Coffin Dodgers (22 page)

I head home, make a sandwich and look at my purchases. The music player's barely the size of my thumb, but it's packaged in eight inches of extremely tough transparent plastic. I try tearing it open without success, and I end up stabbing at it with a knife, nearly severing a finger when I misjudge the angle and the knife slips. After about ten minutes I finally free the music player from its plastic prison, hook it up to the computer and transfer Dave's edited version of the recording we made of Everett. I check the battery level -- it's fully charged -- and then make sure I've bought the right cable adaptor. I have, so I wrap it around the music player and stick them both in my jacket pocket so I won't forget to take them with me tomorrow.

By the time I've done all that there's just time to tidy up -- well, to get rid of the most obvious health hazards, anyway -- before the buzzer goes and Amy and Dave turn up.
 

"How did you get on?" Amy isn't even inside my front door before she's talking.

"Good. I spoke to Rodeo Rick and he's cool with me taking his shift."

"Did you get the bits?"

"Yep."

"Me too," says Dave. "Here." He tosses a small brown paper bag to me. It contains what looks like two small bits of beige-coloured rubber.

"Earpieces," Dave says. "One each. As long as you're inside the building, I'll be able to talk to you."

"Can we talk back?"

"No, they're one way. But I'll be able to see you."

"Cameras?"

"Cameras." Dave's other job for today was to find out whether he could access the casino's cameras from the security office. Looks like the answer is yes.

"Cool."

"I went to see Burke earlier," Amy says.

"How did it go?"

"Oh, you know, he was full of optimism, happiness and encouragement. We're crazy, it's dangerous, that sort of thing."

"Is he going to help?"

Amy smiles. "Of course he is."

We've been over it several times already, but we walk each other through the plan one more time, trying to find any flaws we haven't already considered.
 

"Are you sure you won't get spotted?" Amy asks.

"I'm sure," I say. "You've been to loads of functions. Ever notice the sound guy?"

"True."

The plan itself is straightforward. I'll be doing the sound, Amy will be waiting tables, and Dave will be watching us on the cameras and talking to us if anything comes up. And that's pretty much it.

"So what do you think's going to happen when it all kicks off?" Dave says.

"No idea."

"Ah, that's a relief. For a moment I was worried that we were going in with a half-arsed plan." Dave's grinning, but he's got a point. We've planned as much as we can, but the one thing we can't predict is how Everett is going to react.

"We're just shaking the tree," I say. "If we shake it hard enough, maybe a monkey will fall out."

"A monkey?" Amy says.

"Yep."

"You're weird."

When I walk into the casino I keep expecting somebody to shout or grab my shoulder, but nobody pays the slightest bit of attention. I'm in the Monroe Suite by half past five. The interior designers are just finishing off, hanging digital posters around the room. Each one's as big as I am, and while each poster is different they all show essentially the same thing: a smiling holiday photo of a sixty-something man or woman, then a stark black and white photo of the same person some years later. In the second photo the smile is gone and the eyes are unfocused, and the lighting shows every crease and wrinkle in a deep black. The posters fade between the two images while text scrolls along the bottom. The scrolling text is mainly figures, telling you how many people are likely to get Kynaston's -- a lot -- and how much money can make a difference -- not very much, although of course the more generous you are the more of a difference you can make.

It all seems a bit much. Don't get me wrong. I'm not unsympathetic -- Kynaston's is a horrible disease -- but the posters are laying it on a bit thick. And is it me, or is it a bit insensitive to have a charity do for people who can't remember stuff and then plaster the whole room with reminders of what the charity do's all about?

The more I try not to think about it, the more I want to laugh. I'd better do something to distract myself.

Rick's instructions are spot on. There's a little mixing desk on a table in the rear left hand corner of the room, about as far from the speakers' table as it's possible to get without being in the corridor. It's already set up and switched on with the master volume set to zero, and true to his word Rick has put a strip of masking tape along the bottom of the desk with handwritten notes saying what each set of controls is controlling: "intro music", "centre mic", "backup mic" and so on. It still looks pretty complicated -- mixing desks have hundreds of knobs, dials and sliders -- but if you know what you're doing it's all very straightforward. Each input has a great big sliding control that adjusts the volume, there are a couple of dials that adjust the bass and treble, and there are several other knobs that nobody ever uses. We had a very similar desk back when I played in the band, so there's nothing particularly strange or startling about Rick's setup.

In addition to the volume, bass and treble controls each input has two little buttons marked "M" and "S" respectively. These are the ones I need. The M button means mute, and it silences the selected input. The one marked S means solo, and it silences everything but the selected input. I take my music player and cable from my pocket, connect them to a spare input and press play. I hit the solo button and Everett's voice comes through the speakers. I hit mute to turn it off again before he's even finished a word. I know what's on the player; I just needed to check that the cable worked.
 

By the time I've finished fiddling it's just after six, which means I've got at least half an hour to kill. I decide to go and find a vending machine and leave the suite, nearly colliding with Amy in the corridor.

"Sorry, daydreaming," I say. "You look nice."

She does. Amy's wearing what she calls her Sunday uniform, which is what the girls have to wear when they're doing more respectable functions. It's still far too tight, but the skirt is a little bit longer than usual, the buttons go a bit higher on the top and while the heels are still high, the girls can walk without constantly fearing for their lives. It's still Sleazy Bob's idea of respectable, but on the right person -- and from where I'm standing, Amy is very much the right person -- it could make a Bishop think twice about that whole celibacy thing. Which, of course, is the whole idea.
 

Maybe it's because we're about to do something really dangerous, or maybe it's just that everything I've been through recently has given me a whole new perspective. I don't know. But I think it's time I stopped mucking about and asked Amy out. So I do.

"Amy?"

"Uh-huh?"

I'm blushing before I've even said anything. "I was thinking..."

Amy's eyes widen, but I can't decipher her expression.

"When this is all over --" I think I'm saying "um" more often than I'm breathing -- "do you want to go for dinner or something?"

There. I said it.

Amy's eyes widen, and I think she's starting to blush too. "Dinner?"

"Yeah."

"Like, a date?"

"Yeah."

She's definitely blushing. Me? You could fry an egg on my cheeks.

"Okay."

The apology is halfway out of my mouth before I realise what she's just said.

"Really?"

"Really. But I want candles."

"Candles?"

"Candles. Somewhere with candles."

"Okay."

We look at each other in silence, my hands in my pockets so Amy can't see them shaking. It's not an awkward silence -- well, it is, but it's not one of those awkward silences that's rubbish. It's more that neither of us knows what to say next. Amy's the first to break it.

"I need to get in there," she says, indicating the function suite.

"Yeah. I'm just going to get a Coke. Want anything?"

"No thanks."

"Okay."

"Okay then," she says. "See you in there."

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay."

I wait until Amy's gone through the double doors before I dare move. If Dave's already on the cameras then he's just seen me dancing around the corridor. I don't care.

I grab a Coke from a vending machine and head back to the Monroe suite. The interior designers have gone and there's no sign of anybody, not even Amy. I double-check the mixing desk again and cue up the background music. It's what Dave calls "cheesy listening", jazzy versions of pop and rock hits. It's the sort of thing they play in lifts and in supermarkets, designed to be inoffensive to anybody who doesn't love music. I skip through a few tracks, and I'm not surprised that the entire playlist is terrible. Still, it's not aimed at me. I'm sure the guests will love it.

All I need to do now is wait for everyone to arrive, so that's what I do.

Things start to happen when Orange Annie turns up. A no-nonsense fortysomething with a taste for charcoal grey trouser suits, big shoulders and even bigger earrings, Anne Fulton is the Senior Events Co-ordinator -- that is, she's the senior co-ordinator rather than the person who co-ordinates events for seniors. Although they're pretty much the same thing, really. She's nice enough, but she's a tough boss: she can scan an entire room in two seconds and spot the slightest imperfection, from poorly polished shoes to a table display that isn't just so. She's easy to spot, too. I don't know whether it's fake tan or a weird choice of make-up, but her face crosses the line between "tanned" and "Jaffa orange".

Within moments of her arrival the room is a hive of activity. Waiters and waitresses file in from the rear doors, champagne corks are popped and trays of glasses filled. Covers come off the trays of nibbles, and Orange Annie gestures to me to start the music. There's no flicker of recognition when she looks at me. Nobody notices the sound guy.

Rick has done all the groundwork, so when I start the cheesy listening playlist it's at just the right volume, loud enough to hear but not so loud you can't hear anything else. At exactly seven o'clock Annie throws the main doors open and the guests amble in, grabbing glasses and nibbles without pausing their conversations. As they do there's a crackle in my ear and Dave says hello. "Remember, it's one way," he says. "I can see you fine, but I won't be able to hear you." I nod, but I don't bother looking for the camera. The Monroe Suite, like everywhere else, is full of the damn things, most of them hidden.

I've got a good view of the room from the mixing desk, and I can see everyone coming in. It's the expected bunch of usual suspects, a collection of high rollers, retired high-flyers and their partners. I'd say the average age is a bit north of sixty, but the group is rich sixty: expensive watches and even more expensive jewellery, designer labels for the men and women alike and conversations about the stock market, interest rates and investments.

Adam Everett arrives at around ten past, and he's immediately at the centre of a large group of well-wishers. This kind of thing is obviously second nature to him, and I watch as he effortlessly shakes off the more annoying hangers-on while greeting yet another group with a smile of what appears to be delight. He's a smooth operator, working his way through a few dozen people in a matter of minutes.

Dave's in my ear again. "Here comes trouble," he says. "Main doors. Black suits and attitude."

I look up and my blood pressure goes into orbit. Two men in dark suits are standing just inside the doors, their eyes scanning the room. One of them is Floyd. I haven't seen the other one before, but I imagine he's another one of Floyd's goons. Maybe Floyd buys them in bulk, or grows them in a lab somewhere.

"I'm going to call Burke," Dave says. "Let him know we've got a cop killer in the house."

I nod -- I've no idea whether Dave's still looking at me or not -- and then work out what I'm going to do. I can't hide, but I can do the next best thing. People see what they expect to see, so I adopt the typical posture of the sound guy: shoulders slumped in boredom, idly fiddling with buttons on the mixing desk. As I told Amy, nobody ever pays attention to the sound guy. Provided I don't do anything to stand out, I should be okay -- or at least, I should be until it all kicks off later on. I might even have stopped shaking by then.

At half past seven exactly Orange Annie grabs a microphone from the speakers' table. I turn down the music and make sure her microphone volume is faded up. It is, and her voice cuts through the chatter and clinking of glasses.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please," she says. "If you would like to take your seats, the event will begin in one moment. Thank you."

She puts the microphone back in its stand and I fade the music up again. The guests start to finish their conversations and head towards the tables.

Dave bellows in my ear. "Showtime!"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Like most charity events, tonight's plan covers the three Ds: drinks, dinner and dull speeches. The music takes care of itself so I spend the time watching everyone stuff their faces and get increasingly plastered. I'm starving, but the food is for guests only. If this were a normal night I'd be getting stuck into the leftovers afterwards, but I don't plan to hang around that long tonight.

Everything so far is going like clockwork. The waiting staff are like a machine, bringing out course after course without dropping anything, bumping into one another or spilling a single drink. I spot Amy a couple of times but don't manage to catch her eye. Dave's very quiet too, although I think I hear him yawn once or twice.

As the guest of honour, Adam Everett is in the centre of the speakers' table. Sleazy Bob sits to his left, and three other old guys make up the rest of the numbers. I've no idea who they are but I'm sure they're very important.

Once the desserts have been cleared away Sleazy Bob stands up and does that thing with the glass and the spoon to catch everyone's attention. I check his microphone -- it's on -- and make sure the music player is cued up and ready to go.