Vegas Moon

6.

“There’s some sort of device that can reprogram the chip in my brain,” I say.

Phyllis’s face takes on a look of extreme sadness. She knows I’m a stone killer, and knows I’m aware she tried to kill me moments ago. She moves her lips, trying to form words. The effort makes her mouth look like that of a small bird, straining upward, waiting for its mother to drop a bit of worm down its throat.

“Phyllis, I need you to focus. I’m not talking about the unit you used to try to kill me just now. I’m talking about a master device that can override these wrist units.”

“Y-yes. There is one.”

“And what does it look like?”

“It’s v-very small.”

“And what does it look like?”

“Like the t-tip of a…” She pauses, trying to come up with a name. Gives up and says, “a computer memory thing.”

I pull out my phone, press the button that speed dials Lou’s number.

“I’ve got lots of stuff on the gambler,” Lou says. “But more to come. And we’re still digging through the doctor’s files from when you linked her computer to ours last night. You want what I’ve got so far?”

“Not yet. I do have a question, though.”

“Shoot.”

“What’s a computer memory thing?”

Lou pauses. “Is this a riddle?”

“Not on purpose.”

I need Lou’s help, but I don’t want him to know there’s a chip in my brain that can kill me. Lou and I are close, but since he tried to murder me recently, I’d prefer to keep a few secrets from him. I say, “I’m with a woman who’s trying to think of what you call the small tip of a computer memory thing.”

“What’s the shape?” Lou says.

I repeat the question to Phyllis and she stammers out it’s a rectangle, and people stick it into the side of their computers.

“Into the USB port?” Lou asks.

I ask Phyllis. She nods.

“Yes,” I tell Lou. “It fits into the USB port.”

“She’s talking about a flash drive,” Lou says. “Also known as a memory stick, finger stick, pen drive, disk-on-key, jump drive—”

“Got it,” I say. “Thanks.”

It takes a minute, but I eventually get Phyllis to explain that the master device resembles the metal tip of a flash drive, except that it’s ceramic, and half the size.

“And is it silver?” I ask.

“Wh-White.”

“Where is it?”

“I-I don’t have it.”

“Is it in this office?”

“N-No. I sw-swear.”

She’s trembling, and seems very small and frail. Much smaller than the clothes in her closet would indicate. Maybe it’s because she’s curled up in a fetal position. She’s crying, and her mascara is running and her mouth is bleeding, and her hair’s a coffee-colored mess.

“Your hair’s not orange,” I say.

“Wh-what?”

“You dyed your sweet spot orange?” I say.

She gives me a confused look. “My wh-what?”

“I was trying not to be vulgar. Your bush. You dyed it orange? Intentionally?”

She follows my gaze and modestly covers her lap with her hands.

“Have you given it to someone?”

“Excuse me?”

“The device.”

Phyllis nods.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Peters.”

I pause. “Lucky’s wife?”

She nods.

“No shit?”

She shakes her head.

Before I kill her I say, “I don’t mean to embarrass you, but I promised my friend I’d ask you something.”