Chapter Nine

Hawk

I sit in front of my computer screen again, staring at the cursor as it mocks me by blinking a white light of disapproval. I know I should be writing lines of code. In fact, I should be typing fast enough to make my fingers bleed, since Nixon Caldwell will be expecting me to magically resurrect all of my lost work like Christ raising up Lazarus from the dead. Most of all, I should be putting the vow I just made into practice and purging all thoughts of finding my mother from my mind, the way I’d delete an outdated or embarrassing file from my hard drive.

Instead, all I do is replay the conversation with Darlene in my head over and over, wondering how it would have gone if it had turned out that she really was my mother after all. Would she have cried? Would her tears have been from shock, guilt, anger, relief? Would she have raised her arms to embrace me, or push me out the door and tell me she never wanted to see me ever again?

I keep thinking about what people call “the sunk cost fallacy.” In many ways, it’s one of the universal laws of physics here in Vegas, like gravity. The more time, money, and energy people spend on something, the harder it is for them to walk away from it, no matter how hopeless it starts to seem. It’s what keeps gamblers pumping coins into slot machines and tossing down chips at the blackjack tables – the compulsion to throw good money after bad, the stubborn refusal to accept their losses and leave while they’ve still got money in their wallets. I’ve seen what that mentality does to people every day I’ve been here. Tourists who leave the casinos broken, drained, and shaking their heads in a disbelieving stupor at the realization that they should have known when to stop.

I came to Vegas to find my birth mother. I’ve spent so much emotional energy on the thought of reuniting with her and learning why I had to spend my childhood in a series of shitty foster homes. I’ve needed so badly for everything I’ve been through to have some meaning or purpose. What if there’s still a way for me to track her down, and I just haven’t thought of it yet? Sure, okay, it wasn’t Darlene, but what if it’s the next woman, or the next, or the next? Can I really just let this go after so many years and try to get on with the rest of my life with any thread of hope still hanging? With regret, I wish I could find someone to understand the tragic play of my life without having to re-watch it myself.

And if I can’t let go, will I end up like those doomed assholes leaving the casinos with empty pockets and empty bank accounts, shell-shocked and hollow, wondering why I didn’t back off when I had the chance?

A knock at the door shakes me out of these dark thoughts. A sliver of gratitude peeks through for the interruption but considering everything that’s happened over the past few days, I’m also nervous as hell thinking about who would drop by my place unannounced. Caldwell, checking up on my work? Dante, here to gloat about the fire and maybe have a couple of his trained apes bounce my head off the walls for good measure? That Ostrich dickhead, showing up to fuck with me some more?

Maybe, in the world’s biggest coincidence, my real mother chose today to track me down, and she’s on my doorstep right now.

The absolute absurdity of that last thought scares me a little because it makes me think I might finally be cracking up. I’ve seen it happen to plenty of other software designers and coders. They go without food or sleep, they put their souls into their precious projects until their entire identities are wrapped up in lines of code and grandiose fantasies of their work’s importance – and then it’s all lost in a glitch or a flood or a fire, their minds shatter, and the next thing you know they’re walking down the freeway naked, screaming nonsense.

I need to hit the gym.

Another knock sounds, louder this time, and it snaps me back to reality. I go to the door and open it. There’s some kind of bike courier standing there, sweating, with his helmet under his arm and a flat cardboard envelope in his hand. He looks about fifteen, and suddenly, I feel old as hell. I mentally tally how much cash I have on hand so I can tip this guy for riding his bike through the sweltering heat.

He studies the label on it, squinting. “Are you, uh...Hawk Stryker?”

“Yeah.” I can hardly recognize my own mumbling voice. My lips feel numb, and the inside of my mouth resembles a parched desert. Hacking the medical database, wondering how the hell I can rewrite the security program in time, thinking about Ostrich’s irrational hatred of me – when’s the last time I slept for more than twenty or thirty minutes at a time? Have I even eaten anything since the few bites of steak and salad I took at Best of Both Worlds? Now that I’ve stepped away from my computer screen, I realize I can hardly see straight.

The courier snickers. “Heh. Sounds like some kind of superhero name. And why ‘Hawk?’ Were your parents, like, big fans of Spenser: For Hire or something?”

“They were big fans of minding their own fucking business,” I snap. Shit, I don’t even know if that’s true, do I? This kid looks like he wasn’t even born during the days of Spencer. And he doesn’t know he hit a raw nerve. I temper my expression.

“Well, pardon me all to hell for asking.” The courier glances at me, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “Anyway, this is for you. I need you to sign for it.”

“What is it?”

He clears his throat. “The Vegas Chamber of Commerce has chosen to present you with an award for excellence in casino security,” he says, adopting a warm yet formal tone as though he’s about to give me the award personally. “The ceremony is scheduled for eight o’clock tonight at the Armónico. Maybe it’ll cheer you up, Mister Grouchy.”

Caldwell’s casino. Does he have something to do with this?

“I still need you to sign for it,” the courier adds. “And I’m supposed to go back and let them know whether you’ll be coming or not. Fair warning, though, if the answer is ‘not,’ I got the feeling you’ll be hearing from them about it. They seemed insistent that you be there. Adamant, even. That’s my new word for the day, ‘adamant.’ Cool, right? Like Adam Ant the singer, or adamantium in the comic books...”

“Again, with the comic books.” I roll my eyes and sign the sheet on the clipboard.

I’ve never been big on awards. My works speaks for itself, I make more money than one lonely man needs, and I measure my real success in the level of awe that all those codemonkeys and tech-heads have when speaking to or about me online. I’m the best, and I know it, so I don’t need some cheap little statue with my name engraved on it taking up shelf space that Rose needs to dust.

That thought stops me. I had been the best, up until I’d stupidly allowed my lair to be hacked and toasted. That little stunt knocked a tornado of wind out of me.

Maybe this little party will give me some back?

Nixon Caldwell has plenty of dealings with the Chamber of Commerce, and if he’s involved – and he wants me there so much that he had the courier tell me so – I feel like I’d better show up. Besides, I could tell myself I need to stay home and work on rebuilding the security program, but that would almost certainly be a lie after the unproductive afternoon I’ve had so far.

“Okay, I’ll be there,” I grumble. “It’s not going to be some kind of black-tie-and-tux thing, is it?”

“Nope, but you might want to grab a nap, a shave, and a change of clothes. You look like something Rick Grimes would blast with a shotgun.”

I stare at him through bleary-eyed vision. I’m sure I do look like hell, but what gives this kid the right?

“Come on, seriously?” he says, raising his eyebrows at my apparent confusion. “Rick Grimes? The Walking Dead? Dude, don’t you watch television?”

“No.” I start to close the door.

“Wait, hang on,” the courier says, his voice rising to a plaintive whine. “What about my tip?”

In a rush to get rid of him, I rummage in my pocket and pull out a twenty. “Here’s an even better tip. Stop with the TV and comic references and try being original for a change.” After handing over the bill, I slam the door in his face, feeling like a grumpy old geezer who just told some brat to get off his lawn.

As I step away from the door, I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror. The courier may have been annoying, but he wasn’t wrong. I look like I just crawled out of a grave. I plod upstairs, take a quick shower, and pick out some clothes that don’t have any holes or stains.

He was right about me needing a nap too, but all I can manage is lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling until it’s time to get dressed and go. I can’t even keep my eyes closed without seeing the cursor blinking in the darkness behind them, or Darlene blinking against the sunlight as she opened her door.

***

As always, the Armónico bustles with activity when I get there. Caldwell may have a bad quarter of financials behind him, but no one would guess that from the gamblers swarming around the gaming tables like bees around a hive. I’ve gotten used to the quiet of my workspace at home, and the constant noise in here digs into my ears – people chattering, roulette tables clicking and spinning, slot machines beeping and burbling. People screaming with joy or moaning with pain.

I’ve been here enough times to find my way to the auditorium where special events are held. Sure enough, when I open the door and step in, I see the stadium seats and a handful of older men in conservative business suits clustered near the podium with Caldwell.

The turnout seems pretty weak, though – only a third of the seats are occupied, and most of the people in them look like casino patrons who are only here because they were promised free food and booze. Some yawn, their red-eyed gazes vapid, while others actually doze with their plates and plastic cups spilling into their laps.

The only one who seems awake and alert is a girl in her twenties with long blonde hair, glasses, and ripped jeans. Her platinum hair frames her face like a halo, so I can’t really see it or what kind of eyes lurk behind the coke bottle glasses. She seems like the only other person in the room who might actually be a coder like me – she has the lean, hungry, intense look of someone who spends almost every waking moment in front of a computer.

Normally, I’d make a mental note to talk to her after the award ceremony, but today I dismiss the idea. Too distracted, too much to do. If she’s got any skill or talent at all, I’ll probably run into her again at some point anyway. The tech-head community in Vegas is small. And if she doesn’t have any talent, screw it, no big loss.

Come to think of it, she does seem familiar somehow. Maybe we’ve already met, and I just forgot. That wouldn’t be too surprising, given the pressure I’ve been under lately. I tuck the urge to meet her away since I could really use a friend right about now.

There’s a table set up next to one of the walls, with a bored-looking employee in a dealer’s vest pouring out drinks, and a few long aluminum trays of catered food with flaming Sterno cans under them.

All in all, this event looks like something that was thrown together at the last minute. No wonder I didn’t find out about it until a couple of hours beforehand.

Except that rushed, cheap, and sloppy isn’t Caldwell’s style. At all.

So, what’s going on here?

“Thank you all for coming,” Caldwell says from the podium, clad in custom Gucci with a power red silk tie. He always looks like he stepped down from the pages of GQ only to grace us peons with his suave and charming presence. “If everyone will please take their seats, I think we’re ready to begin.”

I see that there’s a piece of paper with my name scrawled on it that’s taped to one of the chairs in the cute blonde’s row. When I sit down in the seat, she looks up and notices me. Based on the expression of loathing and disgust she shoots me, we must have met before somehow after all. There’s no way she could automatically dislike me so much just from watching me sit down. So much for my new karaoke song being “You’ve got a friend.” But why would she scowl like that? First that Ostrich fuckhead, and now this random woman. Why am I suddenly on everyone’s shit list? I can’t remember being that big of a prick to anyone. At least not since being drunk back in college.

“As you all know, we’re here tonight to honor excellence in casino security,” he begins. “Every year, millions of people flock to Las Vegas with one goal. To make our money their money. Most of those people are content to pursue this goal by sitting at our tables, putting down their chips, and taking their chances that the next flip of a card or roll of the dice will make them into millionaires. But as any casino owner will tell you, there are also plenty of thieves and cheats among them, many of whom have developed clever plots and ingenious methods to take advantage.”

I look around. The members of the Chamber of Commerce glance at their watches impatiently and the rest of the people here hover around the free food or drift in and out of the room. The blonde stares daggers at me. I start to feel like I accidentally stepped into a scene from a David Lynch movie. I wish he’d finish his speech and just hand me the damn award so I can get out of here.

“Due to this unfortunate but unavoidable fact,” Caldwell says, “there are more security professionals in this city than there are blackjack dealers...all chasing our business, all clamoring to be the best. But tonight, we’re blessed to be in the presence of the true elite among them. It’s my very great pleasure to introduce you to that elite right now.”

Come on, I silently beg. Just say my name and let’s get this over with.

“And so, without further ado...”

I hate that, I HATE the phrase “without further ado” because it’s really “further ado,” for God’s sake. Caldwell, just hurry it up...

“...I present the awards for excellence in casino security to Hawk Stryker...”

Finally. I get up and take my first step toward the podium. When I’m a few steps away, I stop dead. Did he just say ‘awards’? Plural? I’m only one person.

“...and Waverly Emerson of Haven Security.”

My breath catches amid the half-hearted applause of the people sitting around me. Waverly who? What the fuck is going on here? Not only do they drag me out tonight to accept some stupid award, I have to share it with someone I’ve never even heard of?

I see movement in the corner of my eye and realize that the blonde a few seats away stands up to leave. Shit, she must really hate my guts if the thought of me receiving an award causes her to flee my presence. If her expression was furious before, it’s full-on lethal now. She looks like she wants to murder me with her bare hands.

I’m confused as hell. After all that talk about how losing the security program wasn’t my fault, did Caldwell summon me here and set this whole thing up just to screw with me and rub my nose in my failure? Even if he’s that pissed off about me losing all of the work I’d done, that doesn’t seem like his style at all. Nixon Caldwell can be a hard man when he wants to be, but he’s never petty.

The listless applause fades, so I take a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other until I reach the podium.