---

 
Coming off the flight at Logan two guys around my age at the baggage carousel tried hitting on Susan and me, until Tom, who had gone to the bathroom, came back, and the guys split. Tom thought it was funny. “Get used to it, Alex,” he said. “You know your sister is a beautiful woman. It’s got to be the same for you.”

“Are you hitting on Alex?” Susan asked, jokingly.

Tom realized he’d boxed himself into a corner. He was only rescued by the sight of Susan’s bag, and then mine, and then his.

Tom had put his car in long term parking, so we all schlepped there on the bus. Light rain was falling. Winter was well and truly underway. I sat in the back of Tom’s big BMW as he drove to my place in Somerville, looking out at the houses and idly wondering what kind of lives the people inside had. Chances were they were all pretty normal. Guy lives. Girl lives. Not in-between fucked-up lives.

Tom carried my suitcase to the door for me. I could tell this was part of a shift in our relationship. Because I looked like a woman, and in particular like the woman he loved, he had started thinking of me as a woman. Dressed as I was, in a black down jacket and blue jeans, the only cues he had to go on were my face, and my ass, and I sincerely hoped that Tom was not checking out my ass.

Pete was still away. Pete’s family lived in Wisconsin. Despite all the excitement with the acquisition he had taken a couple of extra days off work and would be away until the Sunday night. I took a warm shower to get the Boston damp out of my bones, and went to bed. After the emotional roller coaster of Thanksgiving, I needed the rest.

Next morning I could see from my bed that snow had begun falling. I didn’t have to work, I was in no hurry to go talk to Arun, and it was cold outside, so I stayed huddled under the duvet, just watching the snow fall.

Sometime past nine a.m. the doorbell went. I grabbed my robe – actually a yakuta given to me by my maternal grandmother – and went to the front door. Through the peephole I could see two guys in dark suits. They looked like undertakers, but they didn’t look threatening. I opened the door.

“Good morning,” the one closest to me said. He was a solid man, with a broad, open face. If I was going to stereotype him I would have guessed he came from a farm in the Midwest somewhere. His voice had that authoritative tone that come from years in law enforcement. Not that I had any experience with law enforcement outside of what I saw on TV shows, but I guessed he was some kind of cop.

I wished the yakuta was thicker. It was freezing outside, and I wanted to close the door.

Sure enough, his hand went into his jacket inside pocket and he flicked out an ID. “I’m Agent Grieves, Department of the Treasury. This is Agent Hernandez.” The other guy, who was younger and thinner and didn’t look at all Hispanic, held open his own ID. They looked like genuine government IDs, with an eagle and scales and stuff like that, but then what did I know about such things? “We are looking for Alexander Kazuo Jones.”

“Um. That would be me.” I tracked back through my memory. When I was still at Gene Systems I’d filed each year, but I hadn’t filed for last April yet. Surely they weren’t sending special agents around to check up on delinquent filers?

He looked momentarily surprised. “Would you mind if I came in?”

I was going to say, “Yes, I would mind,” but it was freezing and I just wanted the door closed. Plus I had the impression they were going to be insistent anyway.

I showed them into the living room, which fortunately wasn’t too untidy. Pete had done some cleaning up before he left for Wisconsin, but I wouldn't have characterized the place as clean, exactly. “Uh. Would you mind if I went to put some clothes on?” I said. “I just got out of bed.”

“Of course.” As I turned to leave I saw Grieves check his watch in a disapproving manner.

I pulled on the clothes I’d been wearing the day before, a heavy black turtleneck and blue jeans, with some clean socks, my padded bra and fresh panties, and went back down. As I entered the room I noticed his eyes take in all of me, as though he was trying to make sense of what he saw. His eyes flicked to Hernandez, then back to me.

“May I call you Alex?”

“Sure,” I said. He seemed vaguely relieved at that.

“Alex, I’ll cut right to the chase. You play cards for a living, is that right?”

“It’s not illegal,” I said defensively.

“That depends,” he said.

“Depends on what?”

“Alex, perhaps you would let me ask a few questions first. Things will go more quickly that way.”

“Should I have a lawyer?”

“Do you think you need one?”

“Well, that depends.” I said.

He should have seen that coming, and he smiled. When he smiled he didn’t seem that scary.

“Would you guys like to sit down?” I asked. “You know, depending on how many questions you have.”

“Thank you,” he said, and he and Hernandez found spaces on our none-too-clean couch.

“Coffee? I haven’t had any yet, and I kind of need coffee to make sense.”

The two of them exchanged glances, Grieves seemed to give some kind of shrug. “That would be great, thank you. Black for me.” Hernandez made a motion to decline.

I went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. It took a couple of minutes, and while I was doing it my mind went in about fifty different directions. Treasury. Even though blackjack winnings are exempt from W2G filings, occasionally casinos would ask for IDs so they could comply with regulations on cash transactions, and when I’d had to do this I’d done it with false names using the IDs Arun had supplied. Were they after me because of something Alexandra Leung had done, or something Lisa Lee had filed? Both were aliases I had used, in addition to my usual Alexandra Jones. Then there was the fact I hadn’t filed for last year yet. False ID’s: what were the penalties? Impersonating a woman: were there penalties for that?

I carried the two coffees in, but my hands were shaking and I slopped some of mine on the carpet.

Grieves and Hernandez sat on the couch, facing me, while I sat in the old red overstuffed chair Pete had rescued from the sidewalk a few years back. Pete loved that chair, but it really did need recovering.

“We’re not here to charge you with anything, Alex. I can read you your rights if you’d like, but we just want to understand some things.”

“Like what?”

“You play cards in a team with Arun Kapoor, is that right?”

“A team?”

“A group of you. You play together in casinos. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

I wondered where they got their information. I guess it wouldn’t be hard to pick up some details from the alumni network. Despite the vow of secrecy, a lot of people from Harvard and MIT knew that Arun and Bob and Alice and the rest of us all spent a lot of time together. Or maybe, I thought, they got their information from Whitwell. “You guys are from the IRS, right?”

“Yes.”

I was going to ask for their IDs again, but I really had no idea what a genuine Treasury ID looked like. “What does Treasury want with Arun? Don’t you guys prosecute tax cheats?”

“Treasury looks into tax fraud, yes. That’s not why we’re here. Agent Hernandez and I are with FinCEN."

“I have no idea what that is.“

“It’s part of the Department of Treasury.

I think I just stared at him blankly. I probably seemed very slow on the uptake, but that didn't tell me anything.

“How well do you know Mr. Kapoor?”

"Uh. We went to Harvard together? We hang out. We play cards."

"You’re not …” Grieves was searching for a diplomatic way to say something. “ … in a relationship with Mr. Kapoor?”

I laughed. “Me and Arun? No way."

The idea was pretty funny, really. Arun was all about the business. Even if I had swung that way, and I didn’t, I really couldn’t see Arun giving too much time to a relationship with anyone. Certainly not anyone on the team. And, I was pretty certain, not with someone who looked like a chick but wasn’t …

“How would you characterize your relationship with him?” Grieves continued.

“Mutual antagonism?” I laughed nervously. “No, he’s okay. We’re not best friends or anything, but we don’t hate one another.”

“Are you aware of whether or not he’s romantically involved with anyone else on your … in the group you travel to casinos with?”

“Not as far as I know. He treats it like a business. I really don’t think he’d, ah, sleep with anyone he works with. Why?”

“That’s just for background."

“Why would you care who he sleeps with?"

“Are you aware of where the money comes from, that your team plays with?"

“What do you mean?"

“Where do you get the money from, to play with?"

“We win money. That’s sort of the whole point."

“You win money, every time?"

“Almost every time." I was defensive again. “We’re not breaking any laws."

“Did you use your own money, when you first began playing?"

I thought back. That seemed like forever ago. I remembered that first time, when Arun had handed me five thousand dollars, and I had played with Alice that night at the Mohegan Sun. And the second time, when we had gone to Vegas.

“No," I said, more cautious than ever.

“Mr. Kapoor gave it to you?"

“I feel like I need a lawyer, now."

“Miss – Uh, Alex. You are entitled to seek representation if you want. We’ve come here, today, hoping to meet with you in an unobtrusive way."

“I don’t want to say anything that will, uh …"

“I understand, Alex.” He definitely seemed like a genuine kind of guy. On the other hand, I wondered why he and his partner had come here so early. I tried to imagine what my dad would say in this situation. I imagined he would be polite, and cooperative, but reserved.

“When you play now, does Mr. Kapoor give you the cash or chips you use to gamble with?"

“Uh …"

“Alex," Grieves said. He leaned forward in his chair slightly. “I’m sorry this is making you uncomfortable. I want to try to reassure you. We have reason to believe Mr. Kapoor is breaking many laws. That could make you an accessory. Or it could make you part of the conspiracy. We’re not sure. I’m obliged to read you your rights if you feel you’re going to compromise yourself. I haven’t done that, until now, because we’re not accusing you of anything. Would you like me to read you your rights?"

When I didn’t say anything, he sighed, and then Hernandez began the Miranda speech. When he finished, none of us said anything, until, quietly, I had to ask. “So does this mean, uh, that you’re going to arrest me?"

“No, Alex. It’s to protect you, to let you know that you don’t have to answer our questions. Obviously we’d prefer it if you did."

“I know we’re not doing anything illegal by gambling."

“How do you know that, Alex?"

“It’s not illegal to count cards."

“No, it’s not, Alex."

There was something I wasn’t getting. “So …"

Grieves sat back in his chair again. “Look, Alex, I’ll cut to the chase. We think Arun, and maybe the whole team you work with – maybe you – are laundering money for an arms syndicate."

“What?" Actually, halfway through his sentence I had begun to piece together where he and Hernandez were coming from. Jesus.

“Uh. Can I see your ID’s again?" I didn’t have any way of verifying them, but I needed time to get my head together. Somehow, as soon as Grieves said it, it all made sense. Arun flashing the money around. We made money, but we didn’t make that much money. We had our losses from time to time. But we always seemed to be up. Always.

They showed me their IDs again.

I thought of my words to Mom and Dad, only three days earlier, when I had promised them I wasn’t breaking any laws. I had thought, then, that I had reached the bottom of the canyon, that my life couldn’t be much more fucked up, that I’d done about as thorough a job of ruining a good education and a promising start on life as possible. I’d thought, that afternoon with them, over the kitchen table, a great weight lifted off my shoulders. Now, what? I was going to have to tell them their youngest child was an idiot and a criminal. Could this get any worse? I had thought not, but what does a shmuck know?

I suddenly thought to myself: this is authentic. This is real. Be careful what you wish for.

I looked at the picture of Hernandez on his ID. It matched the way he looked right then exactly, almost as though someone had just snapped the picture a few moments earlier. “You don’t look like a Hernandez," I ventured.

“You don’t look like a Jones," he replied.

I nodded. “Point taken."

“Or an Alexander," he added. I noticed Grieves give him a sharp look.

“That’s a complicated story," I said. I rubbed my temple. I had a headache. I could hear my Dad’s voice in my head, telling me to be cooperative, but careful. I wondered whether I should phone him, or phone a lawyer.

“Alex, we’d like to talk to you about cooperating with us."

“Would you guys mind if I made a phone call?" I asked. “I’m allowed to do that, right?"

Grieves looked disappointed, but he nodded. I got up and went to my purse. Inside I had Tom’s number. Apart from the team’s lawyers, and my Harvard classmate Dave Mandel, who had been in Elliot with Pete and me and was a jackass, Tom was the only lawyer I knew. I picked up the handset, and dialed.

I had to bother Tom’s assistant to get through immediately. “Alex, what’s up? Megan said it was urgent."

“It is. Uh, Tom, can I ask for your professional help?"

“Any time, kid. What’s the problem?" He sounded lighthearted. He told me later he thought I was calling about unpaid traffic fines or something similarly lightweight.

“I’ve got two IRS agents in my living room. They want to ask me some questions about the stuff I do in Vegas. They just read me my Miranda rights."

His lighthearted tone fell away immediately. “Get one of them on the phone, right now. Wait! Before you give them the phone. This is very important. You are not to utter another word to them, except maybe to say goodbye. Nothing. Are we clear?"

“Yes." Now I was even more worried. Had I said too much already?

“Good. Now, I’m going to try to set up a meeting for later today, or tomorrow, with you, and then a meeting with us and them. You okay with that?"

“Yes."

“Good. Now remember, don’t say anything. And put the guy who seems most senior on the line."

“Thanks Tom."

I motioned to Grieves that Tom wanted to speak to him. He came across the room and I handed him the phone, then made myself busy clearing the coffee cups back into the kitchen. I could hear Grieves’s part of the conversation, and he seemed even-tempered.

I went back into the living room and both agents were standing. “Thank you for your time, Alex," Grieves said. “And the coffee. Mr Murphy has arranged a meeting for all of us at 4.00pm today."

“Yes," I said.

“Thank you for your cooperation."

I was going to say, “I’m not cooperating yet," but thought better of it. Instead I said, “I’ll show you out."

 

~o~O~o~
 

For the meeting in Tom’s office I dressed in a red silk knit sweater underneath a black Gucci leather coat, with my usual black jeans and boots. I wanted to look respectable but not guilty, and dressing up too much seemed to me like it would send out a guilty signal.

Tom’s firm wasn’t all that big. It only occupied one floor of the building. I announced myself at the reception desk, and within a few moments a woman came to greet me. She was only a few years older than me, but she had an air of no-nonsense authority. “Hello, Alex,” she said. “May I call you Alex? I’m Megan Burke, Tom’s assistant. Please come right this way."

I was impressed. I hadn’t had a chance to say anything like “no” when she asked whether she could call me ‘Alex’. Not that I would have minded, but I could tell she had a way with people. The fact that Tom was smart enough to hire someone like this gave me hope he was smart enough to help me out. I already knew Tom was a nice guy. I just didn’t know how good a lawyer he was.

As it turned out, Megan didn’t lead me directly to Tom’s office. Instead she took me to an office with “David Robicheaux” on the door. I had no idea who David Robicheaux was, but I followed Megan’s gesture to enter, and sat down in the chair indicated, which faced a couple of others and had a pretty good view of the skyline out to the river. In a matter of moments Tom and another guy arrived at the door. The other guy was older, maybe almost fifty, with silver hair and good grooming. He exuded confidence.

They took the seats opposite me, and both of them took out pens and picked up the yellow notepads that had been placed on the small table between us.

“Hi Alex," Tom said. “Thanks for coming down on such short notice. This is Dave Robicheaux, one of the senior partners. I’ve asked him to sit in on this until we have a better idea of the scope of what we’re doing. As you know, I have a lot of experience with tax law, but Dave is our resident expert on the criminal codes. Hopefully everything will be straightforward, but you never can tell. Coffee?"

I declined the coffee, but both Tom and Robicheaux asked for one, and Megan went off to organize it.

“Well, thank you for seeing me at such short notice," I said. “I appreciate it, Tom. I really wasn’t sure where else to go."

“I’m sure your team has a lawyer," Tom said.

“I wasn’t sure that was the best place to start," I said.

“Smart girl," Dave Robicheaux said. He had a pleasant, polished voice, which once might have had a trace of a southern twang to it but was now deep and smooth enough for him to make a living doing television voiceovers if ever he tired of the law. “First things first," he said, and he slid a document toward me. “If you’d like to sign that, you’ll officially be a client of Sheehan, O’Halloran and Robicheaux, and everything you say to us now will be bound by professional privilege."

I didn’t bother reading it. I looked at Tom and knew I could trust him, so I signed and pushed it back to Robicheaux.

“Now, Tom has briefed me a little on what it is you’ve been doing in Vegas, and I’d like to learn more about that, but before we get into that, could you tell me, as clearly as you can, exactly what the IRS said to you this morning, and what you said to them?"

The coffees arrived, brought by a younger woman, and once she had left the room I ran through the discussion I had had with Grieves and Hernandez. I’ve always had a good memory, and I think I got it pretty close. I told the whole thing in chronological order to try to remember exactly what had been said. I noticed Tom and Robicheaux exchange glances when I mentioned that Grieves had said "That could make you an accessory. Or it could make you part of the conspiracy. We’re not sure," and then again when I mentioned the part about our scheme being a front for money laundering.

Once I’d finished, Robicheaux leant forward, putting his legal pad back on the table.

“Do you guys win all the time?"

“Not all the time. But yeah, most of the time. Almost all the time. I can’t think of a time we’ve lost really big, but we win big pretty regularly."

“So this could be a fishing expedition by Treasury," Dave said.

“Really?” I said hopefully. “Um … except there are a few problems." I outlined the fact that we regularly used fake IDs when we played, and then I went into the whole saga with Whitwell. “And, um, there’s one more thing," I said, “which might or might not be big. I didn’t file a return for last year yet."

“Don’t worry about the return, that’s easily fixed and Tom can definitely sort that for you. We’ll get someone on to setting that right straight away. And there’s no reason the IRS should be interested in this crowd Whitwell.

“Regardless of all that, yes, this could be a fishing expedition," Robicheaux said. “Having said that, I don’t know that it is. They’ve obviously done some research on your team. That indicates a high level of interest. If they were just interested in the tax implications, they probably wouldn’t have come to see you. Do you know which division of the IRS they were from?"

“I think it was called Finsen or something," I said.

“FinCEN. The Financial Crimes Enforcement Network. I’ve got someone looking into how they operate," Tom said.

“We’ll know soon enough this afternoon when they come in," said Robicheaux. “We’ve got an hour until then. Alex, can you tell me, as succinctly as possible, what you remember about how you came to be involved in the team, and how your finances as a team work?

I tried to tell as much of the story of how I joined the team, where we’d played, and how the scheme worked, as I could. Some parts I left out, like padding my butt with hundred dollar bills. They just seemed too embarrassing. And a big part I left out, that I should have included, was being the treasurer for the group. I don’t know why I didn't mention that. But I didn't. It was just a detail that got swept aside in the flow of the story as I told it. I swear it wasn't a deliberate omission.

“This Arun, what’s he like?"

“I can’t say I like him. But he’s pretty smart. He runs the team well."

“Why don’t you like him?"

“We had some unpleasantness at college."

“Does he like you?"

“Not much. I think he tolerates me."

“And yet he asked you to join his team?"

“Yeah," I said. “I didn’t really understand it at the time, but I’m pretty good at counting."

“Alex," Robicheaux said. “There are lots of people who could be trained to count like that. Why would he choose you?"

“I don’t know," I said. In my zeal to spend more time with Alice I’d put a lot of those questions out of my mind.

Tom looked at his watch. It was almost time for our meeting with the Treasury Agents. Dave Robicheaux had been doing most of the talking, but now he took over again.

“Hope everything is alright, hope everything is alright," I sang softly to myself as we walked to the door. I don’t think Tom or Dave would have understood the reference even if they’d heard.

 

~o~O~o~
 

Megan announced that Grieves and Hernandez had arrived and we all trooped in to a conference room. Once again Tom had warned me not to say anything at all in the meeting without clearing it with him or Dave Robicheaux first. As Tom said, the purpose of the meeting, from our point of view, was to get as much information from the IRS as we could before we even explored the notion of cooperating. Whether or not I would cooperate would depend on a combination of factors: how much they had on me; how serious Arun’s crimes were, if there were any crimes; how seriously I was implicated in those; and whether there was any advantage to collaborating, as opposed to defending myself from all charges. If there were to be charges. The big unknown, at the start of the meeting, was whether the IRS actually had anything substantial, or whether it was, as Dave Robicheaux had suggested, a fishing expedition.

We dispensed with the fishing expedition theory right away. After the preliminary introductions, Grieves drew two manila folders from his briefcase. From the thinner of the two, he pulled an envelope, and from the envelope he produced a series of black and white photographs. The photographs were a series of shots of Arun meeting various men I didn’t know in cafes and restaurants and parks. They had obviously been taken without Arun’s knowledge. Each photograph was one of a series of five or six, taken in succession, and each showed clearly the exchange of matching bags between Arun and the other man. The identities of the various men changed, but one of them I recognized straight away as the guy I’d seen Arun in the car with, when I was meeting Pete at the Warren Tavern.

The constant in all the photos was the bags that were exchanged. Black or gray Nike or Adidas branded sports bags. And, of course, the other constant was Arun.

“Each of these was taken a month or so apart over the past six months," Grieves told Robicheaux. “We don’t know the identities of all the other men in the photographs, but three of them are known to be associated with a Russian organized crime ring operating out of Brighton, New York.

He put another photograph on the table. In that one Arun was sitting alone, with his Nike bag. “In this case we arrested the contact on a pretext – the idiot had run a red light and was driving a car registered to a dead woman. So he never showed for the meeting. You can see the look on Mr. Kapoor’s face. The man we arrested was carrying half a million in cash, which he claimed to have won at a casino a few nights earlier."

Hernandez chuckled.

Then Grieves tabled another series of shots. Each of them showed various members of our team with Arun. Some of them showed several of us together. Quite a few of them showed me taking bags from Arun, or giving them to him. One showed Arun handing me a large Louis Vuitton carry-on bag. I remembered the occasion; it was just before the Fourth of July trip, when he’d given me $250,000 to transport for the team.

Grieves’s presentation lasted about forty minutes. He tabled documents that indicated wire transfers, and more photographs of meetings, and copies of bank statements that showed millions coming in and out of Arun’s hands. He finished by showing series of photographs of dead bodies, all of people around my age. “All sometime associates of Mr. Kapoor and his Russian friends," he said sadly.

I didn’t recognize any of the people in the photographs, and I was about to protest, but two things stopped me. The first was Tom’s absolute prohibition about speaking without discussing it with him first. The second was the other, earlier photographs, which showed Arun receiving money. I think I said once that Tom could have passed for a mobster on television, because he had that look. Looking at the men in the photographs that Grieves had tabled I could tell there was a world of difference between looking like an actor who played a mobster, like Tom did, and looking like an actual mobster. The guys in the photographs looked like they had already sold their grandmothers and were working on selling their children. The ugliness in each of them somehow seemed to come through each Tri-X print.

At the end of the presentation Dave Robicheaux thanked Grieves and Hernandez for their time, and said he’d have to consult with me. He asked whether or not we could have a few days to come back to them on our response to their request for cooperation. Grieves, relaxed and even-tempered as ever, said we could take until the following Monday. What was important to the IRS was building a strong case. He reminded us that the Criminal Investigation Division of the IRS had a 90% conviction rate, the highest of any law enforcement agency, and that they were committed to building a strong case here too, with or without me. “I hope, Alex," he said, addressing me instead of Robicheaux or Tom, “that it will be with you." He turned to address my lawyers. “Obviously if we can obtain Alex’s cooperation there will be a generous deal."

After Grieves and Hernandez left Dave Robicheaux and Tom called for more coffee, and I got some water.

“What do you think?" I asked, after the coffee order had been taken.

“They’re not fishing," Robicheaux said.

“Alex," Tom asked, "how much do you think you personally earned from blackjack in the last 18 months? You personally, I mean, not the entire team. Less expenses."

I had to think about it, but I had a rough idea from having acted as treasurer, and a very good idea from the amounts I had invested in stocks, or taped to the back of the refrigerator, or hidden in various other places, including a safety deposit box I’d opened in Alexandra Long’s name a few months earlier.

“About $2.7 million." I said. “Give or take."

“And there are 14 of you active on the team?"

“Yes."

“Have you ever met any of the men in those photographs you saw, where Mr. Kapoor was exchanging bags?”

“No, of course not."

“But those photographs of you taking bags, and giving bags, to Mr. Kapoor, are genuine."

“Yes. I remember most of those occasions. I couldn’t swear to all of them. But I probably have some records. I keep notes of the transactions."

“You keep notes? That could be useful," Robicheaux said.

Alex," Tom said, “would you mind if we left you alone for five minutes?"

“No problem," I said. “Would you mind if I called a friend?"

“Not a friend from the team?"

“No, my roommate."

“Sure. Sorry, just wanted to make sure."

I called Pete, but my message went through to voicemail. I was disappointed. I wanted to hear a friendly voice. I texted him instead. “Need to talk. Call when U can."

Tom and Robicheaux came back in after only a few moments. They looked grave.

Tom was the one who gave me the news. Maybe they’d discussed it and thought it sounded better coming from him.

“Alex, we’d like to review the Government's case a bit further before we decide anything. But I thought we should prepare you for the idea that it might be best to turn State’s witness. If you choose not to, it is of course your prerogative. And until we’ve seen all the evidence we’ll withhold a formal recommendation. But what they just presented then was pretty compelling, If it all checks out, then this is very serious."

But then it was Dave Robicheaux who delivered the words I had more or less known were going to come, but hadn’t wanted to think about. “Alex, I won’t say there’s not a way out of this, because we’ve really only been in this case for a few hours. But based on what you’ve told us, and what they’ve just showed us, I think cutting some kind of deal might be worth exploring. It’s your call, of course. But if you’re okay with it, after we’ve done some more work on this we’ll explore what they might have in mind."

“The alternative?"

“The alternative is not very good," he said. I believed him.

 

~o~O~o~
 

I think Tom was taken aback at my first request after the meeting. I had thought about it on the way home, and I phoned him as soon as I stopped the car outside my apartment. “Tom. I need a favor."

“What can I do, Alex?” Tom said. “You thought about what Dave said?"

“Yes, but this isn’t about that. Well, it is, a little bit, but …"

“What?"

“Well … it probably seems like a strange time to be asking, in the middle of all this …"

“What?" Tom seemed concerned.

“I’d like to change my name."

“To what?"

“To Alexandra."

“Oh.” He seemed relieved. “Well, that makes sense."

“You thought I was going to call myself Daisy Duke and skip the country?" I said.

“No. I know you’re not that silly. Can I ask, why now?"

“Personal reasons, Tom. There’s someone I care about. I think it will be important for him."

“He knows about you?"

“He does. I’m not trying to deceive him. I was worried, though — with the investigation, and everything."

“Well, it’s a simple thing to do. Takes a couple of weeks, but it’s not complicated. And we'll just tell the IRS about it tomorrow." He laughed. “I suspect, from what you told me about Agent Hernandez, they might actually find you a little easier to deal with."

“Good. Can you make it happen for me?"

“Sure. Any second names, anything like that?"

“Yukiko is my grandmother’s name, so that would be good to replace Grandpa’s," I said. I had thought it through.

“Consider it done," Tom said. “I’ll have the paperwork for you tomorrow."

 

~o~O~o~
 

The following week Pete and I went to see Juliana Hatfield at The Middle East in Cambridge. It was a good show, and we stumbled out into the night afterward, on a high from the music.

As we were walking to Pete's car he was a step ahead of me at the corner, and I watched his ass in his black jeans as he turned. I had been noticing things about men in a different way ever since I had been on estrogen. Two years earlier I would never have noticed anything except the jeans. He looked back at me and motioned for me to catch up. As I did I caught his grin, and something about it — its reinforcement of our friendship, or maybe just the genuine joy in his face — made me feel very, very emotional all of a sudden.

The emotions I was feeling were difficult for me to reconcile with my more rational brain. On the one hand I enjoyed the experience. When I was happy, I seemed much happier. When I needed to cry, I cried like I never had before. And when I felt love, it seemed to carry me on a wave, surfing in a wild scary way. Not that I knew anything about surfing back then, but it seemed to me that if there was any metaphor for powerful forces that could lift me up and throw me down it was a big Hawaiian wave.

On the other hand, I knew that no matter how much I loved Pete, we were always going to just be friends. We had too much history together for it to work any other way. And while I was becoming more truly a woman with each and every dose of estrogen I took, there was still the matter of Pete's taste in women diverging from the reality of my body. So I had to beach those feelings of love, stick them in the sand to anchor them somehow. Get myself out of the surf.

But still the wave just carried all my rationality away with it. Even though I couldn't be physically intimate with Pete, I felt very close to him emotionally. So once we were in the car, driving, I felt the need to unburden myself on him, the way I had with Susan and Tom. I told him all about the Treasury agents, and about Arun, and about the scam he was pulling.

Of course Pete was immediately concerned. It took him a few moments to process, and when he was sure had it straight he did that thing that I now recognized as the quintessential 'guy' thing: he tried to solve the problem. He was immediately turning it over in his head, analyzing all the angles, asking me questions.

“Pete," I said. “I really don’t know how it’s all going to play out. I haven't worked all that out yet. I don’t think my lawyers have worked it all out yet. I haven't even worked out what the Government wants, exactly. So I can’t answer a lot of your questions."

Unable to solve my problems, Pete became focused on the cause of them: Arun. “I want to whack that fucker upside the head."

“I don’t think …" I began. “Pete, you have to promise me you won’t say anything about this to anyone. Please?"

He took some convincing, but eventually I talked him around to letting things play out, but only by promising to keep him informed, and by telling him that if there was a way he could help, I would let him know immediately.

We arrived back at our place in Somerville. I felt the need to change the subject before we got into the house, just in case Talia was home, and still up.

“So hey, Pete, remember that false name problem with your trip to Virginia?" I said, as we were getting out of the car.

“Yeah."

“Well, it’s not a false name any more."

“You …"

“I made it serious, yes."

“You made a commitment, Alex."

“I did."

“I'm proud of you," he said, as he ushered me through our front door. It was a final lovely gentlemanly gesture for the evening, and my emotions came off the beach and rose on a wave again as I said goodnight and went to bed, alone.

 

~o~O~o~
 

Next morning, before he headed off to work, Pete knocked on my bedroom door. After I'd roused myself sufficiently to tell him to come in, he stuck his head around the corner of the door.

“Hey, Pete."

“Hey yourself. You okay?"

“Yeah. Just waking up. What's up?"

“So, Ms. Alexandra Jones. Now that you're all legal and all, you think maybe you would do that thing for me?"

“That thing?"

“Yeah, the come to dinner with my investors thing."

“You still haven't done that?"

“We put it off for a while."

“Um. If you want. You're sure you want to take me?"

“I'm sure," Pete said.

“Not Debra?"

“Not Debra, no," he said, smiling. “I trust you more than anyone else, and I need someone who isn’t going to put their interests ahead of mine."

“Uh. Okay, I guess. You sure?"

“That's great. Alright. Next week okay?"

He was going to call Jeff, his contact at Command Dynamics, to set it up for early the following week. We were going to drive down with Vassily and Yana.

“Road Trip!" Pete grinned.

 

~o~O~o~
 

The Command Dynamics office is just inside the Beltway, and by just inside I mean a couple of hundred yards inside. It’s a bland black glass tower with a three story concrete building with recessed windows alongside, that looks as though it had been designed to take a nuclear blast. Maybe it had been.

They had stuck us in a nearby Marriott, which was nothing to write home about, especially after some of the treatment I’d had in Vegas, but it was clean and functional. Yana and I decided to try to go find a local mall to buy some better shampoo than the hotel had provided (Yana was very particular about shampoo) so we dropped the guys at the main gate at Command Dynamics and took Vassily and Yana’s Cherokee to some exurban shopfest that looked the same as every other mall I’d ever seen on the East Coast.

Yana was fun to shop with: much more fun than Alice, or even Lucy. She spent almost nothing, but she tried on almost everything, and every bra, every dress, every jacket prompted a round of commentary from her that was both educational and caustic. She was a gorgeous looking woman, with a model's figure, but even she found it difficult to find clothes that fit her well, and she swore in Russian whenever anything displeased her.

I found listening to gentle swearing in Russian oddly comforting.

Around 6.30pm, as promised, we met the guys back at the hotel to get ready for the dinner.

“How’d it go?" I said later to Pete when we were alone in our room together. I was transferring a lipstick and my cellphone from the larger purse I'd used during the day to an evening bag I'd bought a few weeks earlier. Pete was in the bathroom. “You sold your soul already?"

“Only haggling over the price of it," Pete said, as he came out of the bathroom, smiling. “I think they understand it might have a few miles on it.

“Actually," he was suddenly much more serious, “I think this trip is an attempt to re-negotiate. They're upset we didn't close out that patent. I think they want a better strike price on some options. They'll probably want to talk about it some more over dinner. Sorry."

It had been a little while since I had seen him without a shirt on. He looked good, and it was hard to concentrate on what he was saying. After what I had thought when we had been to see Juliana Hatfield, and the reaction I had seeing him shirtless, I was now convinced that the hormones were doing more to me than just adding to the size of my butt.

I looked away, then gathered my clothes from the closet and took over the bathroom without looking at him again. It was clear to me that what Susan had described as a crush was much, much more than that, but the more I thought about it the more I knew that nothing good was going to come of this. Pete was the kind of guy who went out with confident beauties, all sprung from the pages of Ralph Lauren advertisements, and although they all seemed to give him eternal grief I didn't think there was any hope of competing against the tall, athletic women I knew he found most desirable.

I felt like a fake girl again, all of a sudden. As I got out of the shower, the clothes I had chosen to wear suddenly seemed ridiculous. Who in their right mind would go to a dinner with American security contractors looking so – foreign?

But it was all I had brought with me. I’d bought it two days earlier, thinking it was exotic, and in the back of my mind thinking it would work in some mysterious way with Pete. I don’t know why I’d thought that, after our previous disaster in bed, but there was obviously some remote part of my brain that filtered everything through what I imagined his perceptions were. It suited me. It even made me look more shapely.

I put my underwear on, and assessed myself in the mirror. I had put on a little weight since taking the hormones. Okay. A lot of weight. My hips and butt were, let’s face it, almost double their previous size. Well, maybe not double, but they were much, much larger, and the effect was accentuated by the fact that my waist had shrunk. I didn’t mind the look. I kind of liked it. I would have liked it more if I lost a few pounds, but I knew that’s exactly what Lucy would have said, too.

Behind me, in the mirror, I had hung the white silk á¡o dá i I had bought. Whatever creases it had had were easing in the steam from the shower, as I had planned. It didn’t help. Why had I thought it was such a good idea to accentuate my foreign roots? These guys we were meeting, this company – they had manufactured a lot of the weapons that had been used to bomb South East Asia into not-quite-submission. Surely the fact they hadn’t succeeded would be a sore point? If I had wanted to go ethnic, I should have worn a kimono. Except I really didn’t like kimonos – they were too constricting.

What was I thinking in wearing this? I just wanted to make it easier for Pete. He’d invited me to make it easier for him to bond with these aged executives. And here I was, rubbing his new business partners’ noses in their corporate history by wearing the clothes of a culture that didn’t even have a connection to me … I should have worn J Crew or something equally bland.

I put my hair up and secured it with a lacquered clip at the back. Then I did my makeup in a minimalist style. At the end of the exercise I was still full of regrets. My insecurity was my worst enemy.

Coming out of the bathroom, I saw Pete have the opposite reaction to my own. He smiled, broadly. “You look beautiful, Alex."

“Um … Thanks, I guess. You don’t think it’s too much? Too foreign?"

“I think you look perfect," he said. Well, score one for Pete making me feel better about myself.

“Thank you. I should have you say that more often."

“I wouldn't want you to get a big head," he said, handing me my purse from where I had put it on the bed. “Anyway, you don’t believe me. Fact is, Alex, you are so much a woman. And feminine self esteem is a mystery to me."

We met Vassily and Yana in the lobby and sat for a few moments making small talk. Yana was wearing a simple black dress with long sleeves, a bateau neckline, and a short hemline that showed off her fantastically long legs. I had to quash my jealousy and maintain a smile. It wasn't hard: she was a very friendly, casual woman. On the few occasions I had spent time with her it had been clear that she knew she was good looking, and used to dismissing the unwanted attentions of men. I admired her poise, and I enjoyed her very droll sense of humor. She teased Vassily constantly, but in a playful, friendly way.

A car arrived for us to take us to the restaurant. The driver had a haircut that suggested he was not long out of the military.

The restaurant was about two or three miles from our hotel. From the outside it didn't look like much, but as we entered I realized one whole side of it opened onto a small lake. The floor was terraced so the tables on the inside looked over the ones closest to the windows, and everyone had a beautiful view. Outside, on the lake, there were small lanterns, maybe candles inside some paper shells, floating on the lake. There was a four-piece acoustic band playing soft jazz at one end of the room.

We were led to the bar, where Jeff Allen and Tom Broadbridge, Pete and Vassily's investors, were already seated with their wives. I watched one of the women, I think Jeff's wife, give me an unsubtle once-over as we approached. If she saw anything unusual in me she didn't show it.

Dinner progressed well enough. We were led to our table. I let Pete order for me. It wasn't an anti-feminist thing: he knew my tastes, and since the older men ordered for their wives it seemed fair enough to let Pete do the same for me.

During the course of the dinner I noticed the guys from Command Dynamics knocking back the booze. I think they'd been drinking martinis before we had arrived, and now most of the table collectively polished off the better part of four bottles of wine. Yana and I were both mostly just drinking Perrier, and Pete didn't drink much, so our hosts must have been socking it away.

During the meal Tom Broadbridge had tried to engage me in conversation a few times. In an effort to avoid saying too much about myself I used the tried and true technique of getting him to talk about himself, which — in my experience — men at a certain level in corporate management just love to do. He talked to me almost incessantly after that, and I began to get dark looks from his wife, Carol. I attempted to engage her in conversation, too, but it was an uphill battle.

While I couldn't hear what Pete and Vassily were discussing with Jeff further down the table, I did glean some useful things from Tom. Pete had been right about their desire to lower the bid price. Command Dynamics was still making a bid. But that missed patent had shaved perhaps 20% off their offer price.

Between main course and dessert Tom and Jeff led their wives to the small dance floor and shuffled around a few times. After the first song I knew that neither Vassily nor Pete would make a move to follow suit, so I leaned across the empty chairs Tom and Jeff's wife had been in and hissed at Pete “I think you're supposed to do this, too." I think it took Pete a moment to work out what 'this' was, but eventually he stood up and then offered me his hand to lead me to the floor. Vassily and Yana followed us.

While he might have been slightly reluctant, Pete was an adequate dancer. We moved around the floor gently, Pete guiding me with subtle pressure from his hand at my waist from time to time. When a very slow song came on I rested my head against his shoulder. The top of my head only just came up to his shoulder blades, even with my 3 inch heels.

I decided I liked dancing. I was disappointed when we returned to the table for dessert and coffee.

Back at the hotel that night we were both completely exhausted, and fell into bed almost as soon as we were in the room. I appreciated looking at Pete's chest as he took off his shirt again, and I noticed him stealing glances at me as I undressed, too. But both of us were too tired to even think about acting on anything. Part of me regretted that, but I knew I'd regret it more if we did something I later realized was silly.

I woke up spooned against Pete. This time I wasn't wearing a bra, and so his hand, which was cupping my breast, was cupping my actual breast, not some artificial silicone pad. There wasn't a lot to cup, but from my side of the arrangement it felt good. I lay still, enjoying his body enveloping mine and wanting to let him sleep so it could continue.

Eventually the Perrier from the night before caught up with me, though, and I had to extricate myself from his grasp to go pee. As I got up he stirred and rolled over.

Once in the bathroom I decided to shower and wash my hair, using some of the new shampoo and conditioner Yana had made me buy the day before. While I pined for the touch of Pete's hand on my breast again, I also knew that getting myself out of that particular position was the smart thing to do.

By the time I came out of the bathroom in my yakuta Pete was awake. I looked at him to try to determine whether or not he was disappointed that I wasn't still in the bed with him, but if was he didn't show it.

That day we had a lunch to attend at another Command Dynamics executive's home. It was a lovely old Georgian house, set among sweetgums and linden trees well inside the beltway. For this occasion I had worn a simple blue skirt with a large white scrawly pattern, and a white silk cardigan over a white cotton top. It wasn't a sophisticated look, but it seemed appropriate. I left my hair down.

The lunch was casual, and I mostly stuck around Pete so I wouldn't have to socialize too much with the wives of the Command Dynamics execs. There were apparently no female Command Dynamics executives, or if there were they didn't get invited to those kinds of events.

Eventually, after we'd all snacked at the buffet and the maid had begun to clear, the men went out to the patio and all the women were evidently expected to retire to the living room for coffee. It was so utterly 1950s it was all I could do not to laugh, and as I looked across at Yana I could tell she was having the same problem. We exchanged glances and nodded at one another, then we dutifully followed the hostess. I sat and hoped nobody asked me anything too difficult.

As it happened Yana and I were the focus of conversation, since we were the unknowns in what was obviously a tight knit group of wives. After they each discussed one another's children, Mrs. Broadbridge turned to me and asked me, courteously, what I thought of what I had seen in the area. I mentioned that Yana and I had gone shopping and that was evidently the correct thing to say, because all the women chimed in with advice on local stores, and that segued to things they had recently bought, and I was able to zone out slightly. I was wondering what would have happened if I had been able to stay in the bed with Pete that morning.

I was interrupted from my reverie by the hostess talking to someone over my shoulder, at the living room door. “What can we do for you, Richard?"

“I was hoping to have a brief word with Miss Jones," he said.

“Me?" I stood up and followed him into the hallway. He led me from there to the den, a very dark room that looked like it had been cloned from an Architectural Digest spread on masculine retreats. There was one of those green glass lamps on the table that lawyers used to use in the 19th century. It was the only illumination in the room.

“Thanks for giving me a few moments, Miss Jones. Can I call you Alex?"

“Sure, um, Richard?"

He nodded. “Richard Deuchar. Thanks. I won’t keep you long. I'm the head of corporate security for Command Dynamics."

“Uh huh."

“It’s my job to do background checks on companies we acquire, and on their executives, and as part of that --"

“I've been expecting this," I said.

This seemed to throw him off his stride.

“You were expecting what?"

“You to have this discussion with me. I have an unusual past, Mr Deuchar."

“Ah, well, it’s not that unusual, to tell you the truth."

“It’s not?"

“No. I have a friend from my service days, did what you did."

“Oh."

“No, that's not what I wanted to discuss with you. What I wanted to talk to you about is your relationship with a Mr. Kapoor."

“Really?"

“Yes, really."

“There are a lot of people asking me that question recently."

“I know," Deuchar said. “You weren't on our radar, really, until a few weeks ago, and then you popped up on Treasury's screens, and then …"

“It sounds like you already know quite a lot."

“I suppose my question to you, Alex, is whether I have anything to worry about?"

“I have no stock in Pete's company."

“But you have stock in Pete."

“I'm not sure about that."

“Really?"

“Is my love life really your business?"

“It is if it’s a distraction that might impact upon the performance of a Command Dynamics executive."

“I would never let that happen."

“It’s not your intentions toward Mr. Johanssen I'm concerned about."

“Well." Something he had said earlier percolated into my consciousness. “The only problem I can see, really is … You managed to learn about my deal with the Treasury Department? How?"

“We have connections, Alex. it’s our business."

“But if you can find that information out, so can other people."

“I suppose it’s theoretically possible," he said. “However unlikely. I don’t know the details of your discussions with Treasury. I didn't know you 'had a deal' with them until you just confirmed it then."

“Ah."

“Yes, ah. So you have a deal. That reassures me."

“It doesn't reassure me."

“I didn't mean to alarm you. Rest assured, Alex, we have levels of access to information that nobody outside the NSA knows about."

Jesus, only the day before I had been obsessing about whether or not wearing an á¡o dá i was appropriate. Obviously, I had much bigger problems.

“I don’t know whether that's supposed to reassure me, or not," I said.

He made a half-shrug with his hands without moving his shoulders. “My concern, Alex, is whether anything that's happening with you will impact on Peter Johannsen."

“You think I should break up with Pete?" I was about to say that I thought such a comment was wildly offensive, but he quickly corrected himself.

“I'm not saying that --"

“I don’t even know if we're a couple. It’s, um, complicated."

“If you care about him, I would suggest that you figure out a way to keep your distance."

“What happens if I don’t?"

“I can’t stop you, or him, from being with one another. But I can tell you it will hurt his future with this company."

There didn't seem to be anything more to say. I stood and he guided me to the door. “You are a beautiful young woman, Miss Jones," Deuchar said. “I can see why Mr. Johanssen would be interested in you. Any man would be."

Man, that was creepy. I left the office and went back to sit with the ladies as fast as I could.

 

~o~O~o~
 

We drove back with Vassily and Yana and it was very late by the time we arrive in Boston, so I went straight to bed, alone, with Deuchar's words bouncing around my brain.

I didn't get a chance to talk to Pete before I made another trip to Vegas with Arun's team on the Friday. Pete was incredibly busy at work, and I texted him a few times but we kept missing each other's calls. It wasn't actually a conversation I wanted to have over the phone. For one thing I wasn't sure that my phone wouldn't be tapped by the Feds, or even Command Dynamics, and for another I felt like I needed to have some time to work up to telling him I was damaging his business prospects just associating with him. It’s not an easy thing to just blurt out.

Travelling to Vegas was a completely routine experience now, except I was still nervous around Arun and we had two new members of the team, brought on to make up for Ziyen’s departure, and Dan’s death: Sally Zhu, a young Chinese girl who none of the rest of us knew, and a new security assist, Brian Ko, who Bob had recommended. We had tried them out with an evening at the Mohegan Sun. The trip there had been bittersweet for me – it was amusing to be an old hand on the team and observe the wide-eyed experience the new recruits had that night, but it also made me sad. Sad to realize that Dan and Henry weren’t there to share the initiation.

I made Sally take part of my share of the stake money taped to her body on the trip to Vegas. Under the influence of the hormones my ass had started to get considerably larger, and I could no longer accommodate the extra padding I used to put there. I was quite pleased about the physical changes – I was starting to feel less inadequate – and it was a much more comfortable sitting down for the flight.

The actual gambling at Vegas went smoothly. We played for most of Saturday at the Mirage, at Ceasars, and at Rio. They were all places with high table limits, so we Wizards were able to rock through some big hands very quickly. I could see Sally, who was smurfing, was intrigued by my behavior, and especially by my transformation into the spoiled Japanese princess that I played at the Mirage, bad English and all.

We scored big, and wrapped early, but once back at the MGM Grand I couldn’t sleep for some reason. Maybe it was the adrenaline from the big win earlier in the night. I tossed and turned a few times, then realized I wasn’t going to be able to go to sleep, so I got dressed again and went downstairs. I had intended to step outside, onto the strip, but instead I stopped at one of the tables.

We didn’t play the Casino we slept in. It was one of our rules – no playing where you slept. On the other hand, I felt like I was off duty. I sat down at one of the low stakes blackjack tables, with a $25 minimum, and bought $200 worth of chips.

Straight off I lost the first four hands, as the dealer kept getting 20 or better. A guy sat down two seats to my left, and asked head. “This a good table?"

“Not really. I think he's got it in for me," I said, indicating the dealer and looking him over at the guy who had sat down. He was maybe four or five years older than me, in very good physical shape, and good looking in a slightly heavy Ben Affleck kind of way.

We both lost the next two hands. “I warned you," I said.

“I'm not staying unless we both win the next hand," he said.

And we did. “Congratulations," he said to me. “You’ve redeemed yourself."

“Thanks, I think. I needed redemption?"

“Not really," he said. “That sounds like I'm evangelical or something, doesn't it?"

I shrugged.

“Where are you from?" he asked.

“Boston,” I said. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have talked all that much at the table, but I wasn’t working. “You?"

“Here."

“You’re actually from Vegas? Or you live here?"

“Yes."

“Which is it?"

“Both. Born and raised." He doubled down on two nines. The dealer was showing a 3.

“I didn’t think anyone was actually from Vegas," I said. I looked over at the dealer’s nametag. It said: 'Sergio, Cuba'. “What do you think, Sergio?"

Sergio shrugged as he dealt two face cards on the nines. Mr Two-seats-away smiled.

“Gotta be some of us. Most people can’t stand the heat here without air conditioning." He shrugged. “I guess heat isn’t something that bothers me."

“I don’t mind the heat either," I said. “I prefer it to snow."

“I wouldn’t mind a bit of snow," he said.

We played a few more hands. The dealer’s luck had changed and he busted out three hands in a row. My playing companion hit blackjack on a hundred dollar bet, and sat back, relaxed and smiling. I knew he was looking at me from time to time, measuring me up. I pretended I didn’t notice. In two or three more hands I figured I would go back upstairs to bed.

But for some reason – could it be dumb luck, after this many hands dealt to me? – I kept on winning. I wasn’t counting – what was the point, without our team system? The cards just came, and I played, and I won. And I didn’t go to bed. I stayed up. We got to talking, across the table. I was aware of how Sergio took this, he must have seen almost literally a thousand Vegas hookups, but my playing companion, who eventually introduced himself as Will, was a nice guy. A genuinely nice guy. He didn’t even check out my very modest rack. Or if he did, I didn’t notice. He was that good. In an odd way, Will reminded me of Pete – he had that confidence, like he’d stepped out of an advertisement. In another way, he wasn’t anything like Pete. I didn’t know him, didn’t feel the same ease I did with Pete. He was interesting, in a new way.

We chatted, over the cards, about the kinds of inconsequential things you chat at over cards, except that Will didn’t fall back, after that first comment about the quality of the table, into the most annoying habit Blackjack newbies have, which is talking about the actual cards, or what the dealer has, or anything as banal as that. We talked about Vegas, about the way it was changing. “I don’t really notice that much," I said. “I only come here now and again." My first lie.

“So," I said after about the thirtieth hand, just after Sergio had departed to be replaced by a young blonde dealer who looked like she was my age. “What’s your day job, Will?" I had never – and you have to believe me, never – asked another player this, ever. From Alice and Lucy I knew it was the surest come on line you could give a guy.

“I.T.," Will said.

“In Vegas?" It seemed somehow improbable.

“In Vegas." He said coolly. In his first reproachful gesture he said, “You know, there are other things here aside from gambling."

“Sorry."

“No offense taken," he said.

To his credit, the way to break the ice then would have been to tell me to split the Queens I had in front of me. But he didn’t. My estimation of him increased. He actually waited until about three hands later until he asked me what I did.

“I.T.," I said, smiling.

“You don’t look much like an I.T. Girl," he said.

“Should I take that as a compliment, or an insult?" I asked.

“A compliment. Sorry. That sounded incredibly sexist, didn’t it?"

I nodded.

“I work with a couple of women. They’re not as … beautiful as you."

Even when you know it’s a line, it’s usually still good to be told you’re beautiful, especially if you’ve had some doubts about your sexuality. Except for that time Deuchar did it, but that was different. I tried to keep my smile under control.

“So now I have to ask," he said, “having made a fool of myself: you’re here with someone?" I realized that when I had gotten dressed to come downstairs I hadn’t put on the rings I usually wore when I gambled. In the absence of the rings, he assumed I was single, but in my short time as a woman I had observed that guys always seemed to feel their way around the subject.

“Friends," I said. “They’re upstairs. I just couldn’t sleep."

Will smiled. Sergio had come back from his break and we went back to playing cards for a while without saying anything further, and then began talking again, about politics, of all things. Not usually a safe subject, but we kept it light, and it seemed like the two of us were mostly aligned, which surprised me. I had imagined that being from Nevada he would be conservative, but Will turned out to be more liberal than I was. I decided that I liked Will. He seemed like a very relaxed guy. He had a rich, deep voice, almost like a professional voiceover man’s, and something in the way he spoke suggested he had himself worked out.

But eventually I could feel myself getting tired. I shuffled through my four remaining chips – of course I had lost almost all my $200 stake. I picked up the chips and put all but one out on the next hand. “I’m done," I said.

“You never told me your name," Will said, perhaps hopefully. Sergio dealt the cards.

“Alex," I said, giving him my hand. He leant over to reach me, but instead of shaking it, he bent to kiss the back of my hand. I actually giggled.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Alex. I’m only sorry I didn’t meet you earlier in the night. Would you care to get a drink?"

“In the ordinary course of things, Will, I would love to. But it’s very late, and I think I’ll be able to sleep now. It’s been lovely meeting you."

“Will you be back in Vegas soon?"

“I don’t know," I lied. We would almost certainly be back within the next two weeks. I looked at my cards and waved Sergio off. He got twenty, and I flipped my cards over in disgust. I picked up my one remaining chip and flipped it between my fingers.

Will scribbled a number on the back of a coaster. “This is not exactly the classiest way to do this," he said. “But if you’re interested perhaps you could write this number on something that seemed less alcoholic or something. If you do come back, would you be interested in maybe dinner or …"

I could see Sergio was taking a keen interest, and I turned to him. “What do you think, Sergio?"

“I think you should call him," Sergio said.

“You’re the man, Sergio," I said.

“He certainly is," Will said, standing as I stood, and handing me the coaster with his number on it. “Alex, it’s been a rare pleasure.” He smiled, and something inside me went ‘ping’ and it was like a small revelation. Apart from a few times watching Pete I’d never had this kind of interest in a man before. With Will, I was certainly interested, and in a new, more urgent way. I wasn’t sure whether or not it was the hormones, but something had flipped in me, and I realized that I was definitely no longer ambivalent about men. I certainly wasn’t ambivalent about Will. If it hadn't been for my confusion about Pete, and if I hadn’t been tired …

“Goodnight Will. It’s been lovely meeting you."

I went back upstairs and slept soundly for the first time in several days.

 

~o~O~o~
 

As Alice, Lucy, Sally and I made our way through McCarran on Sunday night, I once again had that very strange feeling of being watched. Of course, we were at an airport, so even in those pre-911 times it was probable some security guy, somewhere, was watching us, but this felt different. I never got spooked by electronic surveillance, since all the casinos used it. No, this was a sense that someone in the milling crowd around us as we made our way to the gate, was paying too much attention. Don’t ask me how I knew. I might not even have been right. Maybe I was paranoid about Whitwell for no good reason. The face of John Mantonelli still haunted me from time to time. Or maybe I was waiting for Grieves to pop around the corner and say hello.

As I looked around I couldn’t see anyone obviously staring at us, so there was no logical reason for my paranoia. I thought maybe I should mention it to Dr. Kidman at my next appointment.

 

~o~O~o~