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Authors: Elizabeth Bear
Tags: Novel
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and the tongue. “Breakfast or drinks?”
“Both?” The Russian glanced over his shoulder hopefully, and the American nodded.
Halfway down the fire stairs, the Russian reached back and laid a hand on the American’s sleeve, and the American glanced down to meet his partner’s sidelong glance. His hand slipped under his coat, but he didn’t draw the weapon, though his thumb rested against the safety lever. “Did you hear?”
“—footsteps?” The Russian flattened himself against the wall, one hand raised unnecessarily for silence. The American held his breath.
Always better to get trapped in a stairway than an elevator, if you have to get trapped. Of course, it could be a hotel guest, climbing for exercise.
Two hotel guests. Climbing quickly.
In complete silence, the American skipped four steps backward and crouched with his gun in his hands, covering his partner and the landing below them.
The footsteps came closer, hesitated before the turn. The American heard a noisily indrawn breath. “Gentlemen. If we promise not to draw our guns, will you put yours away?” A familiar voice, pitched in a light, ironical range.
“You tennis-playing son of a bitch,” the American called back, delightedly. The Russian had already stepped away from the cinderblock wall and holstered his piece, and was moving forward as two tall, muscular men—one white, one black—gained the landing, shoulder to shoulder, and paused. The American looked from one to the other, at their polo shirts and skin-tight white jeans, a contrast to his own and his partner’s sober suit jackets and monochrome ties. He burst out laughing, and was rewarded by a sideways, fleeting smile from the Russian. “What brings you two to Las Vegas?” He extended his hand to the tennis player, who clasped it heartily.
The black man leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, biceps bulging under the tight sleeves of his shirt. “The same thing as you two, I presume,” he said, middle Atlantic accent and a light bass range. “Only a little more officially, if the rumors are true.”
“We’re here to see a man about a horse,” the American answered, still grinning. The rational corner of his mind recognized the giddy relief as honorably discharged adrenaline, and his partner’s second sideways glance told him the Russian knew it too. I’m more worried about the assassin than I thought.
“We’re on vacation,” the Russian elaborated, extending his right hand to the scholar. They clasped briefly, the scholar muttering something in a language the American didn’t recognize, but which his partner apparently knew well enough to answer in. “We were just about to get something to eat. Would you care to join us?”
“Delighted,” the athlete said, reversing course lithely. He grinned over his shoulder, and the American spread his hands in bemused acquiescence. Obviously the Russian thought it would serve some purpose for the four of them to be seen in public together, and the other agents were willing to play along.
“Do you, ah, need to head back to your hotel and get ties?”
The athlete shrugged, as if letting the suggestion slide off his back. “At seven o’clock in the morning, in Las Vegas? You don’t suppose the Brown Derby’s still open this late? Or open again this early?”
“There’s a Brown Derby in Las Vegas now? I only knew about the one in Hollywood.”
“Age of globalization, man,” the scholar said, falling into step beside them. “Age of globalization.”
One-Eyed Jack and the King of Rock and Roll.
Las Vegas. Summer, 2002.
I paused on the east side of Las Vegas Boulevard, near the flat rubble-graveled lot where the old El Rancho had stood vacant for so many years, and watched the ghost of Bugsy Siegel smoke a cigar while brains dripped down the back of his collar. Bugsy didn’t seem to notice me, or my entourage, but I had the weirdest prickle as if he’d just been staring at me. Anyway, he wasn’t the sort
“Both?” The Russian glanced over his shoulder hopefully, and the American nodded.
Halfway down the fire stairs, the Russian reached back and laid a hand on the American’s sleeve, and the American glanced down to meet his partner’s sidelong glance. His hand slipped under his coat, but he didn’t draw the weapon, though his thumb rested against the safety lever. “Did you hear?”
“—footsteps?” The Russian flattened himself against the wall, one hand raised unnecessarily for silence. The American held his breath.
Always better to get trapped in a stairway than an elevator, if you have to get trapped. Of course, it could be a hotel guest, climbing for exercise.
Two hotel guests. Climbing quickly.
In complete silence, the American skipped four steps backward and crouched with his gun in his hands, covering his partner and the landing below them.
The footsteps came closer, hesitated before the turn. The American heard a noisily indrawn breath. “Gentlemen. If we promise not to draw our guns, will you put yours away?” A familiar voice, pitched in a light, ironical range.
“You tennis-playing son of a bitch,” the American called back, delightedly. The Russian had already stepped away from the cinderblock wall and holstered his piece, and was moving forward as two tall, muscular men—one white, one black—gained the landing, shoulder to shoulder, and paused. The American looked from one to the other, at their polo shirts and skin-tight white jeans, a contrast to his own and his partner’s sober suit jackets and monochrome ties. He burst out laughing, and was rewarded by a sideways, fleeting smile from the Russian. “What brings you two to Las Vegas?” He extended his hand to the tennis player, who clasped it heartily.
The black man leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, biceps bulging under the tight sleeves of his shirt. “The same thing as you two, I presume,” he said, middle Atlantic accent and a light bass range. “Only a little more officially, if the rumors are true.”
“We’re here to see a man about a horse,” the American answered, still grinning. The rational corner of his mind recognized the giddy relief as honorably discharged adrenaline, and his partner’s second sideways glance told him the Russian knew it too. I’m more worried about the assassin than I thought.
“We’re on vacation,” the Russian elaborated, extending his right hand to the scholar. They clasped briefly, the scholar muttering something in a language the American didn’t recognize, but which his partner apparently knew well enough to answer in. “We were just about to get something to eat. Would you care to join us?”
“Delighted,” the athlete said, reversing course lithely. He grinned over his shoulder, and the American spread his hands in bemused acquiescence. Obviously the Russian thought it would serve some purpose for the four of them to be seen in public together, and the other agents were willing to play along.
“Do you, ah, need to head back to your hotel and get ties?”
The athlete shrugged, as if letting the suggestion slide off his back. “At seven o’clock in the morning, in Las Vegas? You don’t suppose the Brown Derby’s still open this late? Or open again this early?”
“There’s a Brown Derby in Las Vegas now? I only knew about the one in Hollywood.”
“Age of globalization, man,” the scholar said, falling into step beside them. “Age of globalization.”
One-Eyed Jack and the King of Rock and Roll.
Las Vegas. Summer, 2002.
I paused on the east side of Las Vegas Boulevard, near the flat rubble-graveled lot where the old El Rancho had stood vacant for so many years, and watched the ghost of Bugsy Siegel smoke a cigar while brains dripped down the back of his collar. Bugsy didn’t seem to notice me, or my entourage, but I had the weirdest prickle as if he’d just been staring at me. Anyway, he wasn’t the sort
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