He uncovered the wound. He pressed a finger to it, and the man shivered. One foot began to kick. His breathing became rapid, harsh and shallow.
There was nothing cruel about it. He seemed merely curious, to come upon a thing he hadn’t seen before. He pressed his finger to the wound, withdrew it; sniffed at his hand. Then he wiped it on the carpet and stood up.
“Get this out of here,” he said.
His aides swapped glances.
Someone, braver than the rest, said, “Hospital . . . ?”
Ballington wrinkled up his nose. “Hospital. Get rid of it!”
A flurry of activity began. A figure in civilian clothes—Ballington’s doctor, I presumed—came racing up. Ballington gave rapid orders. “I want the finest medical facility in town. Whatever it costs. Everything will be paid for. Whatever this man needs.”
He was no longer looking at the injured man.
“I want to know his name. I want to know where he goes. How long it takes to get there. You will keep me informed to his state of health, is that clear?”
He sounded angry, as if the man’s injury—his whole presence there—were some kind of affront. But he shook himself. He glanced around, looking for props, then posed in the arch of a restaurant doorway, stretching out his arms. “This historic day,” he said. “This—” He brought his hands together, almost as in prayer. “This honorable day—”
Silverman still had his camera on the injured man. One of Ballington’s staff went over and pulled him away. The man looked familiar. He was dressed for Vegas: bright blue shorts, Spider-Man T-shirt, Yankees cap. The somber face just didn’t fit the party clothes. It was Captain Ghirelli, Ballington’s security: the man who couldn’t smile.
To Silverman, I said, “You’re working for this guy?”
“It’s a commission, Chris.”
“For Ballington? You took his money?”
“Not exactly . . .”
“You took his money and you told him where we were.”
“No! That’s not what happened. Absolutely not—”
“Very plausible.”
“He paid my flight and my hotel. It’s small change to him. And Chris, he didn’t even ask me. He knew you were here. He knew already.”
I looked at him.
“I’m not lying,” he said.
It was turning into a playground spat.
I shrugged. “Thought better of you, frankly. Still—I’ll know next time.”
“Chris! I didn’t—”
“Mr. Copeland.” Ghirelli’s voice was quiet and level.
I said, “It’s a low trick. Fund-raising. Not the word I’d use . . .”
To Ghirelli, Silverman said, “Tell him.”
Ballington was yelling again, issuing orders, bellowing at this person and that.
The clutter bothered him. The mess. Like he could march in with his private army and expect the whole place pristine and neat.
“Mr. Silverman is quite correct.” Ghirelli was talking to me. The T-shirt might have looked ridiculous, but it made every muscle stand out. This guy did serious gym time. “Your phone, Mr. Copeland.”
“Yeah. And that’s another thing. I want my phone back, right now.”
“Your phone contains a small transmitting device.” He was very matter-of-fact. “I placed it there myself.”
“What?”
“Simple to attach. Considerable range. What you know, we know.” He nodded, a craftsman sharing secrets. “Who you’re meeting, where and when. I’m coming down. There couldn’t be a better signal.” He should probably have smiled then, but his mouth just wasn’t made for it. “Now—if you and Mr. McAvoy will come with me?”
Silverman looked at me. “I tried to tell you.”
We were moving off when Ballington called me back.
“Copeland,” he said. “You’re not done yet.”
“Oh, I’m done.”
“We had a deal. The terms can change at any time, but we still have a deal.” He put his head on one side, watching me. “You know the way it works. Survival of the fit. I told you that. And who’s fitter than me?”
“Fittest,” I said. “It’s fittest, you lunatic. It’s Darwin. Don’t you know that?”
He raised his hand. A flash of fire shot from his fingers. The heat burst over me. I stumbled backwards, smashed into a pile of chairs and sent them scattering across the floor.
An after-image floated in my eyes.
Ghirelli took my arm and helped me stand.
Ballington chuckled, mugging for the camera.
“We are so past Darwin now,” he said.
Chapter 58
Prisoners
There was an office on the second floor. Prints of race horses hung on the walls. To this, McAvoy and I were quickly escorted, and we joined the other refugees in what was, it became clear, a forced but amiable internment. There were guys from the casino here, watched by a handful of the Ballington crew. A card game was in progress. Shwetz had commandeered the desk, hunching up over his phone. His suit jacket was gone. His voice was scratchy. Every now and then it rose into a peak of irritation, bellowing across the room: “Then goddamn find it,” he was saying as I walked in. “Find it and fax it, can’t you?”
Eddie-boy perched on a filing cabinet, drumming his heels against the metal drawers.
He looked like a gargoyle in a cowboy hat.