Confidence

In another hotel room in another city, Pete and Myka play cards.

"Did you see the tiger downstairs?" he says, dealing a hand.

"Hit," she says. "There's a tiger downstairs?"

"In the big plastic box in the casino. How did you miss that? I saw you go out yesterday."

"I was looking for a bookstore. I didn't go through the casino. Hit."

"Did you find one?"

"No. I asked the concierge; she showed me to a magazine rack next to the Shrimp Shack. I kind of gave up after that. Hit."

"Bust. Sorry, Mykes."

She pushes her pile of cards towards him.

"I should check out Shrimp Shack," he says.

"You told me you were never cheating on the buffet again after Fatburger."

"It's not cheating. Just... keeping my options open. How am I gonna say no to deep-fried shrimp?"

"Are you mobile enough to make it out there? It's quite a walk."

She points down at his leg, now free of plaster.

"There's a moving walkway. I'm good to go. Besides: I've got two months of lost eating time to make up for. You know the only thing worse than British takeout? Spanish takeout. The Europeans need to step it up a notch."

"You won't run out of places to eat here, anyway."

"Tell me about it. Thank you, Artie."

"What?" says Artie from the adjoining room.

"Nothing," says Pete, loud enough to carry across the suite. "Just glad you brought us here."

"Not all of us," says Myka. "Some of us like our entertainment inedible."

"Relax," says Pete. "I'll buy you a Kindle from the drugstore."

"Really not the same," she says.

"Can you come through here?" says Artie. "It's time."

Pete stands, still a little shaky on his feet.

"This is it," he says. "Get ready for the big reveal."

----

"Meet Marcus Leavenworth III," says Artie.

The screensaver on the television behind him flickers; cuts to a soft-filter image of a broad-shouldered, bare-chested twentysomething man on a beach, a beer can in his hand.

"He's young," says Myka.

"But not without experience," says Artie. "He runs a string of meat packing and export plants out in Montana. A legacy from his father, the recently-deceased Marcus Leavenworth II. Last valued at $300 million."

"He looks like a fratboy," says Pete.

"You're half-right," says Artie. "He didn't go to college, but he likes to party. He's picked up three DUIs in the last 18 months."

"Why is he interesting?" says Myka.

"And why are we here, if he's in Montana?" says Pete.

"Both excellent questions," says Artie. "First of all, he's not in Montana: he's here, in Vegas, the same way he is almost every weekend. Flies in Friday; flies out Monday morning. And second: he's a monster. In between the poker and the fight nights, he's found time to lay off 5,000 plant workers then hire them back as casual labor for half the wages and no health insurance."

"That doesn’t sound so monstrous," says Pete. "More like heartless, with a side order of fiendish."

"Ever known anyone pack meat for a living?" Artie says.

Pete shakes his head.

"I have," says Myka. "Half of those guys have frozen shoulders and worse by the time they hit 40. Nerve damage, missing limbs... They need healthcare."

"And Leavenworth knows it," says Artie. "Hence the change - it keeps costs down. And helps fund his Vegas habits."

"Son of a bitch," says Pete. Then: "Okay - you got me. I'm in."

"Myka?" says Artie.

She scrutinises the photo; glances from Artie to Leavenworth and back again.

"How do we get to him?" she says finally.

----

The casino floor is sticky, the air thick with cigarette smoke. The gamblers are predominantly retirement age and older, the majority hunched alone over slots or gathered in small groups around the craps tables, pulling $5 chips from fanny packs.

"Here?" says Myka. "Really?"

"So Artie says," says Pete.

"To play?"

"To drink. There's a 50s diner by the sportsbook - he goes there every night for a milkshake before he hits the Strip. It's his ritual."

"Artie really did his homework on this one."

"When doesn't he? The man likes his research."

"You'd rather he was less rigorous?"

They weave past a bachelorette party, the bride-to-be wielding a foot-long margarita with formidable intent. Myka looks straight ahead; avoids eye contact.

"What time is he due at the diner?" she says, checking her watch.

"9.15. We've got an hour."

"What do you want to do?"

"We could stay where we are. Get some nachos, play the slots, keep our heads down. That's what Artie would say."

"I'm sensing you have an alternative suggestion."

"I'm just thinking, while we're here..." He nods towards the tables, the high-stakes room; raises one expressive eyebrow. "Maybe we could have a little fun?"

----

"No counting, right?" says Myka as the cashier passes the tokens through the cage. "That's the deal. Nothing that draws any attention."

"Scout's honor."

"And try not to win."

"I always win. That's my thing."

"One win, then. No more. And nothing suspicious."

"Deal."

"And no chit-chat this time. No backstory. We are not newlyweds. I did not just marry you in the chapel next to IHOP."

"No wedding. Check."

They pass through the doorway, into the dimmer surrounds of the High-Limit area.

"Play it straight, okay?" she whispers in his ear as they sit down at the table. "Please. For me."

He turns to the dealer, and grins, and lays out a handful of chips across the felt.

----

"Give me your hands," says Helena.

The man reaches out to her; rests his thick fingers on her upturned palms.

"You feel guilt," she says. "Shame."

"Yes," he says.

"Because of what you did."

"Yes."

"It was... someone close to you. A family member."

"Yes."

She studies his face; the flex of his eyelid, the furrow of his forehead, the twitch at the corner of his thin-lipped mouth.

"Your wife," she says. "No. Ex-wife."

The face changes; reconfigures itself.

"You were unfaithful," she says, slowly. "More than once."

"Yes," he says, hands trembling over hers.

"And it's eating away at you, inside. It's making you ill."

"Yes," he says.

He closes his eyes.

There's nothing redeeming in fortune-telling, she knows. No challenge, and certainly no honour. But it's lucrative enough, albeit on a smaller scale than she’s used to, and it keeps her sharp; keeps certain necessary skills in focus. It may not be work, she reasons, but it's excellent practice.

The man - a third-rate pornographer turned strip-club runner whose name she barely remembers - pulls his hands away; wipes a tear from his cheek.

"I'm sick with it," he says. "Ever since the divorce. I can't sleep, can't eat. Nothing tastes good anymore, you know?"

"I know," she says sympathetically. "I see it, in your aura. It's horribly congested."

"Like, backed-up?"

"Yes," she says. "Sort of... clogged."

"That doesn't sound good."

"It isn't."

"Can you help me? Do something to... unclog it?"

She takes back his hands; squeezes.

"I can," she says. "But it won't be easy."

----

She leaves the condo an hour later, $20,000 in cash tucked away in a small wooden box buried deep in a beaded carpet-bag at her shoulder.

In a cab, on the way back to her apartment, she checks her phone - one of the burners Claudia assembled for the trip - and sees ten missed calls, all from the same number. She dials; waits.

"Claudia?" she says as the call connects. "Is something the matter?"

"It's your friends," says Claudia, breathing loudly, unevenly. "Myka and the other guy. They've been taken."

"What does that mean, taken? Arrested?"

"No. Not by the cops, anyway. They're at Babylonia, at the end of the Strip."

"So who has them? Security?"

"I think so. I didn't see everything - I was watching from the slots, and these chicks with giant cocktail glasses kept blocking my view."

"What did you see?"

"They went into the high-rollers room, hit the blackjack table. They were there for maybe five minutes before the pit boss came over with a couple of floormen. Took them both away."

"But they're still there? In the casino?"

"I guess so. In one of the back rooms, probably."

Helena thinks for a moment.

"Do you still have those documents from Chicago?" she says.

"On the computer somewhere, sure. But I don't see... Wait. No. No. H.G., we are not doing that."

"We are doing exactly that."

"Why? You don't even know these people."

Helena catches a glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror of the taxi.

"Altruism," she says, smiling.

----

The basement is decked out like an interrogation room: folding chairs, two-way mirror, metal table screwed tight to the floor.

It's not the first room like this that Myka's been in, though it might be the most subterranean. The very large men detaining her carry batons on their hips, lats and deltoids straining the fabric of their identical suits; the rigidity of their stances says ex-military, though she couldn't say what branch, what division. Pete would know, she thinks. Pete who is, right now - she assumes - being held by another trio of large men, in another room just like this one.

They wait in silence for more than 2 hours, she and her captors, until eventually the door to the room springs open and another man enters - smaller, neater, his suit a better cut.

He takes a seat opposite her.

"It was a mistake to come here, Ms. Bering," he says. "A big mistake."

She says nothing; keeps her mind blank, her expression neutral. She determinedly does not think: he knows my name. How does he know my name?

"You have quite a reputation," he says. "You and Mr. Lattimer both. Frankly I'm surprised you came back to Vegas at all."

Back? she thinks. We've never been here, not together.

"I thought you'd be smart enough to know better," he says, "after what you pulled at the Celestial last year."

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," she says. "I've never been to the Celestial."

"There's no misunderstanding, Ms. Bering."

He withdraws a square manila envelope from the recesses of his jacket; opens it, lays the contents on the table.

"We have the evidence," he says.

It's a photograph, black and white, grainy - a security camera capture. In it two people, a man and a woman, stand inside what is recognizably a vault, stacks of banknotes surrounding them on all sides. The man is Pete; the woman undeniably her.

We're being set up, she thinks.

"Where did you get this?" she asks.

"That's not your concern," he says. "There's only one thing you should be worried about right now, and that's whether I call the cops before or after I tell my friend Charlie at the Celestial that the two of you are back in town."

She tries very hard not to panic; to stay in control of herself, her reactions.

"Whoever sent you that," she says, tapping the photo with her index finger, "whoever gave you my name, fed you that information... they're playing you. It's fake. I've never been to the Celestial."

"I don't think so," he says.

The door opens again, and through it steps another man - older, authoritative, his suit even more expensive - and behind him a woman in a dark blazer, equally authoritative, shoulders squared and hair pulled back into a tight utilitarian ponytail.

It's Helena.

"This her?" says the older man.

"Yeah," says Helena, grimacing. "That's the one."

She speaks in a flat Midwestern accent: note-perfect, but disorienting.

"We've been looking for you a long time, Ms. Bering," she says to Myka.

"What's happening here?" says the man at the table. "Don, what is this?"

"This is Special Agent Emily Lake," says the older man, indicating Helena. "With the Organized Crime Task Force."

"For her?" He nods towards Myka.

"Her and Lattimer. Agent Lake and her partner followed them here from Minneapolis. Seems they got the same tip-off we did."

"And she wants us to hand them over? Just like that?"

"As I was explaining to your colleague a moment ago," Helena says, "I'd be more than happy to call in some of my men from the field office to make the arrest, if you'd prefer. They'll have to come in through the casino floor, of course, but I'm sure they'll do their best to be discreet."

"There's no need for that," says the older man.

She looks over his shoulder at Myka – coolly, appraisingly.

"Stand up, please, Ms. Bering," she says. "And turn around"

Myka complies. She feels hands at her shoulders - drawing down her triceps, pulling her forearms together - then the bite of cold metal at her wrists.

"I assume you know your rights by now?" says Helena, and Myka hears the smallest hint of amusement in her voice – undetectable, she imagines, to the rest of the room.

"Do you want us to bring Lattimer in?" says the older man.

"Please," says Helena. "Agent Franklin will be along in a minute. She'll take him out to the car."

"Through the back?"

"Through the back," Helena agrees.

----

Helena's car is an unmarked sedan, dark and inconspicuous in the covered parking lot. From the backseat, her wrists still cuffed behind her, Myka considers her situation; weighs up possibilities, likely scenarios.

"How?" she says eventually.

"I'm sorry?" says Helena, turning to face her from behind the wheel.

"How did you know?"

"What had happened to you, you mean? I've been watching you. Since Madrid."

She thinks back; runs through memories of the previous weeks, scene-by-scene.

"No," she says. "Not possible. I'd have seen you."

"Do you really think so?" says Helena. "I can be terribly covert when I need to be."

"You weren't there today. I know you weren't."

"I will confess, I haven't always been following you directly. I've had help."

"Your partner. The one with Pete."

"Yes. You'll meet her in a moment, I'm sure."

She shrugs free of her blazer; shakes her hair out of the ponytail, briefly exposing her neck and shoulders. Myka keeps her eyes on the windshield, the Tarmac of the lot beyond.

"Why, then?" she says.

"Why intervene?" says Helena.

"Yes. What's in it for you?"

"Must there always be something in it for me?"

"You told me as much, in Spain."

"Then consider this a momentary departure from self-interest."

"It isn't a play? You're not... after anything?"

"Not in this case. Though the pleasure of your company is a delightful fringe benefit."

"Then do you think you might want to let me out of these cuffs? I'm a lot more fun to be around with my hands free."

"I’m sure you are," says Helena.

Myka blushes.

"You know that isn't what I meant," she says, her face burning.

"Pity," says Helena. "But as it happens I can’t uncuff you quite yet - not until Claudia and your friend Pete make it out of the casino. I suspect it would undermine my credibility as an agent of the law somewhat if I were seen to have released my prisoner from her shackles the very moment I got her into the back of my car. However much entertainment her hands might provide.”

Myka sinks further back into the seat, releasing a little of the pressure at her shoulder blades.

"That accent was horrible," she says.

"It got you here," says Helena.

"You couldn't have told them you were English? With Scotland Yard, or something?"

"With what jurisdiction, in Nevada?"

"You could've thought of something. It's what you do."

"And as you told me before: I do it well. In any dialect."

The side door unlocks with a metallic click, and Pete slips in beside her, similarly handcuffed, dragging his leg behind him. His jaw is swollen; the beginnings of a bruise form at his temple. A younger woman follows him into the passenger seat - short, slight and somberly-dressed, her hair too blonde for her coloring.

"We were set up?" he says to Myka.

"I think so," Myka says. "Did they show you the picture?"

"Yeah. Looked pretty real. Whoever it was, they did a hell of a job."

"It take it you were never actually in that vault?" says Helena.

"Why is she here?" he whispers to Myka.

"She just saved your ass from the cops," says the blonde woman. "And probably another beating from those knuckle-draggers in there. You might want to show a little gratitude."

"You're the partner?" says Myka.

"Claudia Donovan," says the woman. "H.G.'s better half."

"H.G.?"

"A regrettable nickname that seems, rather more regrettably, to have stuck," says Helena. "And a valuable reminder to think carefully before gifting books to those closest to you."

"H.G. Wells," says Myka. "That's cute." Then, to Claudia: "What did she get you? The War Of The Worlds?"

"Tales Of Time And Space," says Claudia. "Signed first edition. Came up at auction last Christmas."

"You bought it?" says Myka to Helena.

"Not exactly," says Helena cagily. "But the sentiment was there."

"There was wrapping paper," says Claudia.

"I'd love to see it," says Myka.

"How about we take these off," says Pete, jerking his body towards Myka's handcuffs, "and then get back to the book report?"

"Claudia?" says Helena. She starts the engine; pulls slowly away from the parking lot.

"On it," says Claudia, producing a small key from the glove compartment. Pete turns towards her, forcing his wrists up and his upper body down; she leans in and uncuffs him. He takes the key and unlocks Myka.

"Thank God," she says. "My fingers were going numb."

"We wouldn't want that," says Helena.

"Now, H.G.?" says Claudia, tugging off the unlikely blonde hair to reveal a shorter, darker bob-cut underneath. “Really?”

"Can someone tell me what's going on here?" says Pete.

"We're the cavalry," says Helena, watching Myka through the mirror as she drives. "Swooping in to save the day."

"I thought you weren't interested in working with us?" he says. "Mykes?"

"You know everything I do on this one," she says.

"What do we do now?" he says.

"Now," says Helena, "I take you back to your hotel, whereupon you gather your things and catch the first flight you can out of McCarran. It's not safe for you to stay here."

"We can't do that," says Myka. "We're working."

"Not any more," says Helena. "If Babylonia has that photograph, you can be sure the other casinos do too - and some of their security teams will be less inclined to hold their fists in check than the one you encountered today. Whatever you were planning... it's no longer tenable."

"If that’s true," says Myka, "and you can't know that it is - shouldn't we try to find whoever set us up?"

"And maybe stop them doing it again?" adds Pete.

"You can do that equally well from another location," says Helena.

"With the right tools, anyway," says Claudia.

"Artie's not gonna like this," says Pete to Myka.

"What Artie likes is immaterial,” says Helena. “He's a sensible man, I'm sure. He'll see what needs to be done."

"You haven't met him," says Pete.

"I haven't," Helena concedes. "But that's very easily remedied."

----

“You shouldn’t be here,” says Artie to Helena. “Or you,” he adds, with a nod to Claudia.

Helena knocks back her whiskey – whiskey, Myka notes, that she poured without invitation from the minibar – but stays exactly where she is, one arm draped fluidly around the back of the couch, legs stretched out across the footstool.

“What possessed you to bring them here?” says Artie.

“They helped us,” says Pete, pressing an icepack to his jawline. “Got us out of Babylonia in one piece and drove us here. What were we supposed to do, run back to the hotel?”

“Not on that knee, champ,” says Claudia through a mouthful of peanuts.

“How about not show them where we’re staying?” says Artie, more loudly.

“They already knew!” says Pete.

“He’s right,” says Claudia. “We kinda did.”

“None of which matters, of course,” says Helena, “because you’ll no longer be staying here after this evening.”

“Oh, really?” says Artie. “You’ve made that decision for us, have you?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” says Helena. “There’s nothing to be gained from posturing. And you don’t strike me as someone who’d place his team in jeopardy for no other reason than to spite a stranger.”

“You don’t know me,” he says. “Or about my team. We can handle ourselves.”

“Not until you know what it is you’re handling, or who it is you’re up against. Until you do, you’re working blind.”

“It isn’t your call. It’s ours. Right, Myka?”

“Yes,” she says. “But Helena’s right. We need to leave.”

“You want to go?” says Artie. “We’re in the middle of a job.”

“You mean this job?” says Claudia, picking up a heavy cardboard folder from the coffee table and leafing through its contents.

“May I see that?” says Helena.

“No, you may not,” says Artie, snatching the folder from Claudia.

“I thought I might offer an opinion,” says Helena. “One professional to another.”

“Out of the kindness of your heart?”

“I’m renowned for my collegial spirit.”

“Why not let her look?” says Myka. “We’re not going to be able to run the con anyway, if we’re getting out of town. It might be good to see what she thinks.”

“No!” says Artie. “Pete? Help me out here.”

“Sorry, A-Rod,” says Pete, stealing a handful of Claudia’s peanuts. “Can’t do it. I think you should show it to her. It’s like Myka said: we’re not doing it anyway, so where’s the harm? And we could do with a second opinion when it comes stuff like this.”

Artie looks from Pete to Myka; sighs, dramatically, and throws the folder to Helena, who catches it with a flick of her wrist.

For the next two or three minutes she reads, and the room falls silent, the quiet punctuated intermittently by the sipping of soda and the crunching of peanuts. Myka avowedly does not stare as Helena turns the pages.

“You done there?” says Pete eventually.

“More or less,” says Helena, closing the folder.

“And?” says Artie. “Please, don’t keep us in suspense.”

“Do you want my opinion?”

“Yes,” says Myka.

“Not especially,” says Artie.

“It won’t work,” she says, looking directly at Myka. “The setup is flawed. Fundamentally so.”

“How?” says Myka.

“Your premise is faulty. Everything hinges on your mark’s participation in this underground boxing match you’re proposing, yes? His betting on the outcome?”

“The fight store,” says Pete. “It’s a classic.”

“But it won’t rope him,” says Helena. “He’s a country boy from the mountains. He’s used to spit and sawdust – he comes to Las Vegas for the glitz, the glamour. You can’t reel him in with bare knuckles and blood on the cobblestones.”

“He’s a gambler,” says Artie. “We know that. He’ll bet on anything.”

“Anything that captures his imagination,” says Helena. “Horses, and American football games, and prize-fights. But nothing low-end; nothing raw. And nothing that reminds him of home.”

“I don’t buy it,” says Pete. “He’s a thrill-seeker. He’s chasing the rush – he doesn’t care where it comes from.”

“He’s more discerning than you think,” says Helena. “Look at some of his side-ventures: men’s fashions, media distribution, a record label. He likes the high life. Or what he thinks is the high life.”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” says Artie. “That label is a dud, a vanity project. Hasn’t signed a single artist since he launched it last year. It’s dead in the water.”

“On the contrary,” says Helena. “It’s your way in. Were you to run the con.”

“What does that mean?” says Myka.

“Would you like me to explain?”

“Yeah,” says Pete.

“No,” says Artie.

“You appear to have the deciding vote,” says Helena to Myka.

Myka looks to Artie; to Pete; to Helena.

“Tell us,” she says. “Tell us how to do this.”