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  Rachael swung the gun toward Bosco.

  “Hey, relax . . .” Bosco raised his hands, taking a step back.

  Bosco caught Remmie’s eye with a sympathetic gesture. She started to wonder how committed he was to all of this. This wasn’t his first incident of wavering.

  “Well,” Rachael said, “what are you waiting for? Dinner’s getting cold.”

  Not as cold as Rachael was. Her gaze wandered to the ocean, longing on her contemplative face. Remmie wondered if Rachael was thinking of Victor.

  Bosco gave Anthony a brotherly pat on the back. “Sorry about that, partner. You may want to start engaging your brain before you speak.”

  The entryway of the house was a balcony overlooking open living space. To the right was a long hallway, presumably leading to bedrooms. As Remmie had imagined, there was a wall of windows overlooking the beach. She could make out breakers in the distance, and some of the windows were open, letting in clean, moist, natural air. But there was also a delicious aroma in the air. Her famished tummy gurgled.

  They descended the stairs to the main floor, which was in the shape of a crescent and extended to the roof, two stories up. There was a large table with immaculate settings of silverware, bread plates, entrée plates, and cloth napkins. Mr. Sands was standing at the head of the table. Rich was there too, his leg bandaged up, his eyes following Eli.

  Eli was quiet as they approached the dining table. Anthony now appeared ten years older, slouching, still holding his stomach.

  “Welcome,” Mr. Sands said. “Have a seat. Rachael, Bosco, please unbind our guests.”

  Rachael unbound Anthony. He fell to his seat. Bosco unbound Eli, then seemed to wilt beneath Eli’s intimidating, unbound presence.

  Mr. Sands carefully unwrapped his napkin and placed it across his lap. Remmie sat closest to Mr. Sands. She, Anthony, and Eli were opposite the others. She looked to the open window. Now she was longing, imagining she was at a dinner with friends in paradise. And Mr. Sands didn’t seem threatening in that moment. She thought of his suggestion that she and Kyle would be trusting him more than the twins. She wasn’t sure who she trusted at that point.

  There were three baskets of bread on the table paired with butter dishes. Mr. Sands grabbed a steaming piece of bread. He put it on his little plate, then used his table knife to extract some butter, placing the dollop on the edge of his plate. He then offered Remmie some bread.

  “I know you’re famished,” he said. “Please eat. I want to prove to you that I’m not your enemy. I want to answer all of your questions.” He said to Eli, “And I have a proposition for you all.”

  Remmie, trembling from hunger, grabbed a piece of bread. It was round, dark brown, covered with seeds and herbs. It smelled of rosemary. “Thank you.”

  Mr. Sands smiled warmly. “You’re welcome.”

  She shoved the crispy bread in her mouth, taking a generous bite. Crumbs sprinkled onto her place setting, tablecloth, and her lap. Mr. Sands watched her intently, his expression one of displeasure. He held up his piece of bread, demonstratively, and gently broke off a small piece. Then he used his table knife to spread a thin layer of butter across the soft side. He elegantly placed the piece into his mouth.

  Anthony grabbed a piece of bread and took a bite as Remmie had.

  “Wow, this is awesome,” Anthony said, spraying crumbs from his lips. “I’ll take your proposition. You have any good label beer?”

  “We’ve got—” Rachael began.

  “I know you’ll take our proposition,” Mr. Sands said. “When we activate the Dames, you won’t have a choice. My proposition is for Remmie and Doctor Eli.”

  Doctor? Eli must have been a scientist like Victor was. She broke off a piece of bread and spread a generous layer of butter, straight from the dish. Mr. Sands grunted like an old lady at tea.

  “It’s okay,” Bosco said to Remmie. “I ate my bread the same way when I first started working for Mr. Sands.”

  Then Bosco smiled the kind of smile Remmie’s boss back at the Green and Natural Food People used to. Gross. But this could work to her advantage.

  “It’s okay, Remmie,” Mr. Sands said. “Most people don’t know basic table etiquette. You’ll learn.”

  “So, what’s your proposition?” she said.

  “First, let’s finish dinner.”

  An older lady—curly gray hair, thin, pale skin, slacks, blouse, apron—emerged from a corner doorway, presumably the kitchen. “Have all of our guests arrived?”

  “Yes, Marie. Please begin the courses. And bring this gentleman”—Mr. Sands motioned to Anthony as he spoke—“a pale ale, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Anthony perked up. “Thank you, Mr. Sands.” He stared at Marie’s butt as she exited, crumbs jumping about as he bit into another piece of bread. His napkin was still on the table.

  Remmie glanced subtly around. The others were eating the way Mr. Sands did—Tommy, Rich, Rachael. Eli hadn’t taken a bite.

  Marie emerged with a tray of salads. Remmie looked down at the forks and became excited. She knew which one to use—the outermost. That would impress Mr. Sands. She waited until everyone had received a salad and then grabbed her fork.

  “Very good, Remmie,” Mr. Sands said. “That’s the correct one.”

  Remmie felt proud and enjoyed the moment, feeling it was okay to enjoy it—the food, the ocean, the playful interaction. After all, she’d been abandoned by Kyle and Victor. She didn’t feel threatened, and she could manipulate Bosco if she needed to, as crazy as he seemed. And Mr. Sands didn’t seem any crazier than Victor had—less so, even. Besides, she was too hungry to care.

  She bit into her salad. It had colorful greens, sunflower seeds, apple slices, raisins, almond slivers, shredded carrots, cherry tomatoes. The dressing was transparent, with herbs. Homemade, and the perfect balance of sweet and tangy. The salad was more along the lines of what she’d eat back home.

  But that brought thoughts of her dad, her life. Her old life. Remmie looked over to Eli, his empty gaze still on the window. The stabbing knot in her neck returned.

  “Doctor Eli, please . . . eat,” Mr. Sands said. “We share common goals. We simply differ on the means.”

  Eli grabbed the correct fork and took a small bite of salad.

  As they waited for their entrées, Mr. Sands spoke of the ocean and the architecture of the house. He talked about how he’d found Bosco, who had worked in a library. He had wanted to be near the ocean, and live the California lifestyle—he was a transplant from Louisiana.

  “Did you know that Bosco studied history in college?” Mr. Sands said.

  And here, Remmie had thought Bosco was a meathead. He grinned at her, proud of Mr. Sands’ description of his prowess. College boy. She was as smart as he was, yet now she felt inferior for not going to college. She loved books, too.

  Marie brought the entrées: a small cylindrical piece of grilled meat and a lobster. Surf and turf . . . Not Remmie’s normal diet, but she was certain it would be the best thing she had ever tasted. This Mr. Sands thing wasn’t turning out so bad. But what of his proposition? What would happen to her family if they were activated? Was any of it true? Or was it just some scam to try and get her to do something bad? Or something else entirely?

  And did it matter? She dug into her delightful meal, too tired to care.

  “Please, everyone, eat and enjoy,” Mr. Sands said.

  Marie had placed little forks in front of everyone. Remmie knew they were for the lobster. She took a bite—it was delectable. She watched the breakers in the distance, let their sound ease her senses. Her neck relaxed, the knot receding like the tide. Bosco watched her, his smile growing each time their eyes met. He was like the typical guys she had dated. If Mr. Sands’ proposition didn’t work out, she was certain Bosco would be her out.

  THIRTY

  THE CHERRY OBELISK was a wall of flashing lights accented with what Kyle could only liken to the style of old picture frames
his mom collected. “Victorian,” she had called them. Ironic, since he was with a Victor. From a distance the lights acted as a video display that alternated between the word “Jackpot” and falling coins.

  Kyle’s body was jingling with excitement. Things were getting interesting. But then Victor blew past the main entrance and the huddle of red-shirt guys who would have kindly parked the truck.

  “Why not use the valet par—” Kyle said.

  “Shut up.”

  Why would Victor go around back with so much parking in front? The back side of the building was dark, bleak, like looking behind a stage set. They parked between a dumpster and a small brick building that squatted behind the casino. Kyle’s excitement was waning. Victor dug a set of keys from his backpack.

  “This isn’t a parking spot,” Kyle said. “There’s a sign right there that says ‘No Parking.’”

  “You ready to get a taste of what my life’s like?” Victor said.

  “I think I’ve already had a full-course buffet, thanks.”

  Victor chuckled. “Yeah . . . I guess you have. Follow my lead. Bring your backpack.”

  A jackpot of rotten garbage tickled Kyle’s nostrils as they approached the small building. The Cherry Obelisk didn’t seem so great now.

  “You know what this place is?” Victor said.

  “Some sketchy building behind a casino?”

  “Smart-ass,” Victor chuckled, natural, relaxed, like he was just doing his thing.

  The moment felt relaxed to Kyle too, like they were just hanging out, sharing an adventure. Like Victor was just an old guy going through a midlife crisis, desperate for a little youthful excitement. Kyle could relate—he himself was going through an early-twenties crisis. Kyle figured Victor had spent too much time in school and not enough time out enjoying life. Now he was making up for it. Fortunately for Kyle, he was doing this crazy stuff when he was supposed to. He’d be all set to avoid a midlife crisis.

  But then Kyle realized that they would be entering the sketchy building. To do what, exactly? “You’re just going to walk in there? How’d you—”

  “This place is vacated at five p.m. I got the keys from Samuel. I only need a few parts.”

  The inside was a casino graveyard. There were rows of partially disassembled slot machines, and a long worktable with scattered tools and parts. Kyle was reminded of Star Wars—the dark, tucked-away room where they dismantled and tortured droids. The air smelled of oil and cardboard.

  Victor pulled a gun from his backpack and shoved it behind him, under his belt. Then he pulled out a flashlight and a small screwdriver. He pointed the flashlight inside one of the machines, looking intently, unscrewing something, then pulled out a small circuit board. It reminded Kyle of the circuit board he had extracted from his dad’s living room sound system one boring day back when he was fourteen.

  “You know what this is?” Victor said. “It’s a random number generator. Odds, right? This is what controls the odds of winning.” He looked over the circuit board like a jeweler assessing a diamond.

  Kyle was glad he knew about odds. It was one of the few areas where he could connect with Victor. He may have been naïve, like Victor said, but he wasn’t stupid.

  “You know, we’re playing the odds by doing what we’re doing,” Victor said. “I don’t know if it’ll pay off in the end, but you gotta look at your options, weigh the odds, and take the path with the best likelihood of success. And as information flows in, we adjust the weights, recalculate, try to survive, persist, but we’ll never have a complete picture of the truth.” Victor paused. “Eli’s the only family I have left and he keeps me going because I know someday he’ll see the truth. Then we’ll start acting like brothers.”

  Kyle wondered about Victor and Eli’s history. Victor made it sound like they’d never acted like brothers.

  Victor snapped back to attention. “Look around for all the slots opened up like this one. I need a few more of these. Always need a backup, right?”

  “Why do you—”

  “Why is for later. Find the fucking machines. There’s a flashlight in your backpack.”

  Victor could be domineering sometimes. Then Kyle caught site of a machine with its front open. “Got one.” He hopped through the obstacle course of slot machine droids to find the machine’s reel had three golden sevens lined up. Jackpot!

  The front door to the building flew open. Kyle dropped his screwdriver and instinctively crouched. Through the forest of slot machines, he could see three men approach Victor—a short, round guy with red hair and a big gold chain necklace, a tall, skinny guy with a tank top and an afro, and an older-looking guy, balding, leather jacket, pristine oversized white T-shirt, Anthony style. They all had guns. Victor’s back was to Kyle, hands up, his gun hanging from his belt, pointed down his crack.

  “Don’t try for the gun,” Little Red said, pulling his lips back into something like a smile. The reflection from his diamond-studded grill made Kyle squint.

  “Where’s the other one you were with?” the old-looking guy said.

  “I killed him,” Victor said.

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’ll be taking that gun of yours,” Little Red said.

  “You working for Mr. Sands?” Victor said.

  “Sands? Who the fuck is that?”

  Little Red roundhouse-kicked Victor in the stomach. He stumbled into the table, grabbing his gut, gasping.

  “You gave us a free ticket when you decided to break into this building,” Little Red said. “We’re just here for the fun of it.”

  Kyle’s eye caught movement of the front door. A long, slender ebony leg emerged, partially covered by a soft, silky red dress. Samuel . . . Kyle needed to do something to help. He saw a bent, frayed metal box with a bunch of wires hanging out like gummy worms in pudding.

  “Check the place out,” Little Red said to his odd companions.

  Kyle took a deep breath and thought of Remmie. He didn’t want to be captured. He didn’t want Victor to be captured. He sprang up and hurled the bundle of wires at Little Red as hard as he could while bellowing a Charlie Brown football scream. The box hit Little Red square in the face. He shrieked like an infant.

  But Kyle was already diving for cover and moving. He surfaced again a good ten feet away.

  Samuel grabbed the other two men and slammed them into each other with ease, like they were blow-up dolls. The crack of their heads colliding made Kyle cringe. For such a great dresser, Samuel was vicious.

  As Samuel was thrashing the two men, Victor punched Little Red in the breadbasket, causing a spurt of vomit to dive from his mouth. Victor dodged the vomit and landed a ferocious kick to Little Red’s crotch, then snatched him by the hair and slammed his forehead into the table. By that time, Samuel had recovered the other men’s guns.

  Kyle emerged and stood over the beaten foes, his hands on his hips, feeling like he’d played a key role in this successful defeat.

  “On your bellies,” Samuel said to the men, in a lady’s voice. He used duct tape to bind the men and cover their mouths. “You okay, Vick?”

  “Yeah. Sorry you got mixed up in this. Thanks.”

  “It was inevitable. I know you.”

  “How’d you know to come?”

  “I saw them head out while I was onstage and knew something was up. Unfortunately, they saw an opportunity . . . unfortunate for them. There’re always shady people looking for chance—” Samuel stopped himself and cleared his throat.

  Victor studied him. An awkward moment.

  “It’s done.” Samuel half-smiled. “Now it seems you have another companion for your travels.”

  Victor’s demeanor relaxed. He and Samuel gripped hands with some fancy handshake.

  Victor said to Kyle, “Nice job, man. You’re getting the hang of this.”

  Kyle suddenly felt unstable on his feet. He used the table to hold himself up. He realized his skin was cold, humming, and his heart was racing at the speed of falling silve
r dollars. He’d actually done this, been part of a fight against three thugs. A winning fight.

  Victor gently grabbed Kyle’s arm, holding him up. “I guess I sometimes don’t appreciate how unnatural all this is for you. But there’s no time.” He said to Samuel, “We need a car.”

  “Wait for me on the west side of the casino.” Samuel scrambled out the door.

  Victor locked the three men in the building. He moved the pickup out of the no-parking zone, then he and Kyle headed for the west side. Samuel pulled up in a shiny black Mercedes sedan and motioned for them to get in.

  “Where’d you . . .” Victor said.

  “My backup car,” said Samuel.

  They swiftly got to the highway.

  “Were those guys affiliated with Mr. Sands?” Kyle said.

  “Everybody’s affiliated with Mr. Sands,” Victor said. “We happened upon some who were in the know. I know you question that people are under control. I know what Eli thinks, but they are.”

  Kyle was confused. Little Red didn’t seem to know of Mr. Sands. They seemed like shady guys looking for a chance to crack heads and lift wallets, like Samuel had said. Kyle suspected that Samuel didn’t believe the Dames were active. That’s why he’d hesitated to finish his statement about those guys.

  “You both question me,” Victor said.

  “I knew those guys,” Samuel said. “At least, I’ve seen them around a lot and they’re always looking for an—”

  “I know you think those guys were just some local crooks who happened upon us sneaking into the slot storage. It’s okay.” Victor then turned to Kyle. “But you’ll see.”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think. I’m with you either way,” Samuel said. “Where we headed?”

  “Southern Cal, Oceanpier. That’s where the implant is—Anthony.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  THE SALTY OCEAN air flowing into Remmie’s nostrils imbued her with peace and comfort. Memories of her youth surfaced, unbidden—those times of frequent illness where physical pain was matched only by the fear of not knowing the why, or what trauma the future held. Everyone was blind, but blindness was a matter of degree. So much in life is never perceived. If there was a God, having Her view for a moment would be nice, to perceive the complete picture. Yet in those times of illness, Remmie had always found comfort in simple things—the beauty of fall, the touch of her mother, the scent of her favorite dish beckoning from the kitchen. And she knew that any uncertain moment was always tempered by these beautiful, timeless artifacts of existence that took many forms yet all led back to the same substance. Those small comforts were her lifeline, her anchors to hope. And those anchors never failed her, for she was still alive, healthy, surviving. Now she found her hope in the ocean, its massive scale far beyond the insignificant rut in which her life was now caught.