couldn’t. He was about to meet a young woman that an ST-6 teammate named Storm had set him up with. All the guys had been looking out for him, which meant a lot.
“You hear from anything from Jeri?” he asked, wondering again if their current assignment wasn’t really an excuse to get him some R&R.
“She told us to hang tight,” Mancini replied out of the side of his mouth. Much of his face was covered with thick dark stubble. “She’ll call us if she needs us.”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s the babe you’re supposed to meet?”
He glanced at his Suunto watch—the one Holly had given him. “I don’t know if she’s a babe,” he responded, “but she’s a performer. A gymnast and dancer, according to Storm.”
“I bet.”
The introduction had come after Storm heard that Crocker was going to Nellis. He said, “You two might hit it off. Cyndi’s a fun girl—kind and smart. When you’re out there, you should look her up.”
Over the past several days he and Cyndi had exchanged e-mails. He learned that she had a five-year-old daughter and had moved to Vegas from Spokane a year ago. She was currently part of the Cirque du Soleil troop performing its show O at the Bellagio—described as an aquatic masterpiece of surrealism and theatrical romance. He had a ticket to see it tomorrow night and was nervous about meeting her. Felt awkward and unprepared.
“You stoked?” Mancini asked over the top of the magazine he was reading—his arms, neck, and torso covered with tattoos and scars; his longish dark hair masking the place on his head where he’d been grazed by a terrorist’s bullet in a Paris hotel elevator.
“Kind of. Yeah. What’re you reading?”
“An article about fractals. Images of dynamic systems found in nature—like trees, rivers, coastlines, clouds, even a young lady’s eyeballs. They derive from the principle of recursion but scale differently than other geometric figures.”
“You’re a fucking freak, you know that?”
“Thanks, and back atcha. Who got up this morning at six a.m. for a fifteen-mile run in the desert?”
Crocker smiled. He still had a sense of humor about himself. You performed to the limit of your abilities and hoped for the best. The fact that all individuals were islands held apart by ignorance, distrust, and fear wasn’t his problem to solve. His job was to protect the sheep from the wolves. To help, protect, rescue, and heal people when he could.
Right now he was trying to relax and quiet the stream of second-guessing about the hearing next week. It seemed as though the entire population of Caesars Palace’s four towers had come to cool off in six pools that made up the Garden of the Gods Pool Oasis. Male and female conventioneers, tourists from Asia, vacationers, professional gamblers, high-end hookers, young partiers, confidence men, honeymooners, weekend revelers from L.A. fresh off Route 15. All seemed contained in their private bubbles, barely aware of one another and their surroundings.
When Crocker looked closely he saw that the statues were molded of plaster and resin, and many of the human bodies had been sculpted, tucked, and smoothed by surgeons.
“That her?” Mancini asked, pointing to an approaching tall, dark-haired woman in a leopard-print bikini and large designer sunglasses, her back straight, her chest and chin thrust forward as though she were a movie star attending a premiere.
“I hope not,” Crocker said.
The polished and buffed woman, projecting attitude and entitlement, stopped in front of them and pointed at the empty lounge chair beside Crocker. In a low voice she asked, “This taken?”
“Yes it is, ma’am.” The breasts seemed fake, the lips cosmetically plumped, the skin around her eyes and cheekbones pulled too taut.
“Well, it’s mine now.” She set her bag on it, turned her back to him, and lowered her skinny ass down.
He was going to say that the chair was reserved for someone else but was too polite. If
“You hear from anything from Jeri?” he asked, wondering again if their current assignment wasn’t really an excuse to get him some R&R.
“She told us to hang tight,” Mancini replied out of the side of his mouth. Much of his face was covered with thick dark stubble. “She’ll call us if she needs us.”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s the babe you’re supposed to meet?”
He glanced at his Suunto watch—the one Holly had given him. “I don’t know if she’s a babe,” he responded, “but she’s a performer. A gymnast and dancer, according to Storm.”
“I bet.”
The introduction had come after Storm heard that Crocker was going to Nellis. He said, “You two might hit it off. Cyndi’s a fun girl—kind and smart. When you’re out there, you should look her up.”
Over the past several days he and Cyndi had exchanged e-mails. He learned that she had a five-year-old daughter and had moved to Vegas from Spokane a year ago. She was currently part of the Cirque du Soleil troop performing its show O at the Bellagio—described as an aquatic masterpiece of surrealism and theatrical romance. He had a ticket to see it tomorrow night and was nervous about meeting her. Felt awkward and unprepared.
“You stoked?” Mancini asked over the top of the magazine he was reading—his arms, neck, and torso covered with tattoos and scars; his longish dark hair masking the place on his head where he’d been grazed by a terrorist’s bullet in a Paris hotel elevator.
“Kind of. Yeah. What’re you reading?”
“An article about fractals. Images of dynamic systems found in nature—like trees, rivers, coastlines, clouds, even a young lady’s eyeballs. They derive from the principle of recursion but scale differently than other geometric figures.”
“You’re a fucking freak, you know that?”
“Thanks, and back atcha. Who got up this morning at six a.m. for a fifteen-mile run in the desert?”
Crocker smiled. He still had a sense of humor about himself. You performed to the limit of your abilities and hoped for the best. The fact that all individuals were islands held apart by ignorance, distrust, and fear wasn’t his problem to solve. His job was to protect the sheep from the wolves. To help, protect, rescue, and heal people when he could.
Right now he was trying to relax and quiet the stream of second-guessing about the hearing next week. It seemed as though the entire population of Caesars Palace’s four towers had come to cool off in six pools that made up the Garden of the Gods Pool Oasis. Male and female conventioneers, tourists from Asia, vacationers, professional gamblers, high-end hookers, young partiers, confidence men, honeymooners, weekend revelers from L.A. fresh off Route 15. All seemed contained in their private bubbles, barely aware of one another and their surroundings.
When Crocker looked closely he saw that the statues were molded of plaster and resin, and many of the human bodies had been sculpted, tucked, and smoothed by surgeons.
“That her?” Mancini asked, pointing to an approaching tall, dark-haired woman in a leopard-print bikini and large designer sunglasses, her back straight, her chest and chin thrust forward as though she were a movie star attending a premiere.
“I hope not,” Crocker said.
The polished and buffed woman, projecting attitude and entitlement, stopped in front of them and pointed at the empty lounge chair beside Crocker. In a low voice she asked, “This taken?”
“Yes it is, ma’am.” The breasts seemed fake, the lips cosmetically plumped, the skin around her eyes and cheekbones pulled too taut.
“Well, it’s mine now.” She set her bag on it, turned her back to him, and lowered her skinny ass down.
He was going to say that the chair was reserved for someone else but was too polite. If
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