Booker was a bit surprised to see a gentleman in a black suit waiting for them as they walked outside of McCarran airport. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a bushy gray mustache. He wore white gloves and held a sign with “Joanna” written in block letters across the front.
After a quick greeting, he guided the pair of them to a large Cadillac parked right outside. “What do you think so far,” said Joanna as they drove down the Las Vegas strip.
“Not bad,” said Booker, leaning to the side to get a better look out the tinted windows towards the Las Vegas strip. The car pulled into a sweeping drive that led to the front of the Bellagio Hotel. When they parked, the driver came around and opened the door for them. He offered Joanna a hand which she took graciously and stepped out. Booker quickly followed and looked around the busy valet circle.
Vacationers were coming and going, their voices echoing off the high arched ceiling. They dragged their bags behind them and clutched Starbucks coffees. “Welcome to the Bellagio,” said the driver, bowing slightly and stepping aside so Booker could take in the scene. He could only gape and let out an audible laugh of wonder as his eyes drank everything they could. The high ceilings arched together and formed a glass dome like something you’d see at Grand Central Station. The metal frame of the glass structure had a tarnished copper look to it that carried over into the accents in the stone pillars supporting the long entryway and the two Chinese temple dog statues standing in front of the revolving doors leading into the Bellagio.
“Pretty neat,” said Joanna.
“Yeah,” said Booker. “Pretty neat.”
There was an exclamation from the walkway leading to the revolving doors. The pair of them looked around to see an older gentleman in a gray suit and gold tie walking towards them. Holding his arms wide, said, “Joanna!”
“George,” said Joanna, walking forward to greet him. She pulled him into a hug, and he kissed her on the cheek as they broke apart. “It’s so good to see you, George,” she said, smiling brightly.
“Joanna,” said George again, clasping her hand with both of his and beaming up at her. He was at least a head shorter. “It’s a pleasure to have you back with us. I must say I was surprised to receive your call, but we’ve prepared a room for you and your guests. One arrived just a few minutes ago,”
“Wonderful,” said Joanna. “And did my package arrive safe and sound? I sent an overnight courier.”
George nodded and said, “It arrived a few hours ago. I took the liberty of hand delivering it to your room myself.”
“Excellent,” she said.
“And this,” said George, stepping to the side and gesturing to Booker with both hands. “This here is-”
Booker, who’d been watching without thinking he’d need to participate, said, “Oh, I’m-” Joanna swooped down, putting an arm around him, and pulled him forward. “George, this is my good friend, Booker Dunn,” she said.
George clasped Booker’s hand firmly with both of his hands and gave him a serious look. “Booker Dunn,” he said. “Welcome to my hotel. My name is Georgio Fontana. Any friend of Joanna’s is a friend of mine. Come!” He shouted the last word and pointed to the ceiling. “If I may escort you to your room.” He inclined his head and swept his arm over the scene of the entryway, indicating that Booker should lead the way.
“Thanks,” said Booker, but he hesitated. Joanna put her hand on his back and pushed him forward.
“Thank you, George,” she said, and then, leaning closer to Booker she said, “He’s a little extravagant, but you get used to it.”
Georgio Fontana followed them through the revolving doors to the lobby. As Booker and Joanna entered the main floor, the first thing Booker noticed was the welcoming aroma of fresh flowers. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes and savoring the smell as though it were a drink. “Wow,” he said under his breath.
“What’s up?” said Joanna, as they moved forward.
“It smells amazing in here,” he said and then took another deep breath through his nose.
“That,” said Georgio from behind them, “would be the conservatory and botanical gardens, young man. I would be happy to take you through it before heading upstairs if you’d like. We’re right in the middle of the summer set, and I must say that the bloom has been incredible this year.”
“Maybe next time, George,” said Joanna.
“If you’re sure, of course,” said Georgio, walking swiftly in front of them. Booker was listening, but his attention was now seized by the ceiling. Above them was an incredible collage of glass flowers of every color imaginable spilling out of the ceiling towards them.
“Wow,” said Booker again. Joanna giggled and threw her arm around his shoulder.
“Nice, isn’t it?” she said.
“Ah, the Fiori di Como,” said Georgio. “The amazing Dale Chihuly himself made this for our hotel. Over 2,000 hand-blown flowers hung over our beautiful reception area to welcome guests with a view of springtime in the Italian hills. Magnificent. That is the way to describe it. Magnificent. Over 40,000 pounds, you know. Come now, come. This way.”
Georgio led them straight past the reception desk. Booker caught a glimpse of the casino floor itself. Slot machines sparkled and chimed on either side of a marble pathway cutting through the middle of it all. The light was subdued as though walking from the lobby to the casino floor was walking from day into night.
The sound of a piano reached Booker’s ears, and he saw a man dressed in a white dinner jacket sitting in front of a grand piano on the patio of an indoor restaurant at the corner of the lobby and the casino floor. He couldn’t help smiling, watching the couples sitting around thin metal tables on the indoor patio drinking mimosas and eating breakfast as they listened to Tiny Dancer tinkling out of the open piano.
Georgio called an elevator for them, and they waited together, Booker still trying to take in the lobby and casino they’d left behind. Georgio was still talking about the Bellagio’s lobby, explaining the Samurai sculpture on horseback underneath the Fiori di Como, when the elevator doors opened, and a woman in a dark suit and navy-blue windbreaker emerged. She had only taken half a step before she stopped between the sliding doors and stared through a set of dark sunglasses at Joanna.
“Whoa,” said Booker, realizing who it was.
Carol Summer ignored him.
“Summer,” said Joanna with a smile. “Well, this is a surprise. Of all the places we’d run into each other.”
“How’s the leg?” said Summer.
“Better,” said Joanna.
Summer stepped forward to stop the elevator doors from closing and said, “It won’t be so easy for you this time.”
“Summer,” said Joanna with a sigh. “I can only apologize so many times. And I have to ask, why in the world did they assign you to keep a watch on me?”
“I requested it,” said Summer.
“Of course,” said Joanna. “Well, if you’ll excuse us. My friend and I have a prior engagement. Don’t be a stranger.” She stepped past Summer into the elevator, and Booker followed, grimacing apologetically at her as he did so. Georgio smiled brightly at Summer as though nothing so much as a passing hello had taken place between the two ladies, and waited for her to step out of the elevator. She did and turned back to watch them as the doors closed. Booker just stared, while Joanna waved her fingers at Summer until the doors closed all the way.
Georgio took them all the way up to the Chairman’s suite before seeing them off. He opened the double doors with a flourish and stepped aside to let them into the foyer. The room was almost pitch black because the blackout curtains were drawn. However, Booker could still make out the marble pillars and high ceilings from the light coming through the double doors.
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Peering through the darkness, Booker could see modern furnishings, a wet bar with a floor-to-ceiling mirror behind it that was lined with bottles, and a small dining area beside the main living space that was draped in darkness. “Why is it so dark in here?” said Booker.
Joanna and Georgio had lagged behind, and neither answered. Georgio was saying in a carrying whisper, “I’ve seen to it that a set of chips have been left in your room, just to get you started for the evening, Miss Joanna. The bar is complimentary of course and should you and your guests need a bite to eat, you know who to call.” Booker turned and saw him bow his head and begin to back out of the room, closing the double doors with him, but Joanna stopped him.
“Just one more thing, Georgio,” she said. He inclined his head with a smile, and she moved a little closer and said, quietly, “I have a friend arriving this afternoon. He’s a big fan of baccarat. I’d appreciate a seat at his table when he arrives.”
“Of course! Until then,” he said, bowing once more and backing out of the room. He closed the doors and they were doused in almost complete darkness. He could see Joanna’s outline as she stretched her arms high over her head and heard her yawn loudly. “Well, what do you think?” she said.
“It’d be better if I could find a light switch. Is food complimentary? And the bar?” he said.
“Don’t get any ideas, Wonderboy,” she said standing beside. “Yes, food is free. You need to eat. Get something with a lot of protein and drink plenty of water. You’ll need to be hydrated.”
“What for?” he said.
“I’m not spoiling the surprise,” she said, moving to the left toward a tall door. Light trickled in from the edges of the closed door, then flooded the room as she opened it, causing Booker to shield his eyes as he followed her. “This is my room,” she said, looking around. Booker poked his head in and saw a large bed with green blankets, the door to a bathroom on the left and a huge window looking out toward the Las Vegas strip to the right. “I need to head downstairs to get some shopping done. I’ll need a new dress for tomorrow night.”
“What’s happening tomorrow night?” said Booker.
“A Gala,” she said. “A real fancy one too. I’ll save a dance for you.”
“I’m going?” he said.
“If everything works out,” she said, punching his arm. “Alright, I’m off. Eat something and drink a lot of water! I’ll be back in an hour. You boys play nice!”
“Boys?” said Booker, following her back to the dark foyer.
She either didn’t hear him or ignored him because she just opened the double doors and disappeared into the hall, turning only to give him a small wave and a smile. As soon as the sound of the door closed behind her, he heard a metallic clicking noise behind him and jumped around.
The living room was still incredibly dark, but for a split second, he saw a man’s face illuminated by the flame of a zippo lighter held up to the cigar in his mouth. With a click, the flame was gone. The red glow of embers from the end of the cigar remained.
The man was sitting in an armchair facing him. His legs were outstretched and crossed at the ankle. He was wearing dark leather combat boots. Booker cleared his throat unsure what he should say. Smoke curled over the man’s head above the armchair as he adjusted his position. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?” said the man suddenly. His voice was gruff and muffled by the cigar clenched between his teeth.
“Booker,” he said.
The man sat there in silence for a moment, puffing more smoke, and then stood up slowly with a grunt. He walked over to one of the tall windows and pulled the curtain aside, dowsing the room in sunlight. Again, Booker shielded his eyes for a moment, and then was able to get a good look at the stranger.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a beaten-up gray button-down shirt with a pair of silver aviator sunglasses like Joanna’s hanging from the chest pocket. His had salt and pepper hair with a windswept look, a bushy mustache, and thick eyebrows. He sauntered over to where Booker stood, gripping the cigar between his thumb and forefinger. After taking one more puff, he extended the hand still holding the cigar for Booker to shake.
Booker looked down at the cigar in the outstretched hand, back up at the man’s gruff-looking face, and then shook his hand slowly. The man’s huge hands were callused and tan. He gripped Booker’s hand hard and looked him dead in the eye. “Booker,” he said, in the same gruff voice. “Call me Dutch.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Booker.
Dutch was already walking toward the bar. “What do you do?” he said, walking behind the bar. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together vigorously as he surveyed the bar. Seeing that Booker hadn’t moved he pointed to one of the green barstools and said, “Sit,” with the cigar still clamped between his teeth.
Booker walked over to the bar and sat. Dutch started pulling bottles from underneath the bar and dropping them on the bar top. Gin, vodka, whiskey, scotch, and conic.
With only one of the blackout curtains drawn back, the room was still dimly lit. Booker felt like he was sitting in an underground speakeasy. “So,” said Dutch, taking the cigar out of his mouth and placing his hands on the bar top.
“What?” said Booker.
“What do you do?” said Dutch.
“Oh,” said Booker. “I don’t know what you mean.” When Dutch continued scowling at him, Booker said, “I’m a friend of Joanna’s.”
“No shit,” said Dutch. “Anything else?”
“I don’t think so,” said Booker.
“Well then, why the hell are you here?” said Dutch, biting down on the cigar again and picking up a bottle of golden rum so he could examine the label.
“Joanna asked me to come,” said Booker.
“Sure she did,” said Dutch. “Where are you from?”
“San Diego,” said Booker. “Joanna is my neighbor.”
“You don’t say,” said Dutch.
Booker said, “Well, what do you do?”
“I just got back from McCarren. I’ve been ferrying people back and forth from Groom Lake for twenty-four goddamn hours,” said Dutch.
“You’re a pilot?” said Booker.
“Yeah,” said Dutch, taking a swig of the rum. He pulled a face, bearing his teeth. “Ahhgg,” he said, setting down the bottle gently. “How old are you?”
“I just turned twenty-one,” said Booker.
“You drink?”
“I’ll take a beer if you have any back there,” said Booker.
“I didn’t ask what you wanted. I asked if you drink,” said Dutch.
Booker scowled and said, “Sure.”
“Good man,” said Dutch.
“So, what exactly is going on?” said Booker.
“Joanna didn’t tell you?” said Dutch.
“She told me that she needed some help. She said my father could be in a lot of trouble, but we could help him,” said Booker.
“Who’s your old man?” said Dutch.
“Robert Dunn,” he said. When Dutch’s eyebrows raised, Booker said, “Do you know him?”
“I know him. Works at Groom Lake, don’t he?” said Dutch.
Booker nodded, and said, “So do you know what the plan is?”
“Do I look like I’d have a clue what’s going on?” he said, grabbing a pair of rocks glasses from a stack on the back bar. “Don’t answer that,” he said, turning back quickly and pointing the cigar at him. He splashed a small amount of rum into each glass, pushed one over to Booker, and said, “Here you go.” Then he picked up his own glass, and rolled the contents around in his hand so the rum coated the inside edges. “I thought the plan was all ironed out. No kinks. Clean, easy, and ready to go. Then all that shit goes down last night, the whole base is going to shit, and then Joanna calls me out of the blue and moves up our whole operation to today. We’re scrambling, and I don’t like it.”
“What was the plan before ... well, before yesterday?” said Booker, sniffing the contents of his glass. The rum smelled sweet, but after a sip he decided to put it back down.
“Listen, kid, I’m just the pilot. I fly JANET routes for a living, and I owe Joanna a favor. I fly her in. I fly her out. That’s it.”
Booker’s heart seemed to jolt in his chest. Unconsciously, his hand rested on the pocket where the mysterious postcard was hidden. The message said something about a JANET flight that would be arriving soon. “What’s a JANET route?” said Booker.
“Joint Air Network Employee Transit,” he said, taking a sip of rum and leaning against the back bar. “The government contracts the transit operation for employees that work on Groom Lake. Every morning, the people that live here in Nevada drive to McCarren and we pick them up and fly them to work. In the afternoon, we fly them home. That’s it.”
Booker laughed and said, “You fly people back and forth to Area-51 for a living?”
Dutch shrugged. “It’s honest work.”
“And have you worked with Joanna before?”
“Sure,” said Dutch. “We did a job in Venezuela a while back. Damned hot down there. Nastiest bush I’ve had to cut my way through. But hey,” Dutch tipped his glass in salute as though that was that.
“‘Hey’, what? Why were you in Venezuela?” said Booker.
“CIA job. Back before she retired. Actually, I’m not sure if we’re allowed to talk about that one yet. Forget I said anything.”
“CIA?” said Booker, as Dutch drained his glass and poured another small serving of rum. “You’re in the CIA too?”
“God no,” said Dutch. “I’m just a pilot. 1st Special Operations Wing.”
“Is that Air Force?”
“Jesus. No, Delta Airlines. What the hell do you think?”
“Sorry,” said Booker. “So you’re an Air Force Pilot?”
“Retired,” said Dutch.
“And Joanna works for the CIA?”
“You know, you’re sharp, kid,” said Dutch, taking another sip of rum. “I gotta hand it to ya.”
“Okay,” said Booker slowly. “So Joanna is running some kind of CIA mission? With you?”
“She doesn’t work for the CIA anymore. Don’t you listen? I said she was retired,” said Dutch.
“Well, then what’s all this supposed to be then?” said Booker.
“Jesus, we’re talking in circles. I said I’m just the pilot. I owe her a favor,” said Dutch.
“And you just agreed to help without knowing what you’re doing?” said Booker.
“Didn’t you?” he said.
Booker bit his tongue, and said, “You got me there.”
Dutch took another puff from his cigar and grabbed an ashtray from underneath the bar. Tapping the ash of his cigar into it, he said, “What’s your story, kid?”
Booker shrugged. “Joanna and I got my dad into a lot of trouble. We were messing with some tech he left in his office and ...” He thought of how best to explain what happened and decided it would be easier just to avoid it. “And we just got him into a lot of trouble by turning it on. She said that we’re going to get him out of trouble somehow.”
Dutch nodded slowly at him, and said, “Is that right?”
“That’s what she told me. What did she tell you?” said Booker. Dutch responded by blowing smoke into his empty glass, setting it down, and pressing the end of his finished cigar into the ashtray. Booker said, “Well if she isn’t working for the CIA anymore, who is she - who are we - supposed to be working for? And how is she retired? She is only - well, she can’t be older than thirty, can she?”
Dutch shrugged and scratched his chin. “Beats me. She is young though. Started young too. I’ve heard tell of the CIA grabbing kids as young as fifteen if they think they’re ready for the show. She might be one of those.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Five, maybe six, years,” said Dutch. Changing tack, he said, “You hungry?”
Booker shrugged, and Dutch picked up a phone sitting at the end of the bar, saying. “Let’s see how big a room service bill we can rack up.”