Chapter 7

I stared at the three, and watched the croupier sweep up my bet. I covered my confusion by ordering another drink, and stayed out of the next spin. I knew what I had felt, but didn't know why. Someone with Family connections had just made me lose a bet.

I had used my available cash to fund my day's events, and couldn't recover my loss the next morning. I knew how much it took out of me to simply know what was coming, and didn't know of anyone in town who had the power to fix a game of chance. I shook off my headache, and Saw the ball landing on thirteen. I placed my bet.

Another soundless gong, another loss.

I looked around, a sense of unease growing within me. I placed another bet, my vision and stress fading. Another gong, another loss. I gave up Seeing, and placed my bets on the outside. Soundless impact, another loss. And another. And another. And another.

I lost on every spin; I couldn't make up any of my losses. I didn't have any other options, though, and kept trying. My pile of chips dwindled, thousands with every spin. It wasn't random chance, no matter whether or not I Saw, the soundless gong told me why I lost.

My chips dropped in half, and then I was down further. I packed it in at two hundred thirty thousand, and walked with an escort back to the cage. Mindy cashed me out, providing me with a cashier's check for two hundred twenty five thousand dollars. I thanked her absently, leaving in a fog of pain. I managed to pull my cell phone out of my pocket with the intention of asking Shauna to find out who was in town. Unfortunately, the steel toed boots currently trampling over my brain protested the intrusion of the ringing, and I hung up before Shauna could answer.

I stumbled my way past the flashing lights; the bright slot machines blurring one into the next: the ducks were purring and running up and down ladders, the dwarven warriors were building oil wells. I had to get out of there. Thankfully, it was an autumn weeknight, and the crowds had dwindled while I was playing in the high roller’s lounge. I was able to make it to the door, stumbling like a drunkard. I could plainly see the exasperation on the casino managers’ faces as I went by. The thought of “good riddance” was almost audible.

“There you are, Mr. Bathory,” a high-pitched male voice said as I pushed my way out the revolving door. I didn’t have the time to process before a meaty hand was clenched around my upper arm, and I was nearly carried to a waiting limousine. “Right this way, sir.” To anyone watching, I had just received personal care of the highest caliber. The abduction would not be reported soon enough for me.

George sat me down in the back of the limousine, and closed the door behind me. I looked around in a near daze, trying to establish where I was. The limousine was elegant; a classic stretch, not one of the newfangled Hummer jobs that offended everyone’s sensibilities. I was alone in the back, with a solid partition raised between myself and the driver. I checked the door; it was locked, and the window controls had been disabled as well. My cell phone reported no single; apparently the classic limo had been updated to have a faraday cage. I felt the front passenger corner of the car sink, and then heard the muffled slam of a car door through the near sound proof glass. Apparently, Tony Saccardi wanted to see me – now.

I was able to follow the view out the window long enough to establish that we were headed into the desert; unfortunately, after a few turns off the strip, everything near Las Vegas is desert, so I had no idea where we were headed. I made an ersatz ice pack from the napkins and ice stocking the wet bar in the back; I eschewed the alcohol and settled for some sips of water. I took some more pain killers, but I doubted they would do much good. I didn’t know who had decided to screw up my life, but I knew something serious was afoot. I couldn't affect the actual outcome of something random, but I could see what was coming. The amount of power to redirect the 'fated' outcome was far beyond my abilities, and whoever had done it had done it a few dozen times. I stopped focusing on the amount of power required, as it was causing my headache to redouble. I had never been overly good with math -- other than probability, of course. Instead, I focused on the who part of the equation. It was a futile effort, as I had no names to start with, so I distracted myself from my pounding head by stressing about someone who I didn't know was in town while being driven out of town to meet what was most likely my certain death. Tony Saccardi had publicly announced my death if I failed to deliver, and I wasn't going to be able to deliver.

After almost twenty minutes by the Timex on my wrist, the limousine came to a halt. I could make out a street light and the outline of a building through the smokey glass. The limousine shifted again, and I knew George was coming to retrieve me. I briefly entertained the notion of resisting, but I wasn't much of a fighter. I knew where a random dice throw might land, but a deliberate punch had no randomness for me to predict, and I knew from last night that George's punches weren't light. The door opened, and a curt, "Out," was all I heard. I left my ice to puddle on the floor of Tony's limousine, a spiteful and childish prank that was the only offensive tactic I currently had to hand. I climbed out of the car, and stood up next to George. I could see the dilapidated structure behind him mostly as a dim outline against the night sky. There was a broken marquee on the front which had letters still clinging to it saying, "C  D DR  KS  ER ." It looked like an abandoned convenience store, likely destroyed as 7-11s and Kwik-E-Mart's spread across the countryside. A door to the side opened as I awaited further instruction, and light bored out like a puddle on the desert floor.

George pulled me with him towards the pool of light, apparently deciding to forgo conversation in favor of using brute force to get his point across. I didn't want to give him an excuse to treat my ribs as a snare drum, so I went without complaint. The ground was the bare baked sand of the desert, with no obstacles to trip over as we came up alongside the doorway. I could see the limousine pull out silently into the street, turning around back to Las Vegas.

"Well, Billy, it sounds like we have some things to talk about. I really didn't want to talk about them again." My eyes were still blinking adjustment to the near-daylight of the interior when he spoke, but I recognized Tony Saccardi's voice. I started at the clank as George closed and locked the entrance behind us. When I turned back, my eyes had adjusted enough that I could see Tony leaning against a table in the corner. His hair was as well coiffed as it had been when I had last seen him, but he had decided to pass on the expensive, poorly tailored suit. Instead, he was wearing what would best be described as a butcher's apron. His clothes were decidedly unfashionable, but I had the distinct impression that the last few people who had seen them hadn't had the opportunity to turn him in to the fashion police. He was flipping a set of brass knuckles around in his hands. "George, please make our guest comfortable."

My arms were suddenly and cruelly twisted, and I felt the cold ring of handcuffs on my wrists. My arms were wrested above my head, and attached to an hook hanging from the ceiling. I was lifted just enough so that I was forced to stand on my tip-toes to take any weight off my arms. Had this been a meat- packing plant, I wouldn't have been surprised by the accoutrements, but the surroundings told me that this former store had become a safe location for the Saccardi family to administer their peculiar brand of justice. I felt oddly detached from my surroundings as I watched George circle around in front of me, taking off his gorilla- sized suit jacket. "Take off his clothes." George came up to me carrying a wicked looking razor blade that I remembered the Italian barber I had grown up with using to neaten my sideburns. With surprising gentleness, George slced open my jacket and shirt, managing to cut them cleanly off without touching my skin. He removed my pants with similar precision, and Mister Saccardi stopped him before he stripped off my boxers. I was left clad in my plaid boxer briefs and unexpectedly my socks and fancy leather shoes, dangling from my handcuffed wrists. It would have been moderately comedic, but I had a sneaking this night was not going to be ending well.

"Well, Billy, I'm very sorry that I must have this conversation with you. We thought you were a good employee, but well..." Tony wandered slowly towards me, then slammed his fist into my side. I felt a rib break against the brass knuckles around his fingers. I lost the slight balance I had on my toes and my entire weight dropped onto my suspended wrists as I swung slightly side to side. I lost the next few moments of Tony's speech as I panted for breath. "... it's unfortunate that you decided to betray our trust."

"Your money," I managed to pant.

Tony turned, clearly annoyed. "Billy, why must you continue to annoy me?"

"You... want... your... money." I managed to get the full sentence out before Tony completed the swing. Fortunately, this time he didn't have the brass knuckles, so it was purely the pain of being hit in my just broken ribs.

"Of course I want my money, you stupid little fuck!" Tony screamed at me, flushing in anger.

I struggled to get enough breath. "My jacket pocket! It's in my jacket pocket!" It's not that I'm a coward; I just didn't want to die. I had planned on paying him back, in any case.

Tony idly punched me, this time in the other side, then ducked down to pick up the scraps of my jacket from the floor where George's tailoring had left it. He checked the right breast pocket, then the left. He grunted softly, and walked away carrying the still sealed envelope. He gestured to George as he went, and George stepped forward, taking Tony's place. George's cro- magnon features broke into a sick charicature of a grin, and then I ceased paying attention to his appearance as he began slamming his ham- sized fists into my sides, left, then right, then left...

The impacts blurred in my mind, and after a while, I ceased really feeling each new impact. Even when not being hit, my muscles cramped uncontrollably, drawing my muscles across the shattered bones that had been my rib cage. I started looking forward to my forthcoming death; at least then the pain would stop.

I barely noticed when George was ordered back and Mr. Saccardi returned holding the cashier's check. He pulled my head back by the hair, and screamed into my face, "Are you trying to insult me, Billy? This is not five hundred grand. Did you think I wouldn't notice, you ignorant fuck?" I struggled to get enough breath to promise him the rest, but Tony stepped back and took a sharp jab to the side of my face. The brass knuckles had made a reappearance, and I saw stars as pain exploded, the shock of the blow combining with the fierce headache I had developed while still playing. Tony and George took turns. Each new blow added new layers onto the pain I was already feeling, and I had to fight for each gasp of breath.

After an interminable length of time, I ceased trying to struggle for breath. My vision faded, and I was only peripherally aware of George's transition to slamming his fist into my back. I could feel blood trickling from my lips, my forehead, and from what felt like hundreds of places all over my body. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I knew I wouldn't last much longer, and was left wishing I had had the time to do some things over; most of them involved leaving the country several months earlier.

I did notice when the beating suddenly stopped. My dim vision could barely make out George standing calmly to the side, and Tony Saccardi on his cell phone. He was eyeing me like an horse trader at the county fair, looking me up and down. I couldn't make out any part of the conversation over the roaring in my ears. Despite my resignation towards my death, I found myself struggling to regain my breath despite the pain in my body. The beating didn't resume, and I treasured every minute of the unexpected break.