5:15 p.m. in Xanadu, and for more than three hours now private eye Garth Santeson had been trying to get to see his employer, Aristode Milan. But Santeson wasn't the only employee, and the two well-built young men who saw to Milan's privacy in daylight hours had been proving obstinate. For three hours and then some Santeson had prowled the casino and watched it emptying of punters, hostesses, croupiers and their overseers, and finally and most tellingly the tellers. For when the people who handled the cash moved out, then you knew for sure that something was about to go down.
Half an hour ago, turned back yet again by Milan's single-minded minders from his daytime sanctum sanctorum, Santeson had gone out from the almost deserted Pleasure Dome into the resort proper. By then the pools had been empty and the last cars were straggling out through the departure gate. The private investigator was no fool; he had long since found out what the alleged problem was, but he'd also made the connection between that and what he'd bumped into on the mountain approach road. And it was just too much of a coincidence. So how come Milan — who had definitely been on the alert for unfriendly visitors and suspicious activities for as long as Santeson had been with him — how come he wasn't up and about, checking things out for himself?
Or was he simply unaware that there was a problem…?
The trouble with Milan's goons was that they had insufficient grey matter between them to realize they should at least be doing something, if it was only to let their dodgy employer know what was happening here. This was Santeson's opinion, anyway, which seemed borne out by the dumb, unswerving obstinacy of the pair.
Normally he would have been able to contact Milan by telephone; the photophobic, night-dwelling boss of the resort would usually accept calls through the dark hours from four-thirty or five in the evening until nine in the morning, but not tonight And when Santeson had tried to impress something of the urgency of an audience with Milan upon his watchdogs — the fact that he must see him, that his information was of the utmost importance — it had seemed to him that they couldn't care less! He'd simply been informed of Mr Milan's instructions: that he wasn't to be disturbed under any circumstance until 6:30 at the earliest And that had been that. But now, with the time approaching 6:00 p.m. and the resort already dark, cooling under the swift onset of a Tropic of Capricorn night, Santeson was determined to have his way.
He had last tried to call Milan just ten minutes ago from the deserted booth at the monorail boarding stage close to the casino's
entrance… but the phone had only buzzed annoyingly at him, because by then there had been no receptionist to transfer the call! And now Santeson was very angry, for as the minutes had stretched into hours his sense of urgency — the anxious frustration of knowing that while something was definitely and dangerously out of kilter here, still there was nothing he could do about it — had increased in commensurate degree.
Garth Santeson had his own ideas as to what was happening or about to happen; it seemed obvious to him that the long arm of the law was reaching for Milan, and his oh-so-shady employer was about to get himself arrested (probably for skimming casino profits); in which case Santeson's monthly and more than adequate pay cheque would disappear with him. It therefore followed that the longer he kept the boss out of trouble, the better his chances of collecting his next cheque, due in a few days' time. Which in turn meant he must speak to Milan about the people he had seen on the approach road, at least two of which he'd recognized from the party that had flown in a few days ago in those paramilitary jetcopters.
Santeson knew where Milan was — his approximate location, anyway — but couldn't get to him. On any ordinary night Milan might be found in the casino for an hour or two, but much preferred the privacy of his rooms in the solar-panelled bubble on top of the dome (which on rare occasions he would also use during daylight hours). Santeson had a special elevator key, given him by Milan, which would take him to those topmost rooms when he was summoned into the man's presence. But generally, during the day, Aristotle Milan stayed well out of sight, down in the subterranean bowels of the place. Santeson understood that his employer had private apartments down there, to which he wasn't and never had been privy. To his knowledge, only Milan's goons had ever got that close—
— Well, until tonight, anyway…
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE… Before The Storm
It was almost as dark inside the casino when Santeson re-entered the place. Some electrical failure, which had taken out most of the lights, and no one left to fix it. But even if it was black as night in there he would know where to find Milan's minders.
Surrounding the Pleasure Dome's central spindle, six elevators formed a hexagonal tube of glass and stainless steel. Four of these serviced the casino's upper levels, excluding Milan's bubble. The fifth was for the use of casino personnel only and gave access to the basement and the almost literally bomb-proof Fort Knox-like accountancy vaults. As for number six: that was exclusive to the persons of Milan himself, his minders, and anyone else who he might choose to entertain, either in the bubble or in certain unknown regions in the belly of the place.
But associates? Visitors?
Huh! Damn few of those! Santeson thought as he approached the central area where, sure enough, Milan's bouncers were waiting to intercept him. Flanking an elevator door marked PRIVATE (the door to Milan's elevator, of course), they were seated in pink-marbled leather armchairs beside slender, urn-shaped ashtrays. But as Santeson came hurrying between the unlit rows of sullenly silent slots, so the minders came smoothly yet indolently to their feet, and stood side by side, their arms folded on their chests, like a matching pair of eunuchs.
Their expressions remained blank, but the positions they had adopted said it alclass="underline" they were blocking the elevator doors.
Santeson shook his head, wondering, What is it with these two? Apart from Milan himself, they were the only ones who had keys to that subterranean level housing what Santeson supposed would be sumptuous apartments. His key would only take him up, not down. But in any case he wasted no time in argument; these zombies always reacted precisely the same way no matter who it was who approached these doors.
'I have to see Mr Milan,' he told them. 'And I have to see him now. So don't go fucking me about, because it's too important.' They looked at him, then at each other, and back to Santeson. And he looked at them.
They could be twins, he thought, and changed his mind. No, it wasn't that they looked like brothers but that they had like looks. The way they stood there — smartly outfitted, well-built six-footers in their mid-to late-twenties, with sallow complexions that looked sort of grey in this indoor dusk — they could almost be tailor's dummies, motionless yet somehow threatening. Only their eyes moved, and their eyes… were weird!
Santeson was sure he'd never noticed it before, but now he saw a kind of yellowish, almost feral luminosity in those eyes. It must be the light, or lack of it, and he was further galvanized by that thought.
'Look,' he said, 'all shit could break loose any time now, and Mr Milan has got to be told about it. Now, I don't want to see him on my own… hey, boys, if you're that concerned over security, you can escort me! I mean, you'll have to go with me anyway, 'cos I don't know where he is or how to get there. But you do. And believe me, if you don't take me to him right now, tomorrow you could be out of work…'