Читать книгу The Cayman Conspiracy - David Ph.D. Shibli - Страница 6

As if dragged down invisibly by the thousands of dollars wagered on it, the busy roulette ball fell from its faltering orbit towards the swirl of numbers below. After a couple of speedy ricochets, it picked its spot.

“Sixteen. Red,” announced the croupier matter-of-factly, as though she had already known. She placed a column-shaped object on the sparsely populated number, reminding her who to pay.

Groaning gamblers watched as their losing bets were swiftly scraped off the green, baize table and dumped into the greedy receptacle at the side of the wheel.

The few winners, suddenly more adept at mental arithmetic, quickly calculated their returns, if they hadn’t done so already. The experienced croupier, displaying tactile perfection, didn’t even need to look at the chips as she counted them. This display of dexterity was marveled at by the new players and taken for granted by the old hands.

One of the old hands, Higgins, bit hard into his lower lip suppressing the profanity that would have followed the ‘F’ that had just formed on his mouth. He had lost again. Dregs of table etiquette tightened his bite.

He tore his concentration from the feverish betting frenzy and sat up in his chair. He looked at his watch, if only through pure habit. There was nowhere he had to be, no wife at home, no supper on the table and no kids to play with. He had forfeited all that two years ago. So the fact that it was eight p.m. was irrelevant.

Shaky hands sent up spirals of cigarette smoke that wafted across his face, urging him to join in. Before obliging, he paused to run his nicotine-stained fingers through his head of grey-flecked, black hair. His once-handsome face was now haggard with neglect and blotched with alcoholic overindulgence, removing any possibility of arguing the downside of his forty years.

He could not remember if his gambling had led him to drinking or if his drinking had led him to gambling. That was all a long time ago. The two seemed to go hand in hand these days; chips in one and a cognac in the other. His third hand was an ashtray that usually held a filterless cigarette, whose raking flavor completed his ritual of self flagellation.

He felt as though he was drowning, choking on self-hate. How had he gotten himself into such a dire strait? He waded back through the hazy avenues of his memory. Wandering back a few years to his favorite bar, he had been enjoying an after-work drink with some of his colleagues and, feeling a little high, he had decided to take a taxi home.

He found himself talking about casinos with the enthusiastic driver. At this point, he had been living in Vegas for three years and had always avoided the bright lights that he felt were for the tourists, besides which, his demanding job selling mining equipment in this state of Nevada had kept him well away. If that wasn’t enough, his wife and two young children would sap any surplus energy that he was fortunate enough to come home with.

However, every so often, he and some of his colleagues would spend an evening together as they had done that night. Higgins had found himself believing the driver’s story that a little gambling could supplement an ailing income. Coincidentally, recent months had been fairly lean for Higgins’ sales figures and with a few drinks under his belt, he had found himself agreeing to a little detour to the Eastern Promise Hotel & Casino. Such was his rapport with the driver, they even went in together.

His first impression was one of unbridled opulence. It was incredible; this place wove the fabulous wealth and deep mystique of the Orient into the perfect spell. The faithfully-reproduced architecture had to have been whisked here on a magic carpet directly from the pages of One Thousand and One Nights, he had mused.

When he had turned to share his wonder with his new friend, Higgins had suddenly found himself alone, the moist ten-dollar note for his fare still clenched in his hand. In futility, he had looked around for the driver, until the welcome offer of a complimentary drink dissolved any prevailing concern. Well, now that he was here, he might as well see what all the fuss was about, he thought.

At a glance, everybody had seemed too preoccupied with the many ongoing attractions to notice a new face and that suited Higgins as he observed the various games. Surprised at their simplicity, it wasn’t long before he had taken the plunge and joined in, getting used to the feel of the toy currency that enabled him to play these fun games. He remembered sitting at the roulette table for the first time. Every spin, he would rub his imaginary magic lamp with hope and more often than not, the genie had obliged. Such excitement, followed by the cashing in of his pile of play-money for the real thing was the icing on this sweet cake.

It was through pure luck rather than good judgment that he had won at first. Penny, his wife, was treated to a rash of useless gifts that she would have happily exchanged for his company. Over the following months they had grown apart, Higgins unable to wrench himself away from his new home and Penny feeling helpless. He persisted even when his beginner’s luck had long since run out. Soon he had begun to lose; heavily.

Higgins knew that he had given his cherished Penny no choice but to leave, and although he had seemed incapable of preventing it, he could not understand it. He didn’t want it, but he couldn’t stop it. All of his efforts were thwarted by the inexplicable rush that he would feel just thinking about the spin of the wheel. He knew the only way out of this whirlpool was down, how much further, he had no idea, but he sensed that he would soon find out.

Warnings from his wealthy brother, Brogan, who had lived in Vegas more than twenty years, reverberated in his ears: “You haven’t got a hope in hell. Can’t you see that? What the fuck do you think these places are, benevolent societies?”

“I can win next time. I’m overdue for a change of luck. I know it”

“You poor, stupid bastard. You just don’t see it, do you? What is it with you, drugs, or what? No sane man would pull your kind of shit. You’ve thrown away Penny, your friends and your money; you ain’t got a scrap of self respect left in you.”

“Ok, Big Brother, I hear you, loud and clear. I’ll quit soon, I promise. Listen, I’ve had a few unexpected expenses recently and I was wondering if you could perhaps…?”

“No fucking way!” Brogan had slammed the door of their relationship, anticipating yet another cash request. Brogan had given up and angrily pushed past the empty shell that had once been his beloved brother. Tightly wrapped in his selfish cocoon, Higgins had never even seen the tears in Brogan’s eyes.

With his mental soliloquy now ended with the usual self-justification, the craving for another cigarette abruptly tossed Higgins back into the present, his dire situation almost perfectly described by the paltry few gaming chips that were clutched in his sweaty left hand.

He would have to make his move soon. He couldn’t sit there all night staring into space, could he? Perhaps a few more minutes, he compromised. For the first time throughout this ordeal he plucked up enough courage to admit that he was afraid. Who wouldn’t be in these circumstances? Only yesterday, his car had been repossessed by the dealer; his sales job was on the line and he was four months behind on his mortgage repayments. His only asset was his wife’s refusal to demand alimony against the vehement insistence of her unsympathetic lawyer.

Penny had pleaded with her husband and tried to introduce him to professional help, but he had always scorned her efforts with an effluent of denial, refusing to accept that his recreation was not normal. Her worst moment had been when her drunk, angry husband had come home after another losing spree in that damned casino when he had actually raised his hand to her, and beaten her, leaping over that invisible threshold of marital trust.

She had confronted him about the missing money that she had been saving up for their eldest child’s seventh birthday party. Scavenging around, Higgins had found it in a biscuit tin in one of the kitchen cupboards. He promised himself that he would pay it back. The tin, like the promise had remained empty.

Even the tears that Penny had shed after lighting the single birthday-cake candle for the seventh time had failed to dampen his burning need to bet. Before this incident, Higgins was one of those men who despised aggressive men. He was the kind of man who would butt into an argument to defend the honor of a woman whom he didn’t even know. Now he had tasted the bitter pill of scorn that he had once prescribed. He was one of them. A wife-beater!

This shocking about-turn had twisted his values into worthless words, only to be spouted in barroom dialogues with anybody unfortunate enough to have struck up a conversation with him.

It was usually at this point that the desire for the anesthesia of his favorite cognac would rescue him from further anguish. He looked around for the cocktail waitress hoping that the agony in his heart was not evident on his face.

Kerry’s eyes met Higgins’ and she strutted over, determined not to look foolish in the skimpy outfit that came with the job. She felt a certain pity for some of these hopeless fools, but it was soon forgotten when their leering attitudes insulted her dignity. Higgins was scum. He hadn’t always been; but she had seen many a man change like this over the years. Anyway he tipped well and she had mouths to feed. She smiled, “The usual, sir?”

“You got it,” drawled Higgins and with a display of male inadequacy, he ogled her from behind as she went about his request, conning himself that she enjoyed serving him.

She knew he was staring and she wore his glare like a millstone of resentment as she poured out the cognac, putting in an extra shot to keep him at bay a little longer. The drink was free, but the service was an intangible extra. Higgins acknowledged this with the usual tip that he could ill-afford, but like all good gamblers, he was a seasoned liar and a master of paranoia.

He searched for any hint of a come-on in Kerry’s uninterested face. Once again, they drew opposing conclusions.

It was now time to talk business. Higgins knew that he would have to ask for a line of credit to support this evening’s gambling. He accepted this as a last resort, because of what had happened the last time he took credit. After getting a line of credit, then losing and hurrying out, he bumped into what appeared be a friendly fellow-gambler. The new friend had seemed to read his thoughts and over a parting cognac, referred him to a loan-shark. He had quickly realized that these people were deadly serious about getting paid back. Now he was broke again and the sharks would be circling; he would have to win some of his money back. This was ridiculous, he thought, but since he had run out of scapegoats, punishing himself would do no good. He decided to press on. Sheepishly, he made eye contact with Charlie, the pit manager.

Immediately, Charlie seized the upper hand and strode over to the hapless Higgins. Charlie lent a sympathetic ear to the request for credit before picking up the nearest house telephone. He dialed a single digit and stared into one of the many security cameras as though he were talking directly to someone. He was.

“Yes, Charlie. What is it?” asked Luca Telesino, the general manager, giving Charlie the chance to put into words what he had spent the last hour watching on one of his screens.

“Mr. Higgins needs a marker, sir,” confirmed Charlie.

“So I’ve noticed, Charlie. What are you waiting for?”

“How much?”

“Two grand. No more. No less. If he loses…No, when he loses, send him up to my office.”

“Will do, sir,” said Charlie, relishing this extra responsibility that he was called upon to execute every so often after another sucker had got in way over their head.

“Will two thousand be enough?” asked Charlie turning to Higgins. He was already filling out the credit voucher in anticipation of the standard response. Higgins agreed with the speed of a scalded cat, afraid that they might change their mind.

The whole sum was converted directly into chips in accordance with house rules but it was not until he could actually feel them in his unsteady hands that Higgins felt the waves of relaxation flow over him.

At last, he was safe. Now he could win his money back and some dignity to boot. Now holding the edge, this stack of borrowed chips would buy his ticket from this hell; only time would tell if it would be a return ticket.

That old winning feeling was coming back to him. Very shortly, Lady Luck would be sitting beside him and it would be time to play. An arrogant smirk held his next cigarette which he lit with his gold- plated, Dunhill lighter, remembering to avoid the flame that always seemed to jump higher in this charged place. He had bought it after one of his early lucky spells. If he had taken the time to look back over his fortune since owning it, he would have dropped it like a red-hot coal, but he exercised his right to be superstitious when it suited him.

He sipped some more of his cognac and sensed Lady Luck sidle up to him with promises that warmed his heart. The bitch sang like a Siren and Higgins was set on joining Ulysses as the only other survivor of the forbidden melody. Unfortunately for Higgins, he had no friends left to secure him to the mast of sanity and sure enough, his sinking ship was quickly dashed against the rocks.

Fickle Lady Luck had only needed an hour to lose all of Higgins’ money. Charlie scoffed through the episode, actually enjoying the pathetic entertainment that Higgins was providing. Like the hard-core gambler that he was, Higgins played it to the bitter end, geeing himself up with fist clenches, clichés and ludicrously comparing himself to a Spartan warrior facing unfair odds. He even changed his emergency five-dollar note into a single chip and placed it on thirteen. The number stayed true. It was over.

A burly security guard invaded Higgins’ wreckage. “Excuse me, sir. The general manager would like to see you in his office. I’ve been instructed to accompany you.”

Like a zombie, Higgins stood up, unable to attain his full five feet ten. He slipped his lucky lighter into a pocket of his tatty, checkered jacket and followed until they reached the private staff elevator.

The guard used his control key and launched them to Telesino’s nerve centre on the thirty-fifth floor. Higgins restrained the urge to make light talk as his chaperone stared at the door throughout, anxious to complete his task and not incur the infamous wrath of Luca Telesino. They duly arrived and a faceless heavy held open the door to his boss’s office.

Like an errant schoolboy summoned before the headmaster, Higgins shuffled in and behind a huge wooden desk he could make out a patch of black, thinning hair that peeped over the rear of a large, leather swivel-chair. Sensing the arrival of an expected guest, the chair spun around to reveal Luca Telesino wearing a black tuxedo and a yellow smile. He rose, confidently filling out his stout six feet.

“Ah, Mr. Higgins, come in. I’ve been expecting you,” Telesino started in a paternal tone. “Sit down. Please.”

Higgins obliged.

“Correct me if I am wrong, Mr. Higgins, but I am led to believe that you are experiencing severe financial difficulties at the moment?”

He paused to await a reaction. None came; he drew the appropriate conclusion and continued, “I would like to give you the chance to redeem yourself.” He paused to let his words sink in. “If you perform satisfactorily, we may be able to forget the two thousand dollars.”

Higgins wondered what the catch would be.

The erudite Telesino went on, “In addition, I am sure that my cousin would also be willing to waive the ten thousand that you owe one of his loan agents.”

Shit! Higgins thought. The loan shark was tied up with this man’s cousin!

“Hey, wait a minute!” Higgins blurted out. “That was five grand, not ten!”

“If you are that unfamiliar with the terms of your agreement, Mr. Higgins, I suggest that you read the fine print again. Interest usually accrues on such transactions and yours is no exception.”

Telesino’s voice took on a sharper edge. The ominous warnings sliced through Higgins’ resistance. He was prepared to listen to any alternative. It didn’t even have to be reasonable.

“What do I have to do?” surrendered Higgins.

“Follow me, please,” commanded Telesino, waddling over to a digital pad on the wall. Rapidly, he punched a few numbers in and the wall appeared to vanish, revealing what seemed to be a control room. Paid eyes were scanning the plethora of television screens and ignored the newcomer.

“This is power, Mr. Higgins, absolute power. All legal, I might add. Once our customers come through the doors, we know every move that they make. How much money they spend, what they drink, the brand of cigarettes they smoke, if they need a loan, you name it.”

“Where do I come in?” appealed Higgins, acutely aware of his sudden nakedness.

“We would like to have the pleasure of entertaining some of your friends,” explained Telesino.

“Like free advertising, you mean?” said the hopeful Higgins.

“Something like that,” replied Telesino with a frown that insinuated it was not that simple.

This business was beginning to sound sinister to Higgins. He weighed up his options and gave up almost immediately.

Telesino continued, “All you have to do is convince some of your friends that they should spend an evening playing our tables. One new person each week will be sufficient. I will be watching for you.”

“Is that all?” asked Higgins, almost relieved. His sales experience would come in handy for this strange task, he thought. It was simple enough. He didn’t even have to bring his victims back again, did he?

“What if they don’t come back?” he asked.

Telesino looked at him, grinning. “You did.”

Past memories smashed to the forefront of Higgins’ brain. What had brought him back? Free choice, surely? What about that taxi-driver? And what about his incessant craving to come always to The Eastern Promise and nowhere else? There had to be some devious way of making people come back? Or was it just a basic human weakness that they preyed on? Whatever it was, it had destroyed him. He recalled the levels of depravity that he had sunk to, and finally, he had found his last scapegoat.

Higgins suppressed the rising urge to throw up. His thoughts flashed back to Brogan’s warning. It was too late now and he accepted it. Higgins found himself nodding vacantly, ignoring the veiled threats of violence that were now spewing from the mouth of Telesino.

After a slippery handshake that blended Higgins’ sweat and Telesino’s nature, Higgins was shown the door. Telesino returned to his observation room and patted a machine as though thanking it for a job well done. A magnetic tape in the device played continuously, singing its silent song that accompanied the easy-listening music in the gaming-room. It didn’t work on everybody, but it appeared to have an excellent success rate on drinkers and other fools seeking meaning to their lives. Once the victims kept coming back, the slightly unfair mathematical odds of the games would do the rest.

The security guard had waited to escort Higgins back into the public domain. During the descent of the elevator, Higgins wondered if he really had the courage to inflict a similar fate on other fools such as himself. He doubted his resolve. A few fragments of humanity were still nestled in his fragile code of existence.

The claustrophobia of the lift was gratefully diluted with the metallic swish of the doors that announced their arrival on the ground floor. Higgins now sensed the poisonous aura with belated disgust. He glared at the cameras before sneering at Charlie, who was busily assisting in the recruitment of the next slave. Higgins quickly made his exit into the warm Vegas evening strangely relieved that his downfall had been aided.

He found a payphone and dialed Brogan’s number. After three rings, Higgins heard the familiar hissing sound that was the beginning of the recorded message. He decided that this may be for the better considering his unswayable plan of action. “...and if you leave your name and number after the tone, I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you.”

Higgins pressed the receiver to his ear enduring the piercing, electronic beep. His grip tightened and he was shaking with a hybrid feeling of fear and anger tempered with love. He paused, desperately reaching for words to convey the spectrum of his emotions.

“Brogan. The bastards got me,” he quivered. “It was a set up; some kind of thought control. I never had a chance. I love you. Tell Penny...”

Click. His time was up. With no more change in his pocket, he’d have to leave it at that. Brogan would be able to handle Penny, he thought as he turned to go back to The Eastern Promise. Mentally, he kissed his children goodbye as he looked up to the thirty fifth floor and beyond.

Higgins marched back inside the tall building and rode the public elevator as far as it would take him which was two floors below Telesino’s lair. The thirty-third floor appeared deserted and he made his way to the emergency staircase. The fire escape key was hanging in a glass case on the wall. Higgins smashed it with his hand ignoring any pain and unsightly blood. He winced with pain as he twisted the key in the lock, struggling to overcome its history of inactivity. It gave way and he pulled the key back out, in the hope that it could help him two floors up. He was right, but there was a welcoming committee and Higgins’ gashed hand turned the carpet red.

Two oxen-like men grabbed him by the wrists, and forced his hands behind his back before they frog-marched him back into Telesino’s office.

“Mr. Higgins. I am most disappointed with your obvious violent intent. I may not give you another chance.”

“Spare me the bullshit.” Higgins was pleased with his new found valor. “You should be put away, you evil bastard.”

“I take it that you don’t wish to make amends for your outstanding obligations,” Telesino concluded, still maintaining his grasp of a bank manager’s vocabulary.

“I’ll see you in hell, mister!” Higgins shouted, struggling in vain.

“I don’t doubt that Mr. Higgins. But by the time I arrive you should be settled in,” smirked Telesino. He turned to his henchmen coldly and snarled, “Get rid of this piece of shit.”

The blood from Higgins’ cut hand had compromised the grip of one of his captors. He sensed this and swiftly twisted the hand free from the surprised goon. This motion swiveled him to face the second man whom he surprised with an accurate punch to the jaw. The recoil bought Higgins a few vital seconds and now free, he steadied himself on the heavy wooden desk before launching himself towards Telesino with the desperation of a wounded animal. As his hands vainly sought to induce a fatal stranglehold, Higgins heard a sickly crack that was his last memory.