Wesley: Seven Day Cruise By Kuzibah

Part 7 of the Summer Vacation Series Disclaimer: They�re not mine. Fox sucks. Let�s move on. Author's Note: Some of the ideas in this story are inspired by Tim Powers's excellent dark fantasy novel "Last Call," but hopefully stop short of being complete rip-offs. Thanks to my buddy Dave for turning me on to that one. Everyone go over to Amazon and buy a copy immediately after reading this fic. Feedback: Yes, please. I�m beggin� ya. Archive- Sure, but email me and let me know where it�s going. ******************* Wesley was moving methodically through Angel's "pantry," dusting each bottle and making careful account of how much of each herb and powder was there. "I can't believe you let your supplies of calfwort and greater celandine get so low," he called out to Angel. "And it doesn't appear you have any cinquefoil whatsoever." From the living room Angel mumbled an unintelligible response. "It's lucky that we have the feast season of the Saint of Torturers to get caught up on these things, wouldn't you say?" Angel didn't say anything this time, but the ex-Watcher could hear him moving about. "That's it for the 'C's," Wesley announced. "Now on to the 'D's." Angel stepped into the doorway. "Wesley," he said, his voice edged with exasperation. "Yes?" "You know you've been a welcome addition to the agency, right?" Wesley lowered his eyes, embarrassed. "Well, I..." "And you know I've come to count on you?" Angel said. "Well, thanks, Angel, but..." "So I'm trusting you to take this the right way," Angel said. Wesley looked up expectantly. "Get out," Angel said. - - - - - - - - - - Wesley was only six hours into his compulsory "vacation" and he was already deep in the throes of cabin fever. He had gone through his small apartment twice looking for something to occupy his time, and now was on his way down to his basement storage locker to see what he could clean out. He flipped on the basement light, and sighed at the small stack of boxes filling one corner of the six by eight foot chicken-wire locker. He put his hands on his waist and glanced around the cellar. His eyes fell on the garage bays at the end of the level, and his own assigned slot. He walked to it and grabbed hold of the blue tarp covering the vehicle within, pulling it free. The motorcycle gleamed in the electric lamplight. Wesley ran a loving hand over the handlebars, over the body. Why have I neglected this beauty, he asked himself. Take the week off, Angel had told him, and it suddenly occurred to Wesley that he had never had an entire week to himself. He grabbed the empty saddlebags and ran up the stairs. Fifteen minutes later he descended again, clad in the riding leathers that had gone unworn for nearly eight months, and carrying his packed bags. He opened the garage door and wheeled the bike into the drive. He climbed astride it and kicked it into life. The forced inaction didn't seem to have affected it at all, and the engine started with a roar. Wesley cruised the boulevards of his adopted city, the night wind tugging at him, then made for the open road. He faced the dawn as it rose over the desert, and let out an uncharacteristically exultant cry as the first rays of the rising sun struck him. An hour later he passed by the neon signpost famous all over the world: "Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas." - - - - - - - - - - He checked into the Flamingo Hilton, less impressed by its landmark status as by its special $39 rate, and washed himself clean of the road before dropping into bed. When he awoke it was late afternoon. His saddlebags lay on the floor where he'd dropped them, alongside his leathers. How unlike me, he thought, wondering if this was normal vacation behavior. He got up and rummaged through the bags. His clothes had been rolled for the trip, and Wesley noted the old traveler's trick had worked and they were relatively wrinkle-free. He hung them up quickly, then carried his toiletries into the bath. It was nearly dusk when he emerged from his room, feeling more like himself in khakis and a pale pink shirt. He headed for the casino. He passed by the banks of slot machines with their cadre of slot zombies mindlessly feeding in coins, and walked onto the main gaming floor. He wandered from table to table, watching the blackjack players and the roulette wheel. At last he stopped at the craps table. A strikingly beautiful woman with long, blonde hair appeared to be doing well, judging by her excitement relative to the other players. Wesley found a good angle from which to watch. The woman was indeed having a run of remarkable luck, and had already gathered several stacks of chips, mostly green, indicating their value at $20. Wesley did a quick estimate: about $1200. She was betting rather conservatively, gathering most of her winnings off the table, but Wesley noticed she always placed the same red $5 chip in all her bets. When she reached about $1500 she began to pile her chips into her bag, laughing giddily. "I can't believe how much I've won," she exclaimed to the other players, to their undisguised disgust. She turned around so quickly, her collision with Wesley was unavoidable. Luckily, he managed to grab her arm before she'd scattered the chips all over the casino floor. "I'm so sorry," she apologized, "I think I'm a little dizzy." "Do you want me to walk you to the window?" he asked, "see that you get back to your room alright?" "Would you?" She seemed genuinely grateful and Wesley realized how easily she could have been taken advantage of, had he been a less honorable man. He walked with her to cash in her chips, and was pleased to discover the casino sent security guards along with the big winners, having long ago come to the same conclusion Wesley had reached a moment before. She took the red chip from her stack just before pushing it through the window and pressed it into Wesley's hand. "Thank you," she said. "For luck." Wesley walked back to the craps table. Despite his deep involvement with the supernatural, he was not a superstitious man, and wasn't given to flights of fancy. But the red $5 seemed to want to go to the craps table, so Wesley took it there. He stepped up and placed it, and the dealer handed him the brightly-colored, outsize house dice. He rolled. "Lucky seven," called the dealer, pushing a chip Wesley's way. - - - - - - - - - - Not much later, the Englishman was cashing in his own stack of chips, the lucky $5 tucked in his breast pocket. He had also stopped at $1500, and seemed affected by the same giddiness as his benefactor. He wanted to buy something useless and vulgar, or go to his room and have lobster and Dom Perignon brought by room service. He hit the strip and started walking. In front of Caesar's Palace he met up with the woman who had given him the chip. She greeted him enthusiastically. "I am so glad to see you again," she said. "How did the magic chip work out?" "Very well, thanks," Wesley replied. "You can have it back, actually." She laughed. "Nah, pass it on to some other unlucky slob," she said. She pointed at him suddenly, jumping with excitement. "Oh," she cried, "I've been invited to a special dinner, over at Circus Circus. Why don't you come with me?" "Dinner?" Wesley said faintly. "Winners' dinner," she said. "The manager of the really chi-chi restaurant there puts it on. It's a big tradition. Come on... it'll be fun." Wesley shrugged. Technically, he guessed he qualified. He reached out to shake the woman's hand. "By the way," he said, "my name's Wesley." She took it. "I'm Erin," she said. - - - - - - - - - - - The "dinner" was no big deal, more a lure to get big winners to spend their recently won prize at the casinos, and he was about to go when a very old gentleman approached them. Something about him put Wesley in mind of a lizard, but he appeared to know Erin. "So good to see you again, my dear," he said. "I was hoping to catch up with you and invite you to the card game tonight." "Oh, I stink at poker," Erin said, "but maybe Wesley wants to play." "I don't want to invite myself..." Wesley began. "You'd be helping me out," the man said. "We need a fourth." Wesley glanced at Erin, who was nodding enthusiastically. "Alright," Wesley agreed. - - - - - - - - - - He went to the man's room shortly thereafter. His name, he had learned, was Fisher, and though Wesley was at first apprehensive about getting involved in a high-stakes game, meeting his gaming partners put him at ease. They were an older couple, a wealthy businessman and his wife. From Texas most recently, but originally from Ohio. They introduced themselves as Jim and Nan. Fisher took out his cards and Wesley noted they were antiques, probably hand painted. "I want to thank you all for agreeing to join me tonight," he said. "I truly enjoy cards but the casino is so overwhelming." He shuffled the cards from hand to hand. "I trust you are all familiar with seven-card stud. Let's make the queens wild this round..." After several hands, Wesley had come to the conclusion that for a man who purported to enjoy cards so much he felt the need to organize a private game, Mr. Fisher was not particularly good. He folded on hands that appeared to be strong, and played hands that were obviously weak. Within two hours he had paid out almost $2500. Nan was the one who put a stop to the game. "Mr. Fisher," she said. "We've had quite a good time, but it's really not fair to keep taking your money." Fisher patted the woman's hand. "Nan," he said. "I have more money than I'll ever need. You've given me something much more precious." - - - - - - - - - - Wesley patted his pocket. He had over $2200, a small fortune compared to his usual discretionary funds. He looked at the pulsing neon all around him up and down the strip. It was dizzying in its volume, almost monstrous in its excess. He walked under the almost painful glare outside the Flamingo and into the seductive coolness of the casino. The night was still young, he noted, and he stepped up to the blackjack table. After losing six hands in a row, he moved to another table, only to find the cards against him there, as well. He went back to the craps table, and the story there was the same. Then keno, equally unlucky. He had lost about $100 now. He went to the slot machines and fed in three dollars' worth of nickels without a single payout. This was strange, he thought. He knew the odds were against him, that gamblers lost more often than they won, but they didn't lose all the time. There were always a number of small payoffs to keep the players interested. But for him, nothing. As a final experiment he went to the roulette wheel and placed one chip on black, another on red. He ignored the dealer's eye-rolling. The wheel was spun, and the ball bounced several times before coming to rest. "Double zeros," called the dealer. "No winner." - - - - - - - - - - Wesley cashed in what was left of his chips and headed for the elevators. A security guard there directed him to take the stairs, as the elevators were down. He climbed the twelve flights and changed back into his leathers and repacked his bag. He checked out and headed for the garage. The slot where he'd left his motorcycle was empty. He returned to the hotel lobby and used the phone to call the police. "Stay where you are," he was told. He called the desk clerk over and asked to check back in. "I'm sorry," she said sweetly. "All our rooms are filled." Feeling the black cloud starting to close in around him, Wesley poured himself a cup of the hotel's complimentary coffee. It was cold. - - - - - - - - - - Ten minutes later, his attention was drawn to a commotion out front. He went to the window and saw Jim, the husband of the couple who had joined him in the poker game, screaming and gesticulating wildly. Wesley quickly joined him and saw through the crowd Nan, his wife, lying in a pool of her own blood, her head caved in. "Oh my God," Wesley said. "What happened?" "She was hit in the head by this giant black bird," a woman told him. "Knocked her skull in," a man added. "It's a vulture," a security man supplied. "They come in from the desert. They get dazzled by the lights and crash into the facades." He lowered his voice to a more respectful tone. "It looks like this one was electrocuted. That woman just had the bad luck to be standing where it fell." "Luck?" Jim suddenly shouted. "We sold our luck. That old wizard bought it all." He grabbed Wesley's arm. "Don't you see?" he said. "It's gone." - - - - - - - - - - Wesley ran for Circus Circus, the casino where Fisher had his room. He kept his eyes open for runaway cars, falling pianos, and open manholes, and finally entered. He didn't have to go far. Fisher was holding court at the first craps table, surrounded by four or five bimbos, including Erin, who had changed into a low-cut evening gown. Wesley hardly recognized him at first. He looked twenty years younger, for a start, his papery skin filled out and smooth, and he had a buoyant energy that had been absent earlier. His eye fell on Wesley and he gave him a hateful stare. "What do you want?" he growled. "What you've stolen," Wesley said calmly. "Bought and paid for," Fisher corrected. "Under false pretenses," Wesley shot back, and Fisher gave an elaborate shrug. "How'd you do it?" Wesley demanded. Fisher shrugged again. "Not that there's anything you can do about it," he said, "but it took advantage of the correspondence of the modern card suits to the suits of the Tarot. Pentacles equals diamonds. Pentacles, the suit of nobility and privilege. I place the Jack, the Queen, and the King around the table, deal from a powerfully made and carefully stacked deck. The spell is cast by the way the cards fall, I pay you for the cards you hold, and I've bought my luck for another year." "Very clever," Wesley acknowledged. "There's just one small flaw." Fisher raised one eyebrow. "I'm not a diamond," Wesley said. The wizard's face froze. "What do you mean?" he said through clenched teeth. "Diamonds," Wesley said, as though starting a lecture. "The suit of royalty, nobility, inherited money," he ticked them off on his fingers, "the idle wealthy. None of which apply to me. Spades, from the ancient suit of the swords. The suit of soldiers, hunters, combatants of all kinds. I'm a sword, Mr. Fisher..." "Just because you come here dressed in leather..." "A sword," Wesley affirmed. "Use whatever powers you possess. You know it to be true." Fisher's expression shifted, became even more hateful, if such a thing was possible. "You," he hissed through clenched teeth, rising towards the ex-Watcher. But Wesley had drawn the $5 chip from his pocket. He slung his hand in a wide arc, spinning the chip off his fingertips. It hit Fisher in the face, cutting across both his eyes. The wizard screamed and covered his face with his hands. Thick, bright-red blood ran between his fingers. "Sorry," Wesley said. "Beastly luck, that." - - - - - - - - - - When Wesley returned to the Flamingo, he found that not only had the police recovered his motorcycle intact, but several rooms had suddenly opened up. He took a deluxe suite. The voice in his head, which he had decided to obey at least for the duration of his stay, informed him it was best he spend all of his mystically gotten gains before he left Las Vegas, and Wesley was trying to figure how best to comply. He picked up the services menu by the phone and dialed the concierge. "Yes," he said, "Suite 400 here. I'd like the prime rib special, medium rare, a bottle of your finest burgundy, two slices of tiramisu, and... could you connect me with the health club? I'd like to discuss having a masseuse sent up in about an hour..." Part 8 - Giles: Open Mike Night Main Menu   ~   Summer Vacation Series

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