Conspiracy

118

As soon as he was out of the jetway, Jimmy Fingers increased his pace, striding quickly in the direction of the exit. Las Vegas’ McCarran International Airport had never seemed so im mense. Fortunately, he’d only taken a carry-on, so there was no need to wait with the others in the luggage-receiving areas. Jimmy Fingers joined the queue at the taxi stand; it moved briskly, and he soon found himself in a cab.

“The Strip,” said Jimmy. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the secondhand laptop he’d brought along.

“Which hotel?”

“I’m not going to a hotel,” said Jimmy Fingers, turning the laptop on.

“Hoo-kay,” said the driver.

What Jimmy Fingers wanted to do was find a wireless network where he could connect and send the e-mail — from the cab, if possible. But the radio waves didn’t seem to want to cooperate, and the driver seemed nosey besides, checking his mirror every few minutes to see what was going on.

“You know where there’s a Starbucks?” Jimmy Fingers said finally.

“Starbucks. Coffee?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Expensive place for coffee. I know a place—”

“Starbucks is where I want to go.”

“Hoo-kay.”

Jimmy Fingers ordered a tall decaf, then went and sat outside in the small fenced-in area at the side of the Starbucks at Centennial and I-95. He connected to the Internet and, with cars whizzing back and forth, sent what he knew would be the last e-mail of the campaign, this one threatening Congressman Mark Dalton of Florida, whose status as a veteran had not helped him break into double digits in any of the primaries so far, and whose campaign was all but finished.

After he signed off, Jimmy Fingers walked to the back of the store, toward a row of Dumpsters. He was just about to throw the laptop into the nearest one when a soft moan caught him off guard. Two teenagers were making out in the scrubby bushes nearby.

Cursing silently to himself, Jimmy Fingers immediately whirled around and began walking in the opposite direction.

His heart double pumped, and his hands became clammy. A bus was just pulling up; Jimmy Fingers got on it. He realized it was a mistake but felt trapped; when the bus driver told him he needed exact change, Jimmy Fingers blinked at him for a second before recovering and reaching into his pocket for the right coins.

By the time he gathered himself, the bus was moving.

Jimmy Fingers realized he now had a bigger problem than getting rid of the laptop in his briefcase — he had no idea where the hell he was.

Jimmy Fingers stayed on until he came to the Cannery Hotel. Still feeling disoriented, he went inside and found a bar — the Pin-Ups Lounge. He ordered himself a beer, and drank it greedily. When he was done, he simply got up, leaving the briefcase with the computer.

He was about halfway to the door when a woman in her late sixties called after him, telling him he had forgotten his bag.

I’m never going to get rid of the damn thing, Jimmy Fingers thought to himself, pretending relief as he thanked her and tucked the briefcase under his arm.

He made his way to the men’s room, where he flushed his face with cold water. It was the heat that was getting to him, he told himself, not the pressure. There was no pressure — he was within a few months of achieving everything he’d ever dreamed of achieving. McSweeney would be President; Jimmy Fingers would take a job as special assistant to the President, and hold a post in the party as well.

Scores would be settled, friends rewarded.

And they would achieve a great deal. Jimmy Fingers had been a believer in democracy and the little man when he started out, and as cynical as he had become, deep down he still believed that an elected official could do some good. If the right people were guiding him.

Jimmy Fingers caught sight of his face in the mirror. He looked a lot paler, and a lot older, than he had thought.

As he reached for the paper towels, he realized the solution to his laptop problem stood right before him.

With a quick shove, the laptop fell from the briefcase into the wastebasket. Jimmy Fingers rolled out a fistful of paper and threw it on top. He washed and dried his hands again, adding still more paper to make sure the laptop couldn’t be easily seen. Hands dry, he went to find out how to get a cab to pick him up.