“My name is Joseph Vengerov.” As though anyone in the world didn’t know that. “And I know you must be Neil Raines, Thomas’s father.”
Neil stiffened. “You know him?”
“Of course I know your son,” Vengerov answered, still wearing that strange smile. He let that sit in the air a moment, then, “You must know I’m affiliated with a certain program that your son also participates in.”
Neil grew pale. “You’re involved in that?”
“Only in an advisory capacity, but I anticipate far more involvement in the near future.”
Yeah, Tom bet Vengerov anticipated that. He knew Vengerov was taking advantage of the malfunctions to angle for Blackburn’s job.
A dark flush stole over Neil’s face.
And the buzzing in the Green Room had become a white noise, because Tom’s brain was razor-sharp, trying to slice through what was going on here. Something was happening here. He was missing something.
“I didn’t stake you for a poker game, of course,” Vengerov said smoothly. “I’m staking you for another venture.”
With one angry flick of his hand, Neil sent the chip careening back toward Vengerov. “I want nothing of it.”
Vengerov snatched it from the air easily, reflexes like a striking snake’s. “I think you do. It’s roulette.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed. Vengerov was playing some game here. But what was he trying to do?
And then Vengerov said, “I appreciate the game for one simple reason.” His eyes dropped to Tom’s. “It doesn’t involve luck. It’s all mathematics where the ball will land. A computer with mathematical precision, for example, could calculate what number the ball would land on merely from listening to the spin decelerate.”
That’s when Tom realized it: he had a neural processor. Vengerov knew it. He knew Tom could calculate the right number.
“Come,” Vengerov said, imperious, like Neil was one of his lackeys.
And to Tom’s disbelief, even though Neil wore this expression on his face like he was raging inside, he followed.
Tom felt like he was in a bizarre, alternate universe as he trailed behind Neil to the roulette table, where gamblers chose their position at the wheel. One spin of the wheel launched the ball into motion, and the players who correctly chose the color of the slot where the ball landed won money, and the ones who chose the right number reaped greater winnings.
“Let’s not gamble with that ten thousand I staked you,” Vengerov told Neil. “I shall also wager . . . these.” A flick of his fingers, and one of his lackeys placed an intimidating pile of chips before him. “Mr. Raines, add a wager of your own to mine. We all need some skin in this game of ours.”
“But it’s not his game,” Tom burst out. “It’s your game. You arbitrarily decided he’s going to play. You’re the one who wants to play it.”
“I am waiting,” Vengerov said, eyes crawling to Neil’s.
Neil muttered, “I don’t have much.”
“In that case,” Vengerov said softly, “just wager your wallet.”
Neil drew a sharp breath, because that was all the money he had.
“Don’t do it,” Tom urged him.
But Neil had a grim set to his face. He reached in his back pocket and clapped his wallet on the table.
“What are you doing, Dad?” Tom demanded. Then he turned on Vengerov. “He doesn’t have money to throw away like you. He at least has a shot at winning poker! This is—”
“A risk we are both taking,” Vengerov said.
“It’s not a risk for you,” Tom spat. “This is chump change for you. My father’s the only one risking anything here.”
“It will be a staggering defeat for your father if he loses, I agree,” Vengerov said. “That’s why I trust he won’t lose. Neither of us will.”
Tom fumed. He knew what he had to do. The wheel began to spin, and as the tinkling sound filled the air, the ball bouncing around the outermost circle of the wheel, Tom’s processor began doing what any computer could do: it calculated the deceleration rate. He knew where the ball would land. With a gruff swipe of his hands, Neil shoved the chips onto the wrong color. Tom stood there to let Vengerov sweat a bit, his jaw throbbing from where his teeth were grinding together, as he listened to the deceleration of the wheel. He felt Vengerov’s calculating gaze fixed on him.
Then he couldn’t resist. “Not there, Dad.” He moved the pieces to black twenty-two.
And then the wheel slowed and the ball clattered into its slot: black twenty-two.
Neil gave a start.
“Congratulations,” Vengerov said. “Black twenty-two. What a marvelous pick, Mr. Raines. How about a second try?”
“A second?” Neil sputtered. “We can’t do better than that.”
“I think we could,” Vengerov countered, eyes on Tom.
Tom clenched his fists, but he performed as Vengerov expected. They won the second spin, too. This time, Neil stood there silently. Vengerov won a million dollars in a couple of minutes, thanks to Tom.
Neil didn’t seem to care that he’d come into more than fifty thousand dollars. He was staring at Tom like he didn’t know who he was. Tom stared back, because he felt like he didn’t know who Neil was, either. He didn’t recognize this meek, cowed person as his dad.
“I think we’d be straining their tolerance if we won a third spin. I’ll have your share of the winnings sent by your room.” Vengerov idly signaled a worker to count their chips. He glanced between Tom and Neil. “How delightful that we all leave here tonight triumphant. Good evening, Mr. Raines.”
Neither of them were certain who he was addressing, but when he strolled away, silence descended between Tom and Neil like the ominous quiet in the eye of a hurricane.
THE TENSION MOUNTED between them the whole walk to their room, until it was like electricity in the air. Tom’s stomach was churning. He kept thinking of Neil’s reaction to Vengerov.
Neil had acted like that. Neil, who’d bellowed at cops and brawled with them, and even gotten chucked in jail. Who time and again had thrown himself unheeding into situations that messed up both their lives because he never backed down from a fight. . . .
Neil had been cowed by Joseph Vengerov.
Tom couldn’t get his head around to it. Neil hated men like Vengerov. He hated people like the executives Tom had alienated at the meet and greets. Yet tonight, his dad had been face-to-face with the guy who practically embodied the entire police state, the military-industrial-media complex, everything Neil saw as the cancer of the world, and after all that blustering, Neil hadn’t spoken up. He hadn’t done anything.
Tom didn’t understand it. There was this dark, ugly feeling growing inside him. It wasn’t rational and it didn’t make sense, but he felt like his father had punched him or something. He’d always thought Neil got into trouble because he couldn’t help it. But tonight, he’d obeyed Vengerov. He’d controlled himself with Vengerov.
Tom’s head was pulsing violently by the time they were shut back in their hotel room. He stood by the door, every muscle bunched up with tension. He felt like he was at a great remove from his dad, who was pouring a drink with a shaky hand, then swigging it down.