“What’s up?” Calhoun asked.
“Pash and I are driving to Laughlin to play blackjack,” Amin said. “I wanted to ask you a couple of questions to help avoid the surveillance.”
There was a hesitation in Calhoun’s response, a split-second delay that wasn’t normally there when he spoke. A screen door separated them. Calhoun kicked it open with his foot.
“Want some coffee?” he asked as they crossed the house and entered the converted garage that served as Calhoun’s classroom.
“No thanks.”
Calhoun flipped the fluorescent lights on, and their brightness momentarily blinded Amin. He walked painfully into a desk and heard Calhoun’s pace quicken. His teacher was heading for his office.
Amin followed him, fingering the .357’s handle beneath his sweatshirt. His teacher’s office was Spartan. A desk, and a swivel chair with busted leather. On the desk sat an ancient PC. Its screen saver was on, and showed tropical fish swimming in a deep blue ocean.
Calhoun took the chair and slapped his elbows on the desk. The desk was covered with flash cards that he used to test his students.
“What seems to be the problem?” Calhoun asked.
Amin hesitated. His teacher had already forgotten their conversation.
“Pash and I are going to Laughlin.”
“Oh, that’s right. Why do you want to go there? The casinos are all burn joints. Make a big wager, and management will sweat your play like there’s no tomorrow.”
Amin stiffened. Calhoun had his legs under the desk, and was moving them. His teacher was a cowboy. From what Amin had seen in the movies, cowboys were prone to doing stupid things.
“We need a break from Las Vegas,” Amin said. “You mentioned during class that the facial recognition equipment in Laughlin was easy to beat. You got interrupted and never explained how.”
Calhoun smiled at him. “Most of the casinos in Laughlin use the same surveillance cameras they had ten years ago. Walk through them fast enough, and the lens can’t pick up enough information. I’ve got a book on which casinos in Laughlin have them.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Want to see it?”
“Yes.”
Calhoun shot his hands under the desk. Amin hesitated, then jumped back, the shotgun blast coming straight through the desk and missing his head by a few inches. The flash cards exploded into the air.
Calhoun frantically tried to reload. Amin drew his .357 and pumped four bullets into him. His teacher’s chair was on wheels, and he flew straight back, hit the wall, then fell off the chair onto the floor.
Amin came around the desk. Calhoun lay on his back. His eyes had a flicker of life in them. His lips parted, and Amin realized he was trying to say something.
He had always liked Calhoun. His teacher was what Americans called a man’s man. He knelt down and placed his ear next to his teacher’s lips.
“Fuck your mother,” Calhoun whispered.
His teacher died before Amin could shoot him again.
Amin took the swivel chair and sat in front of the PC. The computer looked like the first one ever made. He clicked the mouse to erase the screen saver. The underwater scene vanished, and he found himself staring at an FBI MOST WANTED poster. In its center was a picture of him, standing on the sidewalk outside the Excalibur. He scrolled up and found a note from the sender.
Bart, every casino in town got this last night.
Ever see this guy before?
Amin read the poster and swore in his native tongue.
The FBI had tied him to the murders in Reno, Detroit, New Orleans, Biloxi, and Atlantic City. It didn’t have a lot of information, but it said just enough — last seen in Las Vegas, armed, traveling with his brother — that he knew he’d made the right choice. He couldn’t run anymore, nor did he want to.
He got off the Internet. Calhoun’s computer had a word-processing program called WordPerfect, and he booted it up. The computer was slow, and he banged it several times with his hand, thinking it might speed it along. Finally, the program appeared on the screen. Hitting the CAPS LOCK button, he typed:
AMIN SHOT ME. GOING TO LA. PLANNING SOMETHING HORRIBLE. MUST STOP HIM.
Amin reread the message. Satisfied, he pushed the chair away from the desk. Pash’s passion for the movies had come in handy. Amin had seen enough scenes where dying people wrote notes to believe this one would pass. It was just dramatic enough.
On the bullet-scarred desk sat a cordless phone. He picked it up and punched in 911. The call went through, and an operator said, “Police emergency. Can I help you?”
“Help,” he said hoarsely into the phone.
“Sir? Are you all right?”
“He... shot me,” he said.
“Who?”
“Amin. Going to LA. Must stop him...”
“Sir? Sir!”
“Going to do... something bad.”
He knocked the receiver off the desk, then listened to the operator’s frantic attempts to get him back on the line. He glanced at his watch. It was ten thirty. It would take ten minutes for the cops to arrive, another ten for them to piece things together and alert the FBI. He glanced down at Calhoun’s lifeless body lying beside him.
“Fuck your mother,” he whispered.
40
Valentine left Lucy’s condo and, having no place else to go, drove up and down the Strip. It was a depressing place on a Sunday morning, and he listened to the clatter-and-cling of slot machines rattling out the casinos’ open doors while imagining Lucy at a machine, blowing the money he’d given her.
It was depressing to think about. Finding a jazz station on the radio, he prayed for Sinatra or any of the old crooners to lift his spirits. Louis Armstrong came on, asking what did I do, to be so black, and blue? A sad song, but he hummed along anyway.
Someday, when he was lonely and feeling sorry for himself, he would kick himself over this. He could have struck up a long-distance relationship, seen Lucy when he wanted, and gone with the flow. He could have pretended the gambling problem didn’t exist. It was how a lot of couples lived their lives.
Only he couldn’t live that way. He couldn’t live within a lie. It was the way he’d always been, and he was a fool to think he could change it.
At eleven o’clock he called FaceScan.
Wily had said it would take them a few hours to compare Amin’s picture against their database of known counters. Maybe they had found something the FBI had missed.
He got FaceScan’s number from information, called it, and got a recorded message. The message gave the company business hours and their address. They were just off Sahara Boulevard, and only a few miles away.
Five minutes later, he pulled into FaceScan’s parking lot. The company worked out of a five-story steel-and-glass monolith. There were several dozen reserved FaceScan spaces in the parking lot. All of them were taken.
The lobby was filled with surveillance cameras. He picked up the house phone and called the company’s receptionist, the extensions listed on a laminated sheet beside the phone. A recorded message answered. Hanging up, he started calling the extensions on the sheet. The fifth one answered. A friendly-sounding guy named Linville.
“This is Tony Valentine. I was hoping you could help me.”
Linville came into the lobby a minute later. Midforties, glasses, a neat beard, he pumped Valentine’s hand and said, “I used to work surveillance for Bally’s. Your name came up a lot. It’s nice to meet you.”