Chapter 9: One Call

I stood in front of that sign on the Wall until it went dark.

Then I went up to my room and lay awake working on one question.

At ten the next morning the house stood behind me while I faced the Wall.

I'd thought about asking how to get out, and whether the bands came off.

But I'd already learned how Garson Langan answered questions.

"Is Forty in Cancun?" I asked.

He touched his bracelet.

For a long moment he only looked at me, the famous smile resting on his face.

"Forty is not in Cancun," he said.

The Wall went dark.

"So he's in Miami," the whale said. "Who cares?"

One laughed, and Three laughed a little with him.

I didn't laugh.

The house never lies.

He could have said Forty was home, or fine, or happy, and he hadn't said any of them.

Every time anybody asked about the dead, he said something true.

Thirty seconds after he said it, a man in an office somewhere decided what America got to hear.

Our contracts said the network would cut anything a player said about the show being real.

Tonight Forty would still be in Cancun on the after-show, with his check.

The phone was in a little room off the great room with a velvet chair and a dome in the ceiling.

The whale went first, because he said he had business.

We could hear every word through the speakers.

"Get me my lawyer," he told whoever answered, and waited, tapping his long fingers.

He talked about a boat and a lien for a while.

Then his voice dropped, quick and low.

"Listen to me. They're killing people in here. The valet, the big guard, the pit boss..."