A s an only child growing up in Lexington, Massachusetts, Mark Shackleton was rarely frustrated. His doting middle-class parents satisfied every whim and he grew up with only a passing relationship with the word no. Nor was his inner life disturbed by feelings of frustration, since his quick, analytical mind sliced through problems with an efficiency that made learning nearly effortless.
Dennis Shackleton, an aerospace engineer at Raytheon, was proud that he'd passed on math genes to his son. At Mark's fifth birthday party, a family affair in their tidy split-level, Dennis produced a clean sheet of tracing paper and announced, "Pythagorean Theorem!" The skinny boy grabbed a fat crayon and felt the eyes of his grandparents, aunts, and uncles follow him as he approached the dining room table, drew a big triangle and underneath it wrote: a ^ 2 + b ^ 2 = c ^ 2. "Good!" his father exclaimed, pushing his heavy black glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Now what's this?" he asked, jabbing a finger at the long leg of the triangle. The grandfathers chuckled as the boy screwed up his face for a moment then exploded with: "The hippopotamus!"
Mark's earliest frustrations came as a teenager when he became aware that his body had not developed as robustly as his mind. He felt superior-no, he was superior-to the jocks and the goofballs who populated his high school, but the girls couldn't see beyond skinny legs and a pigeon chest to the inner Mark, a soaring intellect, scintillating conversationalist, and budding writer who constructed elaborate science fiction stories about alien races conquering their adversaries with superior intelligence rather than brute strength. If only the cute girls with pillowy chests would talk to him instead of giggling when he gangled through the halls or eagerly pumped his hand into the air from the front row of class.
The first time a girl said no to him, he vowed it would be the last. In his sophomore year, when he finally mustered the courage to ask Nancy Kislik to a movie, she looked at him strangely and coldly said, "No," so he shut down that part of himself for years. He threw himself into the parallel universe of Math Club and Computer Club, where he was coolest of the uncool, first among equals. Numbers never said no to him. Or lines of software code. Not until well after grad school at MIT, when he was a young employee at a database security company, flush with stock options and a convertible, and dated a plain Jane systems analyst, did he mercifully score for the first time.
Now, Mark paced nervously in his kitchen, kinetically transforming himself into his alter ego and nom de plume, Peter Benedict, man about town, gambler extraordinaire, Hollywood screenwriter. An entirely different sort of man than Mark Shackleton, government employee, computer geek. He took a few deep breaths and knocked back the last of his lukewarm coffee. Today's the day, today's the day, today's the day. He psyched himself up, praying almost, until his reverie was halted by the hated reflection in the glass of the deck sliders. Mark, Peter, it didn't make a difference. He was slight, balding, and bony-nosed. He tried to shake it but an unpleasant word crept in: pathetic.
He had begun work on his screenplay, Counters, shortly after his meeting at ATI. The thought of Bernie Schwartz and his African masks made him queasy but the man had virtually commissioned a script about card counters, hadn't he? The ATI experience had been gut-wrenching. He loved his rejected script with the kind of affection lavished on a firstborn but had a new plan now: he'd sell the second script then use it as leverage to resurrect the old one. He swore he would never let it die on the vine.
So he threw himself into the project. Every evening when he got home from work and every weekend he pecked out the action sequences and the lines of dialogue, and in three months it was done-and he thought it was more than good, that it was maybe even great.
As he conceived it, the film would be first and foremost a vehicle for major stars who, he imagined, would approach him on the set-the Constellation?-and tell him how much they loved the lines he had put on their lips. The story had it all: intrigue, drama, sex appeal, all set in the high-stakes world of casino gambling and cheating. ATI would sell it for millions and he would trade his life in an underground lab in the middle of the desert, with his life savings of about 130 grand, for the glittering world of a screenwriter, living in a grand house high in the Hollywood Hills, taking calls from directors, attending premiers, klieg lights sweeping the horizon. He wasn't fifty yet. He still had a future.
But first Bernie Schwartz had to say yes. Even the simple act of calling the man was complicated. Mark left for work too early and returned too late to connect with Bernie's office from home. Outside calls from work were impossible. When you worked deep underground in a bunker, there was no concept of popping outside to make a call on a cell phone, even if mobiles were permitted, which they weren't. That meant he literally had to take sick days to remain in Las Vegas to phone L.A. Too many more absences and his superiors were bound to ask questions and force him to get evaluated by the medical department.
He dialed the phone and waited till he heard the chant, "ATI, how may I direct your call?"
"Bernard Schwartz, please."
"One moment, please."
For the past couple of weeks the music on hold had been a Bach harpsichord work, soothing in a mathematical sort of way. Mark saw the musical patterns in his head and it helped relieve the stress of calling this loathsome but essential little man.
The music stopped. "This is Roz."
"Hi, Roz, this is Peter Benedict. Is Mr. Schwartz there?"
A pregnant pause, then, frostily, "Hello, Peter, no, he's away from his desk."
Frustration. "I've called seven times, Roz!"
"I'm aware of that, Peter. I've talked to you seven times."
"Do you know if he's read my script yet?"
"I'm not sure if he's gotten to it."
"You said you were going to check when I called last week."
"As of last week he hadn't."
"Do you think he'll read it this week?" he pleaded.
There was silence on the line. He thought he could hear the rapid-fire clicking of a ballpoint pen. Finally, "Look, Peter, you're a nice guy. I'm not supposed to say this, but we got the coverage of Counters from our readers and it wasn't good. It's a waste of your time to keep calling here. Mr. Schwartz is a very busy man and he's not going to represent this project."
Mark gulped and squeezed the phone so hard it hurt his hand.
"Peter?"
His throat was tight and it burned. "Thank you, Roz. I'm sorry I bothered you."
He hung up and let his knees buckle him onto the nearest chair.
It started as a tear from his left eye, then his right. As he wiped away the moisture, the pressure rose from below his diaphragm reached his chest and escaped his larynx as a single low rumbling sob. Then another and another until his shoulders were heaving and he was crying uncontrollably. Like a child, like a baby. No. No.
The desert sky turned coronation purple as Mark numbly walked into the Constellation, his right hand curled around a wad of cash in his pants. He plowed through the crowded lobby with a tunnel vision that blurred the periphery and set a clear path toward the Grand Astro Casino. As he crossed the threshold he hardly noticed the din of voices, the clanging and goofy musical tones of the slots and video poker machines. Instead, he heard blood throbbing in his ears, like a pulsing, heavy surf. Uncharacteristically, he paid no attention to the points of light on the planetary dome, with Taurus, Perseus, and Auriga directly overhead. He bore left through the valley of the slots and passed beneath Orion and Gemini on his way to Ursus Major, the Great Bear, where the high-stakes blackjack room beckoned.
There were a half-dozen $5,000 tables to choose from, and he picked the one where Marty, one of his favorite dealers, was working. Marty was a New Jersey transplant, his wavy brown hair pulled back into a neat little ponytail. Marty's eyes lit up when he saw him approaching. "Hey, Mr. Benedict! I got a nice chair for you!" Mark sat down and mumbled hello to the four other players, all men, all deadly serious. He pulled out his wad and traded it for $8,500 in chips. The stake was the largest Marty had ever seen from him. "Okay!" he said loudly, catching the ear of the pit boss nearby. "I hope you do real well tonight, Mr. B."
Mark stacked his chips and stared at them stupidly, his mind gummy. He bet the $500 minimum and played automatically for a few minutes, breaking even until Marty reshuffled and started a fresh deal. Then his head cleared as if he'd taken a whiff of smelling salts and he began to hear numbers pinging in his head like an audible beacon in the fog.
Plus three, minus two, plus one, plus four.
The count was calling out to him, and hypnotically he allowed himself for once to link the count to his bets. For the next hour he ebbed and flowed, retreating to the minimum bet on low counts and jacking the wager on high counts. His stack grew to $13,000, then $31,000, and he played on, hardly noticing that Marty was gone, replaced by some sourface named Sandra with nicotine-stained fingertips. A half hour later he hardly noticed that Sandra was shuffling more frequently. He hardly noticed that his stack had grown to over $60,000. He hardly noticed that his beer hadn't been refreshed. And he hardly noticed when the pit boss sidled up behind him with two security guards.
"Mr. Benedict," the pit boss said. "I wonder if you could come with us?"
Gil Flores moved back and forth with quick little steps like one of the Siberian tigers in Siegfried and Roy's old act. The meek humiliated man sitting before him could almost feel plumes of hot breath on his bald pate.
"What the fuck were you thinking of," Flores demanded. "Did you think we wouldn't spot this, Peter?"
Mark didn't answer.
"You're not talking to me? This isn't a fucking court of law. It's not like you're innocent till proven guilty. You are guilty, my friend. You basically fucked me up the ass and I do not like my sex that way."
A blank, mute stare.
"I think you should answer me. I really think you'd fucking better answer me."
Mark swallowed hard, a dry, difficult swallow that produced a comical gulp. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I did it."
Gil ran his hand through his thick black hair, mussing himself in exasperation. "How can an intelligent man say 'I don't know why I did something'? To me, that doesn't make any sense. Of course you know why you did it. Why did you do this?"
Mark looked at him finally and started to cry.
"Don't be crying at me," Flores warned. "I'm not your fucking mother." That said, he tossed a box of tissues into Mark's lap.
He dabbed his eyes. "I had a disappointment today. I was angry. I felt angry and this is how I reacted. It was stupid and I apologize. You can keep the money."
Flores had almost been mollified until the last concept, which threw him into a tizzy. "I can keep the money? You mean the money you stole from me? This is your solution? To let me keep that which already fucking belongs to me!"
Mark winced at the shouting and needed another tissue.
The desk phone rang.
Flores picked it up and listened for a while. "You sure about this?" After a pause, he continued, "Of course. Absolutely."
He put the phone down and moved in front of Mark, making him crane his neck. "Okay, Peter, this is how we're going to handle this."
"Please don't report this to the police," Mark begged. "I'll lose my job."
"Would you please shut your mouth and listen to me. This is not a conversation. I'm going to talk and you're going to listen. That's the asymmetry that your actions have brought upon you."
A whisper. "Okay."
"Number one: you're permanently banned from the Constellation. If you walk into this casino again you will be arrested and we will seek your prosecution for criminal trespass. Number two: you are leaving with the $8,500 you walked in with. Not a penny more, not a penny less. Number three: you violated a trust and a friendship so I want you to get the fuck out of my office and out of my casino right now."
Mark blinked at him.
"Why are you still here?"
"You're not going to call the police?"
"Were you not listening to me?"
"And you're not going to have me banned at other casinos?"
Flores shook his head in amazement. "Are you giving me ideas? Believe me, I could think of a lot of things I'd like to do to you including sending you to an orthopedic surgeon. Get lost, Peter Benedict." He spit out the last words: "You are persona non grata."
From the penthouse, Victor Kemp watched the stoop-shouldered man push himself out of a chair and shuffle out the door, and on other video feeds he followed him, accompanied by security as he made his way back into the casino, where he scanned the planetarium dome a final time in a last-ditch effort to spot Coma Berineces, through the lobby, and out into the parking lot and the authentic night sky.
Kemp freshened his drink and spoke out loud in a rich tenor to the colossal empty living room: "Victor, you will never make a buck trusting people."
Mark slowly drove his Corvette down the Strip in stop-and-go traffic. It was three hours till midnight and the town was getting busy as people were settling on the evening's entertainment. He was heading south, the Constellation in his rearview mirror, but he had no particular destination. He tried not to think about what had just happened. He was cast out. Banished. The Constellation was his home away from home and he could never return. What had he done?
He didn't want to be alone in his house, he wanted to be in a casino bar, with giddy action and loopy slot-machine jingles to distract him. Thank God Flores hadn't put the word out and blasted his photo to every casino in the state. He had caught a break. So, the question he mulled as he jerked down the Strip was: where should he go? He could drink anywhere. He could play blackjack anywhere. What he needed was a place with the right atmosphere to suit his peculiar temperament-a place like the Constellation, which had an intellectual component, albeit a token one.
He passed Caesars then the Venetian, but they were too fakey and Disneylike. Harrahs and the Flamingo left him cold. The Bellagio was too flash. New York New York, another theme park. He was running out of Strip. The MGM Grand was a possibility. He didn't love it but he didn't hate it either. At the corner of Tropicana he almost made a left to swing into the MGM parking lot. But then he saw it and knew it was going to be his new place.
Of course, he had seen it before, thousands of times, since after all it was a Las Vegas landmark. Thirty stories of black glass, the Luxor pyramid rose 350 feet into the desert sky. An obelisk and the Great Sphinx of Giza marked the entrance, but the true marker was at the apex, a spotlight pointing straight upward, piercing the darkness, the brightest beacon on the planet, putting out an insane forty-one gigacandela of luminosity, more than enough to blind an unsuspecting pilot making an approach into McCarran. He drove toward the glass edifice and drank in the mathematical perfection of the triangular faces. His mind filled with the geometrical equations of pyramids and triangles, and then a name tenderly slipped from his lips.
"Pythagoras."
Before Mark settled into the sedate bar at the casino-level steakhouse, he gave the property a once-over as if he were a prospective house buyer. It wasn't the Constellation but it punched a lot of tickets. He liked the bold hieroglyph designs on the gold, red, and lapis carpets, the towering lobby re-creation of the temple statues of Luxor, and the museum quality mock-up of Tutankhamen's tomb. Yes, it was kitschy but this was Vegas, for heaven's sake, not the Louvre.
He drank his second Heineken and pondered his next move. He had located the high-limit rooms behind frosted glass partitions to the rear of the casino floor. He had money in his pocket and knew that even if he refused to acknowledge the count in his head he could still spend a few diverting hours at the tables. Tomorrow was Friday, a workday, and his alarm would sound at five-thirty. But tonight there was something titillating about being in a new casino; it was like a first date, and he was feeling shy and stimulated.
The bar was nearing capacity, clumps of diners awaiting tables, couples and groups spouting animated conversation and throaty laughter. He had chosen the empty middle stool in a row of three and as the alcohol took effect wondered why the stools on either side of him remained unoccupied. Was he radioactive, tainted? Did these people know he was a failed writer? Had they heard he was a card cheat? Even the bartender had treated him coolly, hardly making the effort for a decent tip. His mood darkened again. He drank the last of his beer fast and tapped the bar for another.
As the alcohol soaked into his brain he had a paranoid notion: what if they also knew his real secret? No, they were clueless, he decided contemptuously. You people have no idea, he thought angrily, no fucking idea. I know things you'll never know in your whole fucking insignificant lives.
To his right a busty woman in her forties leaning hard on the bar shrieked like a girl when the fat guy standing next to her touched the back of her neck with an ice cube. Mark swiveled to take in the little drama, and when he swiveled back a man was occupying the stool to his left.
"If someone did that to me I would split their lip," the man said.
Mark looked at him, startled. "I'm sorry, were you talking to me?" he asked.
"I was just saying, if a stranger did that to me, it would be all over, you know what I mean?"
The fat man and the lady with a cold neck were pawing each other, having a jolly time.
"I don't think they're strangers," Mark said.
"Maybe not. I'm just saying what I would have done."
The man was thin but extremely muscular, clean-shaven and black-haired, with soft fleshy lips and oily skin the color of hazelnuts. He was Puerto Rican with a strong island accent, casually dressed in black slacks and loose-fitting tropical shirt open to the breastbone. He had long manicured fingers, a square gold ring on each hand, and shiny gold chains around his neck. At most he was thirty-five. He extended a hand, and Mark had to grab it out of politeness. The ring seemed to weigh as much as the appendage. "Luis Camacho," the man said. "How you doin'?"
"Peter Benedict," Mark replied. "I'm doing okay."
Luis pointed emphatically at the floor. "When I'm in town, this is my favorite place. I love the Luxor, man."
Mark sipped his beer. There was never a good time for small talk, especially tonight. A blender whirred loudly.
Undeterred, Luis continued, "I like the way the rooms have sloping walls, you know on account of the pyramid. I think that's pretty cool, you know?" Luis waited for a reply, and Mark knew he had to fill the void or perhaps risk getting a split lip.
"I've never stayed here," he said.
"No? Which hotel you stayin' at?"
"I live in Vegas."
"No shit! A local! I love that! I'm here like twice a week and I almost never meet locals outside of the people who work here, you know?"
The bartender poured something thick from the blender into Luis's glass. "It's a frozen margarita," Luis declared proudly. "You want one?"
"No thanks. I've got a beer."
"Heineken," Luis observed. "Nice beer."
"Yep, nice beer," Mark replied stiffly. Unfortunately the beer was too fresh to excuse himself gracefully.
"So what kind of work do you do, Peter?"
Mark glanced sideways and saw that a comical frothy moustache had appeared on Luis's lip. So who would he be tonight? Writer? Gambler? Computer analyst? Like a slot machine, the possibilities rolled around until the wheels stopped. "I'm a writer," he answered.
"No shit! Like novels?"
"Films. I write screenplays."
"Wow! Have I seen any of your movies?"
Mark fidgeted on his stool. "They haven't been produced yet but I'm looking at a studio deal later this year."
"That's great, man! Like thrillers? Or funny comedies?"
"Thrillers mostly. Big budget stuff."
Luis took large slushy pulls on his drink. "So where do you get your ideas from?"
Mark gestured broadly. "All around. This is Vegas. If you can't get ideas in Vegas, you can't get them anywhere."
"Yeah, I see what you mean. Maybe I could read something you wrote. That would be cool."
The only way Mark could think to change the conversation was to ask a question himself. "So what do you do, Luis?"
"I'm a flight attendant, man. For US Air. This is my route, New York to Vegas. I go back and forth, back and forth." He moved his hand one way then another to illustrate the concept.
"You like it?" Mark asked automatically.
"Yeah, you know, it's okay. It's like a six hour flight so I get to overnight in Vegas a few times a week and stay here, so yeah, I like it pretty well. I could get paid more but I got good benefits and shit and they treat us with respect most of the time."
Luis's drink was spent. He waved the bartender over for another. "You sure I can't get you one, or another Heineken, Peter?"
Mark declined. "I've got to take off soon."
"You play the tables?" Luis asked.
"Yeah, I play blackjack sometimes," Mark answered.
"I don't like that game so much. I like the slots. But I'm a flight attendant, man, so I gotta watch out. What I do is limit myself to fifty bucks. I blow through that, I'm like done." He tensed a little then asked, "You bet big?"
"Sometimes."
Another margarita was served up. Luis seemed overtly nervous now and licked his lips to keep them moist. He took his wallet out and paid for his drinks with Visa. The wallet was slim but stuffed, and his New York driver's license slid out with the credit card. He absently let the license sit on the bar and placed his wallet over it and took a large gulp of his fresh margarita.
"So, Peter," he said finally. "You feel like betting big on me tonight?"
Mark didn't understand the question. It disoriented him. "I don't know what you mean."
Luis let his hand move across the polished wood until his pinky touched Mark's hand ever so slightly. "You said you never saw what the rooms here look like. I could show you what mine looks like."
Mark felt faint. There was a legitimate chance he was going to pass out, fall right off the bar stool like a drunk in a slapstick. He could feel his heart start to pound and his breathing become rapid and shallow. His chest felt like it was mummy-wrapped. He straightened his spine and pulled his hand away, sputtering, "You think I-"
"Hey, man, I'm sorry. I thought, you know, that maybe you dug guys. It's no big deal." Then, almost under his breath, "Anyway, my boyfriend, John, would be happy I struck out."
No big deal? Mark thought violently. No fucking big deal! Hey, asshole, this is a major big deal, you fucking faggot! I don't want to hear about your fucking boyfriend! Leave me the fuck alone! This broadside blared inside his head as a cascade of visceral sensations piled on, dizziness, rising nausea, full-blown panic. He didn't think he'd be able to stand up and walk away without hitting the ground. The sounds of the restaurant and casino disappeared; he could only hear thumping in his chest.
Luis seemed alarmed by Mark's wide eyes and crazy stare. "Hey, man, chill, you know. You're a nice guy. I don't want to stress you out. I'm just going to hit the john, then we can just talk. Forget about the room thing. Cool?"
Mark didn't respond. He sat motionless trying to get his body under control. Luis grabbed his wallet and said, "Be right back. Watch my drink, okay?" He lightly patted Mark's back and tried to sound soothing. "Chill, okay?"
Mark watched as Luis disappeared around the corner, his slender hips packed tightly into his slacks. The sight distilled all his emotions into one: rage. His temperature soared. His temples burned. He tried to cool himself by chugging the rest of his cold beer.
After a few moments he thought he might be able to stand and he gingerly tried out his legs. So far, so good. His knees held. He wanted to leave fast, without a trace, so he hastily threw a twenty down on the bar, then another ten to make sure. The second bill landed on a card. It was Luis's license. Mark looked around then furtively picked it up. Luis Camacho 189 Minnieford Avenue, City Island, New York 10464 Date of birth 1-12-77
He threw it back down on the bar and almost ran out. There was no need to write it down. It was already memorized.
After he left the Luxor, he drove home to his subdivision on a quiet six-unit cul-de-sac. The patio house was a pleasant off-white stucco with an orange tile roof. It sat on a small plot with rug-sized lawns. The backyard had a deck off the kitchen and a privacy fence for sunbathing. The interior was decorated with a bachelor's insouciance. When he was in the private sector earning a big high-tech salary in Menlo Park, he'd purchased expensive contemporary furniture for a modern apartment, minimalist pieces with sharp angles and splashes of primary colors. That same furniture in a Spanish-style ranch looked off, like rancid food. It was a soulless interior almost completely devoid of art, ornaments, and personalized touches.
Mark couldn't find a comfortable spot. He felt raw, his emotions a roiling acid bath. He tried to watch TV but after a few minutes turned it off in disgust. He picked up a magazine then threw it down on the coffee table, sending it sliding into a small framed photograph, which toppled. He picked it up and looked at it: the freshman roommates, twenty-fifth reunion. Zeckendorf's wife had it framed and sent it as a memento.
He wasn't sure why he had displayed it. These people meant nothing to him now. In fact, he'd despised them once. Especially Dinnerstein, his personal tormentor, who turned the ordinary traumas of being a socially backward freshman into exquisite torture with his constant ridicule and opprobrium. Zeckendorf wasn't much better. Will had been different from the others, but in a way he wound up being more disappointing.
In the photo, Mark stood woodenly, faking a smile, with Will's big arm over his shoulder. Will Piper, golden boy. Mark had spent the entire freshman year enviously watching how easily things came to him-women, friends, good times. Will always displayed a gentlemanly grace, even to him. When Dinnerstein and Zeckendorf ganged up on him, Will would defuse them with a joke or bat them away with his bear paw of a hand. For months he had fantasized that Will would ask to room with him sophomore year so he could continue to bask in his reflected glory. Then in the spring, right before midterms, something happened.
He had been in bed one night, trying to sleep. His three roommates were in the common room, drinking beer and playing music too loudly. In frustration, he shouted through the door, "Hey, you fuckers, I've got an exam tomorrow!"
"Did the dipshit call us fuckers?" Dinnerstein asked the others.
"I believe he did," Zeckendorf confirmed.
"Need to do something about that," Dinnerstein fumed.
Will turned the stereo down. "Leave him alone."
An hour later the three of them were beyond drunk: loose-jointed, room-heaving, inebriated-the kind of state where bad ideas seem good.
Dinnerstein had a roll of duct tape in his hand and was sneaking into Mark's bedroom. Mark was a heavy sleeper and he and Zeckendorf had no problem taping him to the top bunk, looping the film around and around until he looked like a mummy. Will watched from the doorway in a stupor, a stupid grin on his face, but did nothing to stop them.
When they were satisfied with their handiwork, they kept on drinking and laughing in the common room until they crashed out on the floor.
The next morning, when Will opened the bedroom door, Mark was cocooned to the bed, immobile in a gray wrap. Tears were streaming down his red face. He turned his head to Will. There was hatred and betrayal in his eyes. "I missed my exam." Then, "I peed myself."
Will cut the tape away with a Swiss Army knife and Mark heard him mutter a thick apology through his hangover, but the two of them never spoke again.
Will had gone on to fame and renown doing admirable things, while he had labored a lifetime in obscurity. Now, he remembered what Dinnerstein had said about Will that night in Cambridge: the most successful profiler of serial killers in history. The man. Infallible. What could people say about him? He clenched his eyelids tightly.
The darkness triggered something. Ideas started forming, and given the speed of his mind, they were forming quickly. As fast as the ideas crystallized, another part of his brain tried to melt them so they would wash away harmlessly.
He shook his head so vigorously it hurt, a dull, pounding pain. It was a primitive impulse, something a very young child might have done to shake evil things out of his head. Stop thinking these thoughts!
"Stop it now!"
Shocked, he stood up, realizing he had just shouted out loud.
He went outside onto the deck to calm himself by scanning the night sky. But it was unseasonably cool and swarms of wispy clouds obscured the constellations. He retreated to the kitchen, where he drank another beer while sitting uncomfortably at the dinette on a high-backed chair. The more he tried to squelch his mind, the more he left himself open to swirling feelings of anger and disgust rising like brackish floodwater.
Day from hell, he thought. Fucking day from hell.
It was after midnight. He suddenly thought of something that would make him feel better and dug his cell phone from his pocket. There was only one way to medicate this epidemic of a day. He took a breath and retrieved a number from the phone's address book. It rang through.
"Hello?" A woman's voice.
"Is this Lydia?"
Sweetly, "Who wants to know?"
"It's Peter Benedict, from the Constellation, you know, Mr. Kemp's friend."
"Area 51!" she squealed. "Hi, Mark!"
"You remembered my real name." This was good.
"Of course I do. You're my UFO buddy. I stopped working at McCarran, if you've been looking for me."
"Yeah. I noticed you weren't there anymore."
"I got a better day job in a clinic right off the Strip. I'm a receptionist. They do vasectomy reversals. I love it!"
"That's cool."
"So what's up with you?"
"Yeah, well I was wondering if you were free tonight?"
"Honey, I'm never free, but if the question is whether I'm available, I wish I were. I'm just heading over to the Four Seasons for a rendezvous then I've got to get my beauty sleep. I need to be at the clinic early. I'm sorry."
"Me too."
"Oh, sweetie! You call me back soon, you promise? Give me a little more notice and we can definitely hook up."
"Sure."
"You say hello to our little green friends, okay?"
He sat for a while longer and, thoroughly defeated, let it happen, succumbing to the emerging plan that was galvanizing in his mind. He'd need to find something first. What had he done with that business card? He knew he'd kept it, but where? He went searching, urgently covering all the usual places until he finally found it under a pile of clean socks in his dresser. NELSON G. ELDER, CHAIRMAN AND CEO,