WMDs
LAS VEGAS—PRESENT DAY
There are three things in the world that will wipe out humanity: disease, the bomb, and commas. But unlike the first two, people don’t realize how dangerous commas can be, even when they aren’t there. People bury their head in the sands of folly, hoping someone else knows the details. Ignorance is bliss, and demons love ignorance. Especially when it comes to getting some poor schmuck to sign on the dotted line.
This particular set of invisible WMDs belonged to the sheepish tourist stepping into my office, fidgeting uncomfortably in the suit he wasn’t used to wearing. One firm handshake and introductions later, I poured out a couple of glasses of bourbon from the half-empty bottle by the typewriter. “So, what’s your story, Bill? What brings you to our fine city?”
“Road trip, sir,” the tourist replied, politely refusing the drink. “One of the guys at work is getting married. Wanted a few days of fun before settling down, if you get my meaning.”
I threw him a knowing half-smile. “And how about you, Bill? You don’t seem like the ‘stays in Vegas’ type to me.”
Bill stroked the wedding ring around his finger. “No sir. I got a lovely lady back home, and two kids growing up fast.” He stared at his feet. “That’s the problem.”
“Doesn’t sound like a problem to me.”
“Until now it hasn’t been,” said Bill. “Me? I’m blue-collar through and through; twenty years at the local auto-repair. But my eldest has got plans. He wants to go to college, make something of his life. He’ll do it too. Make his old man proud. Only issue is, I ain’t got that kind of money. But I says to myself, ‘hey, I’m in Vegas’, so I figure I’d try my luck at the tables.”
I downed my whiskey and poured another. “That’s usually how these things start.”
This time, Bill accepted the offer of a drink, sipping at it suspiciously and coughing when the smooth liquid scorched his throat. “So, I’m in our hotel,” he said, after gasping for breath. “Jupiter’s Bolt or something. Statues everywhere and pretty waitresses in togas. The rest of the boys had gone to play on the machines, but I got talking to some other guy at the bar. I dunno why, he just had that way about him that made me tell him things—you know, trust him? I told him about my son, the college fund, and how I wished I could win some easy cash.” He sipped his whiskey, holding his breath to stifle the reaction. It nearly worked. “He tells me he has a system that could help a guy like me out—help my kids out. So, there I am, staring at him like an idiot, and he reaches into a bag, which I hadn’t even noticed before, and pulls out this weird-looking scroll thing. Tells me to sign at the bottom and it’ll all work out.”
“But you didn’t sign?”
“I was going to,” admitted Bill and gestured to his arm. His performance became animated. “This other guy comes up to me and grabs my wrist before I get the chance. Tall and skinny type in an expensive-looking suit; had a real babyface. Before I can say anything, he pushes this business card into my hand and says, ‘Go see Jack first.’”
I raised an eyebrow. “This ‘other guy,’ did he have a scar on his cheek?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“That’s Benny.” I went to top up my glass before thinking better of it. “Nephew of Eddie Malfitano, the man who runs the joint you’re at. Good kid, if a little wet behind the ears.” A fact concreted by his recent date with my assistant Gloria, if her version were to be believed. In my experience, any man who gets described as “sweet” or “nice” at the end of the evening should start thinking about aiming his affections elsewhere.
Bill reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small roll of parchment, secured with a piece of black ribbon. “Anyway, the guy at the bar hands me this, tips his hat, and says, ‘Of course’, and that he’ll be here when I’m ready. And so, here I am.”
“And here you are. The man with the contract was a demon.”
“A demon? Ain’t no such thing.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I dunno,” said Bill, giving his broad shoulders a shrug. “Same reason I go to church on a Sunday. You never know, right?”
“In any case, you did the right thing coming here.”
“All in the small print,” said Bill, with a barrel laugh from deep within his gut. “A bit like my cellphone contract.”
That would have been funny but I’d heard it a dozen times before. “Demons are tricky and cruel beasts. It’s not what they say, it’s what they don’t.” I slipped the ribbon off the scroll and unfurled it onto the desk. “So let’s see what they’re not saying here.”
The amateurish loophole leaped at me from the page with such force it almost winked at me. The demon must have been in a hurry, what with all the fresh meat swarming in on vacation. “Ah, here we are. ‘The signee will visit a total of ten casinos and play a single one-dollar slot machine bid at each establishment. The spins that are winning combinations will each pay out one thousand US dollars.’”
Bill grinned with confidence, the same smile that painted the word ‘sucker’ on his forehead. “Yes, sir. Sounds like a good deal to me.”
I shook my head. “You’ll get nothing.”
“I will. It says so right there.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I jabbed the scroll. “Restrictive versus non-restrictive clauses. The text ought to link the wins to your specific spins. As it is, none of the machines you play might pay out, but this contract will still be valid.”
Bill scowled and blushed furiously. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s why lawyers exist,” I replied, with an attempt at my coolest smile. Not sure I succeeded. “There’s also the price in karmic energy, but we can get to that later. I can re-draw this if you want to go ahead. Standard fee—ten percent of your winnings. You don’t win, then neither do I.”
Before Bill could reply, a door crashed open in the reception room. Gloria had pleaded with me to let her go to an audition on the promise she’d return with Danish and coffee, and she was never the quietest pup in the pack.
“Jack!” rang out the familiar, faux-Brooklyn accent. “I need your help here!”
I smiled politely at Bill, who busied himself searching for more twists of language in the scroll. “Excuse me.”
I stepped outside, expecting a dropped box with my pastry rolled across the floor. Not that I’d still eat it—the three-second rule no longer applied in my workplace. The dozens of car-freshener trees hung from the ceiling were lasting testament to the invasion of Azzeren’s army of insects and the faint putrefied smell of death that refused to dissipate.
Gloria, her face a picture of concern, stood next to a female figure. The stranger stank of hobo—presumably a result of the stained, ill-fitting hooded sweatshirt that flowed down from over her head to below her knees. Her baggy clothes did little, however, to hide her voluptuous frame. She drew back the hood of her top, revealing a young, beautiful, Caucasian face with an Asian twist. But it wasn’t that, or the blue tinge of her long hair, which caught my attention. It was the two small horns growing out of her head.
The woman dropped to her knees and held out her arms in one swift motion, clasping her palms together. “Help me. Please!”
I let out a resigned sigh. It was going to be one of those days.
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