The chief muttered, “Flashbacks, huh. I don’t want a job where the trigger’s being pulled on me.” He turned to the still-cowering floor manager. “Hey, you. I’m changing the plan.”
“H-how so?
“Split the files into two thousand pieces and mobilize all the dealers currently on break. Track all of their movements since the moment those two entered the casino, and report everything directly to my ears.”
In time with the last two words, the chief tapped his headset.
“I’ll be with you. Don’t let them leave here alive.”
The floor manager’s face tightened in an instant, like a soldier just given orders to launch the assault in a battle where victory is assured.
“Yes, sir!”
He swiftly did an about-face and left at full speed, not stopping to look over his shoulder.
“What’s with those two?” the chief grumbled. “One’s the dog wagging its tail, and the other’s the tail wagging its dog. How insipid.”
He leaned back into the chair and returned his attention to the monitors. Noticing something in the picture, he touched his finger to the screen. The ConsoleView, responding to his touch, froze the image. He slid his finger right, and the playback rewound.
“Ah, that’s too far back.”
This time he slid to the left, and the image moved forward frame by frame.
The chief stared at the screen. On the other displays were playbacks from other, random points in time. As he looked from screen to screen, he snorted like a dog on the scent.
“So she’s left-handed.”
But the girl on the monitor was taking in a chip with her right hand. Not just any chip, but one of the most valuable chips in the casino—in all of Mardock City, even.
“Hmmm… I see,” he said, nearly yawning. His eyes were affixed to her left hand.
“I don’t know what your trick is…” he muttered with indifference, “but those gloves are well made.”
The chief—Ashley Harvest—hauled himself up out of his chair and slid his feet out the door of the control room.
≡
Shell dashed into his office and, like the fleeing heroine of a horror movie hiding herself in a room, closed the door with the slightest of sounds.
With one hand he snatched a microphone and into it shouted orders to his staff to take over his hosting duties, and with the other hand he mashed the redial button on his cellular phone.
Finally the line connected, and a low voice came over the phone—the steadfast voice of a man charged with erasing Shell’s flashbacks.
–
“Boiled! It’s awful! Where the hell are you?”
“Investigating? Investigating? What are you talking about? They’re here, right now!”
Boiled was silent.
“They’re here, all dressed up, like they’re going to a party!”
Now Shell was silent.
“Y-you knew? That they would come to one of my casinos?”
With a trembling hand, Shell removed his sunglasses. His eyes were wide with the dawning realization of his current situation.
Shell’s mouth worked open and closed and open again, and finally, he took a deep breath and said, almost in a moan, “This is where my first Show was. It was my first step… Everything always begins here.”
After a brief pause, Boiled said,
Boiled disconnected.
For a time, Shell remained still. Then he muttered a single word.
“Usefulness…”
A bold smile spread from cheek to cheek.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Your existence is indispensable. You’re the hammer of God, and you’ll shatter that filthy rotten egg.”
He put his Chameleon Sunglasses back on. The lenses had turned a harsh red color.
≡
“Isn’t it a little early to leave?”
Just as Bell Wing had finished packing up her things in the anteroom, Ashley called out to stop her. He was rugged, well built with wide shoulders. An oddly charming expression spread across his normally stern face.
He coolly looked at Bell.
“I didn’t know Ashley Harvest was the kind of man to waste time on someone who just got canned.”
