Next, I did something that was new even to me, and it just sort of happened on its own. In my mind's eye, I saw my thoughts rippling away from me, further and further out like a widening gyre. And as my mind reached out, it seemed to touch down on everyone around me, searching.
Searching.
It kept reaching out, kept searching -
"Excuse me, baby?"
My probing thoughts came racing back, nearly slamming physically back into me. Jolting me. I gasped. It took me a moment to orient myself, and when I did, my smiling drunk neighbor's face was about three inches from my own. Three purple, wormy veins snaked just under the skin of his bulbous nose.
"What?" I asked, confused. I was still coming back. Back into my body. I had been out there somehow. Out in the casino. Somehow out of my body.
Sweet Jesus.
"Hey, baby, you were the one talking to me."
"I wasn't talking to you."
"Sure, baby. You kept saying something about luck. And, since I'm the only lucky bastard sitting next to you, I figured you were talking to me."
"I wasn't talking to you, sorry."
He put a firm hand on my bare thigh. "Of course you were, angel. Tonight's my lucky night."
He was a big guy. Granted, when you're five foot three, even sixth graders look big. But this guy was closing in on three hundred, and nearly had me by three times my own weight. I've got nothing against big guys. Actually, I find them adorable. But not drunk guys who lay their drunken fat hands on my thighs.
I put my hand on his and he smiled. This was encouraging for him. And, apparently, some drunken guy green light. He immediately tried to move his hand up the inside of my thigh. Except his hand didn't move. I calmly lifted it off my thigh and started squeezing.
"Hey!"
"Go away."
"My hand!"
"Go far away."
I let go and he tumbled backwards off the stool, his feet flying up. He landed with a squishy thud. Keys and a cell phone toppled out of his pockets. Along with a condom. Eww. The not-quite-as-good-looking-as-Fang bartender rushed over to us, but I only shrugged and made a drinking motion. The guy got to his feet, gathered his stuff, and hurried away from me without looking back.
The bartender lingered briefly, certain that something strange had gone on, but then moved further down the bar to take an order, glancing at me a final time.
Way to stay inconspicuous, Sam. Easy, girl.
With the excitement over and alone once again, I closed my eyes and went through the previous steps and cast my thoughts outward.
And they continued outward until they reached the far end of the casino. I went through a double door and into an exclusive poker room. And sitting near the poker table was a dead ringer for public enemy #1, Mr. Carl Luck.
Whose luck might have just run out.
Hey, I had to say it.
As an experiment, I cast my thoughts even further out, up through the hotel, floor after floor, but there seemed to be a limit to this. The further I got, the more scattered my thoughts were.
I retracted them, this time not so violently, and opened my eyes. When I had steadied myself, I plunked down a $10 bill, got up, and headed for the far side of the casino.
To the poker room.
Chapter Fifty-two
Feeling as if I had done this before, I wove my way past roulette tables and blackjack tables, and past tables of made-up games I had never heard before. Games like Flash Poker and Three-Card Texas Slam.
Okay, now they're just making stuff up.
As I walked, I was aware that a lot of flesh was showing and a part of me didn't entirely mind. A steady diet of blood, staying out of the sun, and my own nighttime jogs had done wonders for my body. The ultimate Atkins Diet. I was still naturally curvy, but a petite curvy. Petite and now roped with muscle.
Some men looked. Some women did, too. I wasn't the sexiest or prettiest woman here, not by a long shot, but I suspected I projected a certain presence. What that presence was, I didn't know. Confidence? Blood lust?
Soon, I reached the far corner of the casino, where I wasn't too surprised to see the same double doors there. There were two guys - both Native American - standing just outside the open doors, and I suspected they would have stopped most people. But I put on my best "don't fuck with me" look and they simply blinked and smiled and let me though.
And as I swept through, I wondered: Had they let me in because of my "don't fuck with me look" or something else?
What that something was, I didn't know. But the words "mind control" came to mind.
Too weird.
I surveyed the room. Definitely high rollers. Seven men were seated around the table, no women. Two of the men were wearing Arab keffiyehs. Another was wearing a white cowboy hat, and the remaining four were a mix of ethnicities. All were dressed immaculately. None noticed me. All were intent on the dealer who was currently shuffling. A few more security types stood around the room, all of them Native American. The casino's own security, no doubt. There were a handful of plush chairs surrounding the main poker table, and these were filled with babes. Various hookers, no doubt. And at a private bar on the far side of the room sat Carl Luck, wearing shades and drinking a draft beer. He was watching the game intently.
My heart slammed against a rib or two. My first instinct was to fly across the room and slam his face into the bar, and keep slamming it until he told me where Maddie was.
Calm down. Deep breaths.
Instead, I crossed the big room as calmly as I could and found a stool next to Carl Luck.
* * *
He was a big man. Not as big as some of the other men in my life, but he was certainly up there. Other than glancing at me from over his shades, Carl did little to acknowledge me. The thick black man smelled of nice cologne. His shiny, mottled boots were ostrich skin. His maroon leather jacket fit him perfectly. If I had to guess, I would say Carl Luck had recently come into a lot of money. The man in the picture at McDonald's had been nowhere near as slick.
"Who's winning?" I asked innocently.
Carl slowly turned his shiny head. Nothing else moved. He was leaning one elbow on the counter. His elbow looked exceptionally sharp. His eyes were hidden behind the cool shades.
"Captain Jack's up," he said. His deep-throated voice was as smooth as smooth gets. He sounded like a radio talk show host. The kind women swoon for.
"Always better to be up than down, I say." Except I didn't know what the hell I was talking about.
Carl looked at me but said nothing, although I could hear his nasally breathing from here. One of his nostrils was backed up.
Gee, I wonder why.
"Who's Captain Jack?" I asked.