Library of the Dead

LIFE INSURANCE COMPANY.

"That's very nice of you, but I have a job," Peter muttered, his voice barely audible above the repetitive melodies and clanging of the slots.

"Well, if things change, you've got my number."

The pit boss approached the table. "Look everyone, I apologize for what happened here. Mr. Elder, how are you tonight, sir? All of you are eating and drinking on the house tonight and I got tickets to any show you want. Okay? Again, I'm very sorry."

"Sorry enough to reverse my losses tonight, Frankie?" Elder asked.

"I wish I could, Mr. Elder, but that I cannot do."

"Oh, well," Elder told the table, "you don't ask, you don't get."

The pit boss tapped Peter on the shoulder and whispered, "The manager wants to meet you." Peter blanched. "Don't worry, it's all good."

Gil Flores, the floor manager of the Constellation, was sleek and urbane, and in his presence Peter felt scruffy and self-conscious. His armpits were damp, he wanted to leave. The manager's office was utilitarian, equipped with multiple flat-screen panels getting live feeds from the tables and slots.

Flores was drilling down, trying to figure out the hows and the whys. How did a civilian spot something his guys didn't and why did he turn them in? "What am I missing here?" Flores asked the timid man.

Peter took a sip of water. "I knew the count," Peter admitted.

"You were counting too?"

"Yes."

"You're a counter? You're admitting to me you're a counter?" Flores's voice was rising.

"I count, but I'm not a counter."

Flores's polish rubbed off. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"I keep the count-it's kind of a habit, but I don't use it."

"You expect me to believe that?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm sorry but it's the truth. I've been coming here for two years and I've never varied my bets. I make a little, lose a little, you know."

"Unbelievable. So you knew the count when this shithead does what?"

"He said he was hexed. The count was thirteen, you know, a code word for thirteen. She joined the table when the count was high. I think he dropped a swizzle stick to signal her."

"So he counts and decoys, the chick bets and collects."

"They probably have a code word for every count, like 'chair' for four, 'sweet' for sixteen."

The phone rang and Flores answered it and listened before saying, "Yes, sir."

"Well, Peter Benedict, it's your lucky day," Flores announced. "Victor Kemp wants to see you up in the penthouse."

The view from the penthouse was dazzling, the entire Strip snaking toward the dark horizon like a flaming tail. Victor Kemp came in and extended his hand, and Peter felt his chunky gold rings when their fingers entwined. He had black wavy hair, a deep tan and gleaming teeth-the sleek, easy looks of a headliner at the best club in town. His suit was a shimmery blue that caught the light and played with it, a fabric that seemed unearthly. He sat Peter down in his cavernous living room and offered him a drink. While a maid fetched a beer, Peter noticed that one of the wall monitors at the far end of the room had a shot of Gil's office. Cameras everywhere.

Peter took the beer and considered doffing his cap but kept it on-damned if he did, damned if he didn't.

"An honest man is the noblest work of God," Kemp said suddenly. "Alexander Pope wrote that. Cheers!" Kemp clinked his wineglass against Peter's beer flute. "You have lifted my spirits, Mr. Benedict, and for that, I thank you."

"You're welcome," Peter said cautiously.

"You seem like a very clever guy. May I ask what you do for a living?"

"I work with computers."

"Why am I not surprised to hear that! You spotted something an army of trained professionals missed, so on one hand I'm pleased you are an honest man but on another I am displeased at my own people. Have you ever considered working in casino security, Mr. Benedict?"

Peter shook his head but said, "That's the second job offer I've had tonight."

"Who else?"

"A guy at my blackjack table, the CEO of an insurance company."

"Silver hair, slim fella in his fifties?"

"Yes."

"That would be Nelson Elder, a very good guy. You're having quite a night. But, if you're happy with your job, I've got to find some other way to thank you."

"Oh. No. That's not necessary, sir."

"Don't sir me! You call me Victor and I will reciprocate by calling you Peter. So, Peter, this is like you just found a genie in a bottle but because this isn't a fairy tale you only get one wish and it's got to be, you know, realistic. So what's it going to be, you want a girl, you want a credit line, some movie star you'd like to meet?"

Peter's brain was capable of processing a tremendous amount of information swiftly. In a few seconds of thought he worked through various scenarios and outcomes and out popped a proposition that, for him, was high impact.

"Do you know any Hollywood agents?" he asked, his voice quavering.

Kemp laughed. "Sure I do, they all come here! You're a writer?"

"I wrote a script," he said sheepishly.

"Then I'm gonna set you up with Bernie Schwartz, who's one of the biggest guys at ATI. Will that work for you, Peter? Does that float your boat?"

Joy-soaked, he exulted, "Oh yeah! That would be unbelievable!"

"Okay, then. I can't promise you he'll like your script, Peter, but I will promise you that he'll read it and meet with you. Done deal."

They shook hands again. On his way out, Kemp put his hand on Peter's shoulder in a fatherly way. "And don't be counting cards on me now, Peter, you hear? You're on the side of righteousness."

"Isn't that interesting," Bernie said. "Victor Kemp is Las Vegas. He's a prince of a man."

"So what about my script?" Peter asked, then stopped breathing to await the answer.

Crunch time.

"Actually, Peter, the script, as good as it is, needs a bit of polishing before I could send it out. But here's the bigger thing. This is a big budget film, you got here. You got a train blowing up and a lot of special effects. These kind of action films are getting harder and harder to make unless they've got a built-in audience or franchise potential. And you've got a terrorism angle which is the real killer. Nine/eleven changed everything. I can tell you that very few of my projects that got cancelled back in '01 have been resurrected. Nobody wants to make a terrorism picture anymore. I can't sell it. I'm sorry, the world has changed."

Exhale. He felt light-headed.

Roz came in. "Mr. Schwartz, your next appointment is here."

"Where's the time gone!" Bernie sprang to his feet, which made Peter levitate too. "Now, you go and write me a script about high-stakes gambling and card counters and throw in some sex and laughs and I promise I'll read that. I'm so happy we were able to meet, Peter. You give my regards to Mr. Kemp. And listen, I'm glad you drove. Personally, I won't fly anymore, at least commercial."

When Peter got back to his small ranch house in Spring Valley that night there was an envelope sticking out from under his welcome mat. He tore it open and read the handwritten letter under the porch light. Dear Peter, I'm sorry you struck out with Bernie Schwartz today. Let me make it up to you. Come over to Room 1834 at the hotel tonight at ten. Victor

Peter was tired and dispirited but it was a Friday night and he had the weekend to recover.

The check-in desk at the Constellation had a room key waiting for him and he went straight up. It was a big two-bedroom suite with a great view. The coffee table in the living room sported a fruit basket and a bottle of iced Perrier-Jouet. And another envelope. There were two cards inside, one a voucher for $1,000 of merchandise in the Constellation shopping plaza and the other a $5,000 line at the casino.

He sat down on the sofa, stunned, and looked down onto the neon landscape.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in!" he called out.

A female voice: "I don't have a key!"

"Oh, sorry," Peter said, sprinting for the door, "I thought it was housekeeping."

She was gorgeous. And young, almost girlish. A brunette with an open, fresh face, firm ivory flesh pouring out of a clingy black cocktail dress.

"You must be Peter," she said, shutting the door behind her. "Mr. Kemp sent me to say hello." Like many in Vegas, she was from somewhere else-her accent had a hillbilly twang, dainty and musical.

He blushed so brightly his skin looked like it was made of red plastic. "Oh!"

She slowly walked toward him, backing him up toward the sofa. "My name is Lydia. Am I okay?"

"Okay?"

"If you'd prefer a guy, that's cool. Didn't know for sure." She had a charming ditziness about her.

His voice got squeaky from laryngeal constriction. "I don't like guys! I mean, I like girls!"

"Well, good! 'Cause I'm a girl," she purred with practiced artifice. "Why don't you sit yourself down and open that bottle of champagne, Peter, while we figure out the kind of games you'd like to play."

He reached the sofa as his knees were buckling and went down hard on his rump. His brain was swimming in a sea of juices-fear, lust, embarrassment-he'd never done anything like this before. It seemed so silly, yet…

Then, "Hey, I've seen you before!" Now Lydia was genuinely excited. "Yeah, I've seen you tons of times! It just hit me!"

"Where? At the casino?"

"No silly! You probably don't recognize me because I'm not in that stupid uniform. My day job is at the reception desk at McCarran Airport, you know-the E.G. and G terminal."

The rouge drained from his face.

This day was too much for him. Too much.

"Your name's not Peter! It's Mark something. Mark Shackleton. I'm good with names."

"Well, you know how names are," he said shakily.

"I get it! Hey, none of my beeswax! What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, honey. If you want to know the truth, my name's not Lydia."

He was speechless as he watched her strip off her black dress, showing all her black lacy gear underneath, talking a mile a minute as she went. "That is so cool! I've always wanted to speak to one of you guys! I mean how crazy must it be to commute to Area 51 every day. I mean it's like so top secret it basically makes me hot!"

His mouth fell open a little.

"I mean I know you're not allowed to talk about it but please, just nod if we've really got UFOs we're studying out there cause that's what everybody says!"

He tried to keep his head still.

"Was that a nod?" she asked. "Were you nodding?"

He composed himself enough to say, "I can't say anything about what goes on there. Please!"

She looked bummed then brightened up and started to work again. "Okay! That's cool. Tell you what, Peter," she said, swinging her hips, slowly approaching the sofa, "I'll be your personal UFO tonight-unidentified fucking object. How would that be?"