what was
going on.

“So why did you come to Vegas anyway?”

“I was thinking about getting married
here.”

Cynical cracked a loud laugh; then saw
Michael’s straight face.

“My plan was to make a little money on the
wheel and then call my girlfriend to meet me here. We could get
married and disappear.”
A grunt came from Cynical. “Good luck with that.”

“Why?” the younger man asked.

“Just my personal experience,” he mumbled.
“Never mind.” He waved the glass toward the kid. “Please,
proceed.”

“That’s not much else to tell. I needed some
cash,” Michael said. “Except for the money I’ve won here, I’m
totally broke.”

The story sounded crazy, and yet the kid
seemed so genuine. The best cons were always the best liars,
Cynical reminded himself. In fact, they hardly knew the truth from
their lies. He’d seen sociopaths beat polygraphs because they had
no conscience to trigger the involuntary emotional responses. Was
that what he was dealing with here?

“So, what were you working on?”

“I’ve signed a confidentiality agreement,”
Michael said. “Ask Mancuso.”

Cynical laughed again. “I’ve heard a lot of
excuses for not talking, but that’s a first.” His chuckle lingered
as he examined his remaining finger and a knuckle of whiskey. “I
know it’s something called ‘O-Motors,’ right?”

“What difference does it make to you? You’re
not the police,” Michael said, clearly annoyed with the line of
questions. “Even if I did tell you, you wouldn’t understand it –
and you sure wouldn’t believe me.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to get to the bottom of
this.”

“The only thing you’re going to get to is the
bottom of that glass,” Michael shot back. “Why don’t you stop
pretending you’re a real detective?”

The kid had landed a solid punch and it
stung, mostly because he was right. Cynical was trying to play
detective and that wasn’t his job anymore. Whether he liked it or
not, he was a glorified bounty hunter, at least on this job. Taking
out his own cell phone, he pressed a number he had programmed in on
his five hour flight to Vegas.

While it rang, he glanced over at his captive
who still seemed unconcerned with the prospect of dealing with his
investor who had paid fifty thousand dollars to find him.

A clipped voice with a British accent
answered, “Hello.”

“Mr. Mancuso?”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“Cynical Jones. I’m a private detective. Mr.
Abrams gave me the number.”

“Just a moment,” the droll voice said,
cutting in at the mention of Abrams’s name. A moment later, another
voice came on the line; this one also had an English accent
although with a more exotic dialectic mixed in. “Alfred
Mancuso.”

“It’s Cynical Jones, I’m a private -”

“You have Michael Dexter?”

“Yes sir, we’re in Vegas,” Cynical said.
“We’re at the Mirage Hotel.”

“Las Vegas?” Mancuso said quizzically. “May I
speak with him?”

Cynical held the phone out in Michael’s
direction. “He wants to talk to you.”

Michael put the phone to his ear. “Hello?” He
paused. “No, I’m okay.” This was followed by another, longer pause.
“Well, I don’t know who to trust anymore. Not after what
happened.”

While Mancuso talked, Michael mainly listened
with a look that bordered somewhere between boredom and annoyance.
“I know we had an agreement, but this is too important,” he
suddenly broke in. “It deserves to be shared with the world.”
Pause. “How can I be sure about that?”

The kid shook his head, as if getting an
earful from a nagging parent. Exasperated, Michael thrust the phone
back toward his captor. As Cynical put the receiver to his ear,
Mancuso was speaking in an intimidating tone.

“If it wasn’t for me you’d still be working
out your theories on chalkboards. Now, I’m sorry if you regret your
decision, but you will comply with the conditions of our
contract.”

“Ahh, Mr. Mancuso,” Cynical said tentatively,
“Michael handed the phone back to me.”

A soft sigh followed. “We need to settle this
in person,” Mancuso said. “Just keep him there with you. I’ll be
there in a few hours. ”

Turning his back to Michael, the private eye
walked a few feet away, hoping not to be overheard. In a hushed
voice, he said, “Legally, I can’t hold someone against their will.
If there was a warrant out for him, that would be different,
but-”
“Surely, you can detain him for a few hours,” Mancuso said sharply.
“If you can’t, I’ll find someone who will.”

“I’ll do my best,” Cynical said, not liking
the man’s demands.

A disgruntled sound on the other end of the
line was followed with, “Keep your phone nearby. I’ll be in
contact.” And with that, the connection was abruptly severed.

Taking a slow sip of his drink, Cynical
turned back to Michael who was standing at the window, gazing out
at the lights. At least he didn’t seem to be the con man or
pathological liar he’d initially suspected. The conversation he’d
overheard sounded like nothing more than a business
disagreement.

If the kid was not lying about his business,
could he be telling the truth about other things, such as someone
trying to kill him? He had dismissed that as a paranoid fantasy or
a ruse to look like a victim. On the other hand, the fact that
others were looking for him in Vegas tended to give his story more
weight.

Assuming there was some truth in it, he
needed to get his bounty to a safe place until Mancuso could meet
them. And, to accomplish that, he needed to exert control over him,
even if it was mostly illusory.

“All right, get your stuff together,” he
announced. “We’re leaving.”

“Why?” Michael asked, turning from the
window.

“If I can find you, so can whoever else
that’s looking for you.”

“It’s okay,” Michael said. “I didn’t use any
credit cards here.”

“Someone still could have easily spotted you.
You aren’t exactly low-profile,” Cynical said. “Go on. Pack your
bags.”

“Whatever,” Michael said as he shuffled
through the French doors that opened into the suite’s bedroom.

While Michael gathered his possessions,
Cynical set his tumbler on the coffee table. Just then, a low
rumbling began to build, causing a slight ripple in the drink. No
more alcohol tonight, he thought. But the noise kept coming,
building in intensity.

Getting up, he followed the sound back out to
the balcony just as an explosion sounded. Down below, a flame
leaped into the air and white smoke billowed up from the volcano’s
crater.

Cynical checked his watch. 12:00 am, time for
the hourly Mirage show.

It was easy to become mesmerized by the fire
and the pathways of lava cooling in the pools of water, especially
with a glass of Jack in him. Somewhere in all that primordial ooze
was a very smart phone. And inside the suite was a very smart young
man; someone he needed to keep an eye on if he was going to make it
to payday.

Snapping out of his trance, the private
detective walked back inside the darkened suite just as Michael
came out of his bedroom, a bag slung over his shoulder.

“You ready to go?”

“It seems like a waste,” Michael said,
walking through the suite. “I’ve got the room for the night.”

“It’s for the best,” Cynical reaffirmed as he
held the door open. Taking one last look at the lavish
accommodations, he let the heavy door click shut behind them.