THE ONLY SOUND MIKE can hear is construction Visqueen flapping in the breeze. The Strip looks different from up here—better, a romantic sprawl of high-rises and homes and glowing light. They have him stashed on the fifteenth floor of a half-finished apartment building by the beach. His spot is sealed-off, the start of a holiday suite already partitioned into rooms with the first layers of plasterboard. But, like a film set, there’s scaffolding just beyond. Mike stands out on the open lip of the building, a beer in hand, nothing separating him from an easy suicide. Not that he’s thinking that way.
With a few drinks in him, with the fear pushed down a little, he’s thinking in the opposite direction, actually. His mind is alive with scenarios and strategy. He’s thinking through the angles. There will be a way out of this. There always is. But he needs to move fast.
Mike returns to his makeshift office. It’s two milk crates: a table and chair.
He scans his diary and planner with a flashlight.
I have leverage.
A major stake in Fantasyland within spitting distance.
A list of names, dates and transactions.
The God Minister’s blessing.
Colleen Vinton’s network.
God and the devil on my side.
Mike figures he just needs to stay alive for the next couple of days and everything will be fine.
This line of reasoning carries Mike through the rest of his six-pack and into the late hours of the evening. In those darker hours—with the booze in recline—he finds himself visited by other thoughts, things located further from ambition. He thinks about his family. He thinks about his wife. His children.
Fifteen minutes later, still sitting there in the dark, Mike feels an urgent sickness bloom in his stomach. He stands up, pats his pockets for the car keys.
Down the steel stair. All fifteen flights.
Over the construction fencing and into the street.
His car is back at Colleen’s. It’s a twenty-minute walk.
A ten-minute jog.
He runs.
He’s half a block from his hiding spot when he sees a phone booth and goes in.
The call connects.
His son answers. Mike almost cries just at the sound of it. He can hear the TV on in the background.
‘Mate, what are you doing up this late?’
‘Dad!’
Mike laughs, the relief softening every muscle.
‘You won’t believe what happened, Dad!’
‘What’s that? Is it movie night up there?’
‘No, Dad, Constable Chris is here.’
‘What?’
‘Constable Chris from the TV is here. He’s talking to Mum in the kitchen. He’s been here for ages.’
‘Oh, uh … can you go get him for me?’
His son yells out.
The phone moves around.
‘Mike?’ says a familiar voice. It’s him.
‘You listen to me, you—’
‘Real nice family you have here, Mike. Sorry to intrude, but there was no other way to get hold of you. I’ve been sitting here for hours.’
‘If you fucking touch them, I’ll …’
‘I’m listening,’ says Chris. ‘Oh, are you done? That’s good because I think you might know how serious this is now. You want some advice, Mike? You better call Sorensen back and make it right. You can still get out of this alive. You all can.’
‘I don’t even know what I’ve …’ Mike forces himself to breathe. ‘I don’t even really know what this is. Just don’t hurt them, okay? If you leave right now, I’ll do whatever you say.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ says Chris.
Mike’s wife is in the background. He can’t make out what she’s saying.
‘It’s okay,’ says Chris. ‘We’ve found him.’
‘Leave,’ says Mike. ‘Please leave.’
‘No problem,’ says Chris, and then he lowers his voice. ‘Where are you?’
Mike slams down the receiver.
He runs halfway up the block. ‘Think,’ he shouts at himself, crouching on the footpath. His hands shake. ‘Think.’ Mike races back to the phone box.
He calls the only number he has for Colleen.
No answer.
‘Fuck.’
He calls the house again.
‘Where are you?’ says Chris. ‘One chance.’
Mike tells him. ‘Put Sonya on.’
He gets his wife. She mumbles something to Chris, her hand over the receiver, and then she says, ‘What is happening, Mike? What—’
‘You need to get him out of the house.’
‘What?’
‘Get …’
Pain spikes up Mike’s arm. He’s going to keel over.
‘Are you there?’ says Sonya. ‘They’re leaving. I’m watching them walk out now. Mike, what is—’
‘When they’re gone, you need to get in the car and get out of there. Find somewhere to hide.’
‘No, I … I—’
Mike spots a police car rounding the corner up the street.
‘Sonya, they’re going to fucking kill us. Please. Please.’
‘Okay, okay, shit.’
‘I love you,’ he says, and hangs up.
The car pulls in by the phone box.
Mike hammers in another number.
Two cops get out of the car, both have their hands on their holsters.
By some miracle, the God Minister answers Mike’s call.
Mike goes straight in. ‘I’m about to get arrested. The cops have threatened my family. I’m fucked.’
One of the cops smashes his fist against the phone box glass. ‘Out!’
‘I see,’ says the Minister. ‘What’s this I hear about a dead body in your motel?’
‘It’s—’
The cop yanks the door open.
‘Wait, wait,’ screams Mike.
They have his arm.
Mike struggles to keep his ear to the phone. ‘You have to do something! WHY HAVE YOU—’