Perpetual Motion by Jeff Fulmer

he
redialed the last number on his cell phone. After a few rings it
was answered by the man himself.
    “Mancuso.”
    “I lost him,” Cynical said, not wasting time.
“This group swooped in and tried to take him. I don’t know who they
were, but they were pros. They had sunglasses and ear-pieces. They
even wore ties. It was very impressive.”
There was a static filled couple of seconds before Mancuso got to
the only question that seemed to matter to him. “Where’s Michael
now?”
    “I don’t know.” Cynical paused, checking to
see if anyone was following him. There were a few stragglers on the
fairly quiet strip. For Vegas, he was virtually alone. “I think he
got away, but I’m not sure about that.”
    “A shame,” Mancuso said softly, sounding like
he meant it. “Do you have any idea where he could have gone?”
    “Not really,” Cynical admitted. “He could be
anywhere.”
    “I suppose you’ll go back to Los Angeles,”
Mancuso said after a beat.
    “Yeah,” Cynical said.
    “Well, I appreciate you letting me know,”
Mancuso said, and then was gone.
    Standing on the brightly lit strip, Cynical
hung up. Tired, hungry and sore, he felt like Vegas had just rolled
him in a back alley and left him for dead. Just then, a torrent of
fire and smoke exploded behind him. This time the private detective
didn’t even turn around. If you’d seen one erupting volcano in the
city, you’d seen them all.
     

CHAPTER
14
     
     
    By the time Cynical dragged himself back to
his room at the Bellagio, it was four in the morning. As weary as
he was, he wasn’t sure he could get to sleep. His chest still ached
from the electrical shock and his mind reeled from the jumble of
events. Rather than toss and turn for a few hours, he decided to go
ahead and pack up, check out, and return his rent-a-car at McCarran
Airport.
    Waiting at the terminal gate, he watched as
bleary-eyed businessmen, strung out gamblers, and hung-over
conventioneers trickled into the boarding area for the LA flight.
Departure time was nearing and he was itching to get home where he
could crawl into bed and not wake up for about two or three
days.
    As he closed his eyes, the loudspeaker
crackled to life. “Mr. Jones, please come to the ticket counter,”
the ticket agent announced, “Mr. Jones, to the ticket counter.”
    What now? Was he now going to be forced to
check his bag or strip searched? Tentatively approaching the desk,
a friendly airline agent greeted him.
    “Mr. Jones?”
    “Yeah?”
    The agent smiled benevolently. “Since you
paid full price for your ticket, would you like to be upgraded?”
Leaning in a little closer, she lowered her voice. “We have an
opening in first class.”
    As much as he despised the bourgeois caste
system imposed by the airlines, he hated their cramped “economy”
seats even more. At least he might be able to catch a few minutes
rest on the short flight. “All right,” he grumbled, giving in.
    “You’ll be in row five, seat B,” she
whispered so the riffraff couldn’t overhear. Then, taking the
microphone, she announced. “Flight 1212 to Los Angles is now
boarding first class.” She winked at Cynical.
    Meandering over to the gate, he took the
short walk through the jet bridge, over to his waiting bird. An
attendant checked his freshly minted ticket and beamed with
newfound admiration as she directed him to his seat, even calling
him by name. Suddenly, he was somebody.
    Approaching 5B, he couldn’t help but notice a
long shapely leg extending a foot and a calf into the aisle. At the
fifth row, Cynical turned and took in the rest of the body warming
seat A. Attractive by any standards, her dark hair was pinned up;
her eyeglasses made her look both smart and sexy. First class all
the way.
    “Excuse me,” he said, trying to give her his
best smile after he stashed his laptop overhead.
    Giving him a curt smile, she rotated her hips
and turned her crossed legs, providing him the needed room to slide
in